Falling Sky

by Rajan Khanna

  Miranda cocks an eyebrow. “No. I checked. I even gave Brana a list. Someone had to fill in the gaps.” She shrugs. “I have the most field experience.”

  It’s true, I think. And for a moment I think of how annoyed Clay must have been and I want to smile, but then I’m back to Miranda. I drop my face into my hands. “Miranda, do you realize why I left you there?”

  She walks forward. “Yes. Because you wanted me out of the way. Because you were trying to help. But I can’t do what I need to do without these supplies. And . . .”

  “And?”

  “And maybe I wanted to help you this time.”

  “What are you going to do, Miranda?”

  “Think, for one,” she says. “And if you’re dealing with Gastown, you’re going to need some help. I remember what they did. I was there, too.”

  Images of dying Ferals with gaping chest wounds, spraying blood everywhere. Human faces contorted in fear.

  I turn away. “I didn’t want you involved in this.”

  “I know. You want to protect me. Keep me safe.”

  “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the job I hired you to do, yes,” she says. “But it’s also the job you quit.”

  I wince. I can feel a dull ache building behind my eyes. Maybe a side effect of all that beer. I rub the bridge of my nose.

  “You put us down on Tamoanchan. I’m just trying to help make it work. And . . .”

  I feel her presence like static, close to my body. “And?”

  She stares back at me but doesn’t say anything.

  Before either of us can continue, Rosie appears in the doorway. “We’ve got ships out there,” she says.

  I spare Miranda a look that I’m hoping says “We’ll continue this chat later” and then head back to take a look.

  Rosie points out one of the windows. I look out and see several ships moving at an angle to us. It looks like they’re moving away. “You worried?” I ask.

  Rosie shrugs. “After last time we’re a little bit jumpy.”

  “I completely understand.”

  “They’re flying Gastown flags,” Miranda says. She’s holding a pair of binoculars.

  “More of them?” I ask.

  “They’re up to something,” Rosie says.

  “I’m still surprised that they’re flying Gastown colors,” I say. “Pretty much everyone must know that Valhalla is running the show. Why the pretense?”

  “Tell me more about this Valhalla,” Diego says from the controls.

  “You sure you can handle those ships?” I ask.

  Diego fixes me with a look that shuts me up. “I’ll keep our distance. Just . . . keep an eye on them. If they seem to take any interest in us, let me know.”

  “I will certainly do that,” I say.

  “Okay, then. Valhalla. It’s out near what my dad called the Great Lakes. Colder country. Unlike Gastown, which hangs free, Valhalla is anchored to a building out there, one of the tallest in the country, I think.”

  “It’s been around long?” Rosie asks.

  “Pretty long. Before Gastown, certainly. Gastown was supposed to be the new, improved version. I bet that pissed off Valhalla something good.” I pause for a moment. “Either of you know what Vikings are?”

  Diego shakes his head, but Rosie nods. “I think so. Like barbarians or something, right?”

  I nod. “Something like that. Valhalla is run by a bunch of freaks who follow those old ways. They’re into conquering others, pillaging, taking what they want. They believe in violence. Their leader calls himself Odin, named after an old god. Valhalla is named after the hall where the warriors of the world would go or something like that.”

  “Rosie, you know about that stuff?” Diego asks. Rosie shakes her head. “She was the one who got all the learning,” he continues. “I was too busy getting into trouble.”

  “I wasn’t much for mythology,” she says.

  “I would stay away from anyone from Valhalla,” I say. “They’re crazy. You can see it in their eyes.”

  “Aren’t we headed directly into a nest of them? After we get this salvage?”

  “Well . . . yeah,” I say. I shrug. “I guess you’re out of luck, then.”

  “Hopefully not,” Rosie says.

  Miranda takes off her glasses and wipes them with the bottom of her shirt. “There’s something that’s been bothering me about Gastown,” she says. “Sergei and I were talking about it.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s just that Valhalla’s pattern, before Gastown, I mean, was always to sack a place and then leave. They would take what they wanted and then return to Valhalla. Like what they did to Apple Pi.”

  The mention of the Core makes my blood pressure rise.

  “But they’re holding Gastown,” Miranda says.

  I shrug. “For the helium, I’d guess. It’s valuable.”

  “Sure,” she says. “But they’d have to keep the operation moving along. It doesn’t seem like something they’d be interested in.”

  “Maybe they have new leadership,” I say. Which scares me even more. A bunch of violent, loco monsters I’m used to. Violent, loco monsters with a plan, well, that’s another story.

  I notice Miranda’s look. It’s like she has more to say. “What is it?” I ask.

  “I just . . .” She puts her glasses back on. “It was hard to be sure from the wreckage of Apple Pi, but I think there were things missing. Not just destroyed. Taken.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “Why would they take anything?”

  “Why indeed?” She stares at me. “What if they do have new leadership? What if their priorities have changed?”

  I shake my head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Miranda opens her mouth, about to say something, but then Rosie cuts in. She’s looking down from the window.

  “We’re here,” she says.

