by Rajan Khanna
I stopped him before he left. “Why do you hate Ben?”
He waved a hand in the air. “I’d rather not get into those details at the moment. Maybe another time.”
“At dinner?”
He smiled at me. “Perhaps.”
I am forced to admit that Malik’s dinner arrangements were always impressive.
Like always, I was escorted to a private room where he was waiting for me. Just the two of us, a small, intimate table, and lit oil lamps around the room.
“I think you forgot the food,” I said.
He smiled. “It’s being prepared,” he said. “Please, have a seat.” I sat and soon could smell the aroma of the fish and vegetables that were cooking in the nearby galley. My stomach spasmed in anticipation. Malik ate better than anyone I had ever met. That was one of the reasons I kept accepting his invitations.
Then Malik opened a bottle of wine. I’ve always preferred the stronger spirits, but when I tasted it, I had to admit it was good—smooth, silky, and yet still having an almost fruity flavor.
The conversation turned to me. My background. I started giving him my scientific background before realizing he was asking about something different—ethnicity.
“Why do you want to know?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, of course. Why would it? It’s just that you defy easy categorization.”
I chose to take it as a compliment. Some people still cling to the importance of ethnicities, but most people couldn’t give a damn. What does it matter if your ancestors were English if there was no England anymore? The concern mostly came from zealots and fanatics. I wouldn’t have even answered if I didn’t think it was an intellectual question. Malik seemed the kind of person who would know aspects of history and nationality. I decided to answer.
“I’m a mix,” I said. “If I were an airship, I’d be a junker. A little of this, something of that. The way I was told, I’ve got some Indian, Brazilian, Irish, and French.”
“That’s a lot for the Sick,” he said.
“You’ve obviously never been on a science commune,” I said. “There’s a certain comfort in the fact that everyone understands disease transmission. Romantic attachments are loose and fluid. And you?”
“My mother’s people were Muslims,” he said. “She was raised in the faith. She used to pray to the east several times a day.”
“But you weren’t raised that way?”
“Things were . . . more difficult when I was a child. Partly because of me. I think it became less important.” He sipped his wine. “Or rather survival became more important.” He looked down at his glass, rotated it between his fingers. I thought I saw a dark cloud come over his face for just a moment. Then he covered it with a smile, looking up at me.
“How did you lose her?” I asked. I was being manipulative, pushing on the sensitivity he had just shown, but I needed to gain some ground with him.
His face grew tight. He drank a long sip of his wine, then he finally met my eyes. “I don’t like to talk about it,” he said. “Suffice it to say that she sacrificed herself to save me. I was old enough to start looking out for myself. But only barely.”
“That must have been hard,” I said, holding his gaze.
He smiled. “It forced me to learn quickly. I learned how to make friends, how to convince people to help me.” The smile vanished. “And I learned . . . other things.”
“My parents both died when I was young,” I said, scrambling to cover the gap that seemed to be opening up between us. “I only remember fragments of them. My father, his brown hands bent around a microscope. My mother, taking me up in a balloon, a smile on her face.”
“That must have been difficult,” Malik said. “Having them both taken from you at a young age.”
I nodded. “It was. But I had Sergei.”
“Sergei?” he asked.
I smiled. “He was a friend of my parents. A student of my father’s. He took me in when they died.” I felt warmth in my chest, thinking about Sergei. I miss him so much. I hope he’s okay. “Sergei took care of me.”
Malik raised his glass. “To Sergei.”
What could I do but raise mine? “To Sergei.” I felt tears collect in my eyes, but I pushed them away. I wasn’t going to show weakness in front of Malik.
But I missed Sergei and last I knew, Gastown ships were headed for Tamoanchan, the island where he was. Where I’d left him. When we blew up the Cherub, we took out those ships, but what if there were more?
“Are you okay?” Malik had asked.
“Yes,” I said, sipping at my wine. “I was just thinking of . . . old times.”
Malik narrowed his eyes and stared at me. “What?” I asked.
“I know you told me about you and Benjamin. That you hired him to protect you, but . . . why him?”
Ah, I thought. Here it is. Whatever was between them had sparked this question. I smiled at him. “I’ll tell you. But in return you have to tell me why you hate him.”
He regarded me for a long moment. “Are you sure you really want to know?”
“Yes,” I said, without hesitation.
He nodded. “Okay, then.”
So I told him about how I had been researching Ferals, taking blood samples to study Maenad back with Sergei and the others. I told him how on one of those excursions, in Old Monterey, I had been abandoned by the ship captain I’d hired to take me. I told him how Ben had found me and saved me from Ferals.
“He seemed to know what he was doing, so I hired him,” I said. “I think at first the lure of food and fuel was enough to keep him interested.”
“And now?” Malik asked.
For some reason, when he asked that, I thought about the kiss. As Ben prepared to throw us out of the Cherub, as we wondered if we were about to plummet to our deaths, he grabbed me and kissed me. I kissed him back. It was a good kiss. Probably an 8 or a 9 out of 10.
It was a very good kiss.
“I think Ben’s changed,” I said. “He believes in more than himself.”
Malik smirked. “I don’t believe that someone like Benjamin can change.”
“Everything changes,” I say. “It’s a fundamental fact of nature.”
Malik tilted his head in agreement. “And yet the bacterium changes in but a few moments. The stone, the mountain . . . a lifetime. I think Benjamin is of the latter kind.”
It was a good point. I had to give him that. “What did he do to you?” I asked.
And so he told me.
I still wish I hadn’t asked.
My efforts with Malik were blunted by his story about Ben. I am still digesting it. Trying to reconcile it with what I know of the man whom I’ve spent most of the past few months with.
Do I really know him? Has he really changed?
And now, of course, I’m frustrated by my lack of effect. Any moment now, Malik’s people are going to show up to escort me into the bowels of the ship. This was my chance to find my way out and I failed. What can I do, trapped below?
For better or worse (and it feels very worse), my fate seems tied up in Ben. And I have to hope that he does what he says he can. I don’t feel very confident.
I can hear them at the door. My time is running out.
Ben . . . please come through.
CHAPTER FIVE
To be honest, I never thought I would be so unhappy to be back in the sky. I love being in the air, it’s where I belong, but, well, not like this. I know, I know—my dad used to say something about beggars not being choosers, but I’m aboard a strange ship, and I can’t fly her or even navigate, and I feel powerless.
The ship is called the Raven and her captain is a zep named Whistler. Whistler was probably born a woman, based on bone structure, but now eschews gender altogether. It’s not uncommon in the Sick where sex is a potentially deadly prospect. Or, who knows—maybe Whistler was just born that way. That’s not my problem with Whistler.
My problem with Whistler is that Whistler
has been in my face since this whole thing started. Seems that Mal wasn’t exaggerating when he said his people would be on top of me the whole time.
Whistler wears a lot of leather, which adds to the hard image. A metal cuff, lots of piercings, and big, black boots complete the picture. Hair, short and dark, sits messily on Whistler’s head. The perpetual scowl, I think, is mostly in response to me, but who really knows?
I give them Lord Tess’s location, the San Francisco Public Library, hoping that doing so won’t piss Tess off, but how else am I going to get there? Chang, Whistler’s second-in-command, a rough-looking fellow with a shaved, scarred head and a wispy mustache, lays in the course.
“When did both of you hook up with Mal?” I ask.
“Fuck you, scavenger,” Whistler says.
Ship captains these days have no manners.
“Take us in from the south,” Whistler tells Chang. “We’ve seen ships flying the route to the north.”
“What kind of ships?” I ask.
“Shut up,” Whistler says.
This is going to be a delightful trip.