  We hover over the Feral nest and I look down through Diego’s scope at the buildings below. Several rectangular buildings form a hexagon surrounded by green fields and a crumbling fence. Like everything in the Sick, it is slowly being swallowed by vegetation, and plants mat its surface. “What was this place?” I ask.

  “A school,” Diego says.

  “With that kind of privacy?”

  He shrugs. “A special school. For smart people. Or rich people. They had those, you know.”

  “The people or the schools?” But I know what he’s talking about. It’s the kind of place Miranda might have gone in another life. The kind of legacy passed down through her family.

  “Once the Bug got in there,” he says. “Well . . .”

  It would spread like wildfire. Kids, even now, are never the cleanest. And locked up in classrooms. Behind doors. Behind fences. Off on a hill. I wondered when the last of those kids had died out. Now their children’s children roamed that hill. As Ferals.

  “And no one has looted the place?” I ask.

  “It’s teeming,” he says. “The guy I talked to pulled out after the first few rooms. But there’s salvage to be had. Scientific equipment. Possibly some food that could keep.”

  Miranda walks over to us. “We’re not going to have time to go roaming about the place, trying to find something. Our best bet is to pick a strategic target, the kind of place that will give us what we want, and go there.”

  I pull back the telescope and look at her in surprise.

  “What?” she says. “I told you—I’m here for a reason.”

  “It’s a good plan,” I say. “Best to minimize our time on the ground. We go in, we get out.”

  Everyone nods back at me. “We should have brought more people,” I say.

  “Are you sure about that?” Miranda says. And she’s right. More people would help, but I don’t like to work like that. They could also get in the way. They could also get infected. Small was the way I liked it.

  Used to be One was the way I liked it, but I guess I’m learning some new tri
cks after all.

  I turn to Miranda. “Then where do we go?”

  She looks down in the scope. “It’s hard to tell—I don’t know this place. But I used to raid schools with my folks growing up. Enough to give me a sense for the way they set these places up. I can’t guarantee I’m right, but I’d go for that building.” She points at one of the larger buildings, though not the largest. “I’d guess that’s where they did chemistry based on the ductwork on top.”

  “I’m just going to pretend I know what you’re talking about,” I say.

  Miranda smiles. “Why alter a winning formula?” she asks.

  “I think we should stay high,” I say. “We can use the ladder and bust in through the windows.”

  Diego takes a turn at the scope. “That could be tricky, though. Stabilizing the ladder for one thing. Staying clear of any Ferals that might be in there.”

  “I’ve done it before,” I say. “My dad and I used to do it all the time. Safer off of the ground, give the Ferals limited access to you.”

  “Okay,” Diego says.

  “We’ll leave Rosie here to man the Osprey. If necessary she can pull us clear. Diego, you and me will go down. One in, one covering. Sound good?”

  “You left me out,” Miranda says.

  “I did,” I say.

  “Then let me correct that oversight. You need me, if only to identify the important salvage. You’re going to need some decent equipment. Besides, I may be able to score some equipment that might fill out our lab back in Tamoanchan.” She sets her jaw. “I’ll go down second.”

  “Miranda . . .”

  “You go in first, then me, and Diego can cover us.”

  It makes sense, so I don’t argue. “Okay, let’s go,” I say.

  I have a sinking sensation as I check my ammo and secure Miranda’s clothing. She does the same for me. I don’t want to go down there. On my own I’d never touch the place. But then I think about the Cherub and that’s enough to keep me going.

  When we’re all secured, we walk to the airship’s ladder.

  Then we go down.

  I always feel relief at airship ladders because they lead to the sky and provide exit from the ground. But they aren’t the most secure of things. They’re notoriously unsteady, no matter how much you try to weight them, and holding anything while navigating one is extremely hard. I once lost my Dad’s revolver trying to fire while climbing one, and it almost cost me my life trying to get it back.

  So I don’t have the revolver out as I go down. Which makes me even more nervous. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  This isn’t going to be a stealth mission. At the height it was forced to hover to lower us, the Osprey is making quite a racket, and that will alert any Ferals around us. So the plan is to hit the top window, get myself as stable as possible, take out the revolver, and see what’s inside.

  I get to the bottom of the ladder. With Miranda and Diego above me it doesn’t whip around as much as it might, but it still jerks left and right. I curl an arm around the ladder, tuck my boot under a rung, and pull out the revolver.

  The windows at my level and below are all broken, which figures. A Feral never met some glass it didn’t want to break. Especially windows. But the frames are still studded with shards, which makes it hard to peer in, especially backlit as I am. If I only had a flare. A while back I’d come upon someone bartering them and I’d traded him a good deal of my best stuff for a few. But they were all on the Cherub.

  “Miranda,” I call. I tuck the revolver back into its holster, and she hands me down the torch, already lit. I toss it through the window.

  The light from the torch isn’t great, but it shows a little of what lay inside the place. I don’t see any movement, which is good. I do see rows of tables arranged neatly. Crap and refuse. Crumbling ceiling tiles.

  I remove the revolver again and knock out most of the remaining glass from the window. Then, taking a deep breath, I climb through the window. Then I’m down into a crouch, the gun out, my ears strained to hear, my eyes constantly scanning.