“If this is a trap,” Whistler says, “just know that the first thing I’m going to do is put a bullet in the back of your head.” Whistler carries a large handgun strapped to one leg. One shot from that would leave tiny pieces of my skull and its contents all over the place.
“It’s not a trap,” I say. “Lord Tess is a knowledge broker. She’s open to anyone. She’s valuable enough that people leave her alone. It’s best to just let the information flow.”
Truth be told, I hope that’s still the case. I thought I knew how the world worked, and then everything went upside down on me. Gastown, the big city in the sky, was supposed to be the start of a new era, the seed of a new society. That had been enough to make it untouchable until raiders out of Valhalla, a sky city back east, took it over. I thought all they wanted were the resources, and the helium the city in the sky had, but when I looked a little closer, seems they were working with a group of scientists I call the Cabal, who were experimenting with the Bug.
Everything’s different now, everything’s crazy.
Since the people on board hate me, I focus my attention on the ship. The Raven is longer than the Cherub was, thinner, but the Cherub was sleek, smooth, like a wide, slightly flattened bullet. The Raven is somehow blockier and gives the appearance of awkwardness. Still, we appear to be moving at a decent clip. She’s also armed, which is something I never really went in for. But Mal’s people do. He always thought that it mattered.
The two gunners on board don’t like me either.
Inside, the Raven’s pretty spare—Whistler commands from the rear of the gondola with a good view of the ship’s surroundings through the windows that ring it. It’s mostly gray metal, with a few reinforced panels bolted onto it. Chang sits in front of the controls closer to the front of the gondola. Some kind of personal object—a bit of netting with some crystals or jewelry attached to it—hangs from the right arm of his seat. I think about asking him what it is but then don’t. I’d probably get another “fuck you” or “fuck off” or “die, you fuck.”
“Did Mal tell you all to hate my guts?” I ask.
“No,” Whistler said, “we did that all on our own.”
I don’t get as much lip from Chase and Orkney, the other two members of the crew, but that’s mostly because they’re off manning the large guns, one on each side of the Raven’s shell.
I had entertained brief thoughts of overpowering the crew. Taking control of the ship and forming a plan to rescue Miranda, but I would only chance it if I knew I could succeed. And even though there are only two people here with me, one of whom is flying the Raven, I still can’t chance it. Miranda’s life is at stake.
So I wait.
“You said it’s a library,” Whistler says.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s a place where they used to keep books.”
The stare that Whistler gives me deserves its own caliber.
“So this woman has access to all of these books.”
“Yes.”
“Then why do people need her at all? Why not take the library and the books as well?”
I sigh. “It’s not about the books. Even if you can read, do you know where to find what you’re looking for? Do you want to read through book after book to find it?”
Whistler’s face contorts into a sour expression.
“That’s what Lord Tess offers. She will get you the information. Sometimes by checking a book. Sometimes by trading information someone traded her. I think she even has some working computers in the place. But what she offers isn’t the books. It’s the service.”
“And you’re sure she can get us those pumps?”
“Yes,” I lie. I don’t know for certain. This might be something Tess can’t do, but I’ve risked it all on this one shot. And unlike Mal and me, or Mal and Tess, Tess and I have good history. I think she’ll do what she can to help.
“You better hope you’re right,” Whistler says. Chang nods, silently.
I’ve been thinking the same thing.
“So . . . Hawaii,” I say.
Whistler glares at me in response.
“You going to become, what, farmers? Live off the land?”
No response.
“Sorry, but you guys don’t seem like the type.”
“Mal said he wasn’t very smart,” Whistler says. I get the feeling it’s directed at Chang.
“Sorry,” I say. “But we’re zeps. Are you really going to be happy down on the ground like a plod? Giving up the sky?”
Whistler turns to face me. “The sky ain’t what it used to be.” One hand clenches into a fist. “Do you know what the lifespan is for the average zep? All of us are past it. Living on borrowed time. Flying from one dangerous situation to another. Risking our lives again and again. What Malik has given us is a better chance. A chance to find our own place. In a paradise with good weather and the chance to grow our own food and maybe die of old age instead of in a firefight, or getting clipped by a Feral or because the ship loses an engine.”
I can only swallow in response.
“I’m not naive enough to think that it’s going to be easy,” Whistler says. “But I am willing to give it a chance. Why wouldn’t I be?”
That shuts me up for a while.
The San Francisco Public Library is a pretty boxy building. I’m sure it looked nice back in the Clean, but it’s stained and worn, and all the glass has been boarded up now. Two guards stand outside, in a metal cage, armed with rifles. The cage protects them from Ferals, and also keeps us out.
Us, in this case, is me, Whistler, and Orkney. Whistler tasked the knobby, bald gunner to be one of my escorts and insisted on coming with me. They were afraid Tess would shelter me. I can’t say the thought hadn’t occurred to me, but here we are.
We stand outside the cage, out in the open, on the ground, as the Raven circles above us. In the rain. “We’re here to see Lord Tess,” I say, wiping wet hair from my face. “I’m an old friend.”
The guards don’t talk much, but they let us into the cage, one operating the door, the other ready to unload if necessary. Once we’re in, we hand over our weapons (and get patted down just in case). Then they secure the cage and open the doors to the library proper.
“No tricks,” Whistler hisses in my ear as we enter. “I can still put you down, even without my gun.”
“Just let me do the talking, then,” I say. “We go way back, but she doesn’t know you two from Feral shit.”
It strikes me as we’re walking from the hallway into the library that we are extremely vulnerable. If Tess weren’t here, for example, this would be a great way to strip visitors of weapons and then use them for whatever nefarious purpose you wanted. I don’t know for sure that she’s here—only that she was here last time.
Easy, Ben, I think. Don’t get paranoid.
The place is dark, with plenty of side corridors for attackers to hi
de in. Our steps echo off of the ground, which is remarkably well preserved. It’s old, and musty, but cleaner than most old buildings I’ve been through. I wonder how much blood this floor has seen.
As we move down the hallway, steps begin echoing toward us from the opposite direction. Attendants? I don’t remember them from last time, but maybe the operation has grown.
My blood chills when I see who’s approaching. Two people, one tall, one of medium height.
The tall one is a woman with a large nose and a square jaw. Her companion is clean-shaven, with pock-marked cheeks and a pale complexion. She wears a shirt made of metal links, and on top of that is a kind of scarf or shawl that seems assembled from feathers. Maybe vulture or eagle feathers—black and long. Her head is shaved except for the very top, and the hair is pulled into a long tail held in place with metal rings. Her companion wears a fur vest on top of a loose shirt, but I can see the muscles bunch beneath it. A long scar on the top of his head divides his short hair into two parts. He’s wearing a necklace, too, and I think it’s teeth strung together. Some long and pointed. Others, short and blunt. Like human teeth.
My blood chills because their appearances mark them as being from Valhalla, the floating city in the east. For a long time, Valhalla was the only city in the sky, and then Gastown was created. Gastown was a free city, a city of trade, a city trying to bring civilization back, lift it off of the ground and into the sky. It was also a city that had access to helium. Then the Valhallan raiders attacked and took it over. Turned it into a fiefdom of Valhalla. Used it to launch raids and attacks. Used the helium to lift their own ships, and bartered what was left for exorbitant prices.
It was Valhallan raiders who attacked Miranda’s last headquarters, the Core, and killed some of her people. It was Valhallan raiders who stole the Cherub. It was Valhallan raiders who were on their way to attack Tamoanchan.
My hand reaches down to my holster for my revolver, but . . . it’s not there. We’re fucked, I think. They’ve taken over Tess’s operation as well. I tense, getting ready to do . . . I don’t know. Something. Anything. I put out a hand to halt Whistler and Orkney. We stop.