  Nothing. I pull back the hammer, half-cocking the gun. Then I wave to Miranda to let her know to come in.

  She is mostly noiseless as she drops to the ground and, like I taught her, she stays low. I look out to see Diego taking up position, his rifle in his hands. Metal clips anchor him to the ladder, though that means he can’t easily come in to support us if we need it.

  I turn to Miranda and whisper. “Anything in here?”

  She looks around, still staying low. “These are benches,” she says. “For experiments. Chemistry, probably.” She checks for storage beneath, pulls out drawers. I try not to pay too much attention. Then I can’t check for Ferals.

  She moves over to a set of cabinets against one wall, starts picking through them.

  The smell in the place is bad Feral stench. Piss, shit, the usual. But not strong enough to indicate that it’s often-used. I’m starting to think this might be okay after all. I doubt we’ll score anything large, but we can pass up smaller things.

  “Here,” she says.

  I resist looking over to where she’s rifling through some cabinets. “What?” I say.

  “Instruments. Microscopes. The optics could be useful. There are some old scalpels. I’ll load up the tarp.”

  I nod and look back to the door. A noise creaks through the old structure. I can’t tell if it’s from the Osprey or from somewhere down below or just the wind. I tighten my grip on the revolver.

  “Load up what you can,” I say. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.” The hair on my arms prickles and my underarms slick with sweat. That voice in my head is telling me to get out of there.

  “Almost there,” Miranda says.

  I breathe in. Breathe out. Keep myself calm. So many people learn the hard way what happens when you lose your head . . .

  “Okay,” Miranda says, after what seems like an eternity. “That should do it.” She tugs on the line to let Diego know, and he’ll signal to Rosie to pull the load up. I watch as it begins to slide across the floor and wince at the terrible scraping noise it sets up. But we’ll be out soon.

  I keep my eyes on the door.

  I keep my eyes on the door.

  I keep—

  Something, glass or something like it, breaks, and for a moment I turn to see what it is.

  Then the moment becomes a whirl of chaos and sensations. A heavy weight knocks me to the ground. I try to move, but I’m pinned. I look up into the bloodshot eyes of a Feral. My gun arm is pinned beneath me. I can smell his rancid breath, can feel the warmth coming off of him. Wild, tangled hair tickles my face.

  My breath is fast and ragged.

  Slaver drips from his open mouth. I want to scream, but even that is restrained, the Feral’s heavy weight pushing the air from my lungs.

  I try to signal to Miranda, try to see her, but I can’t and I can’t move my head and the Feral is on me and oh God he’s going to Infect me and—

  The world cracks in two. Or at least that’s what it sounds like. What it feels like. Then the Feral’s weight slides off of me.

  I piece together what happened in the moments afterward. The Feral’s head exploding, being swept away in a bloody pulp, as if flicked by the Hand of God.

  I turn my head to see Miranda crouching low, the pistol still out, still aiming. She stands like that for a moment. I stare at her, both of us frozen. Then I remember where we are and I scramble out from under the Feral and get to my knees.

  My movement breaks Miranda from her pose and she stumbles over to me.

  “Am I—” I say. “Did it get me?”

  Some of the glaze disappears from her eyes and she comes over, checking my face where it’s not covered, paying special attention to my eyes, one of the most vulnerable places on the body. Running her fingers over my lips. Looking into my nostrils.

  It’s when she says, “You look clean” that I remember to breathe. I spare a brief glance at the Fera
l. It was a good shot. Blew everything out the side of the head. Away from me. No splatter toward me.

  Miranda saved my life.

  “C’mon,” I say. “We need to get out of here.” Already I can hear movement from the halls below. Scrabbling. Gibbers. Whether real or imagined they are enough to get me moving.

  I push her ahead of me, keeping my eyes on the doorway, keeping my pistol out. Then she’s on the ladder and climbing and I’m right below her, as usual. And something about this calms me, allows my hammering heart to slow.

  Diego brings the Osprey in to Gastown with his flags flying the sign for barter. All of us are conscious of the weapons they have mounted on the flying platform. Its evidence of the divide between Valhalla and the original Gastown. While the Gastowners were working on helium manufacturing, Valhalla was busy hunting down heavy weapons.

  It’s a sad admission that Valhalla ended up making the better choice.

  Moments pass as we await their answer—either a colorful dance of flags or the staccato burst of gunfire. Miranda grips my arm, her fingers tightening with each minute. I don’t think anyone is breathing right now. Time stretches, torturously.

  The guns move to cover us. Then the flags move as well. They direct us to a mooring dock and, sweating, Diego follows their directions.

  We are all armed. All prepared if they rush us when we open the doors. Diego’s face is bundled up. Odds are no one who’s seen him is on Gastown, but we can’t be sure. One nice thing about the Sick is that it’s easy to be hidden. No, it’s ships that stick out, and that’s the one thing I’m worried about. But we covered up the Osprey’s colors and her name and really it shouldn’t be that recognizable.

  I stand near the gondola door as Diego opens it, my hand very near my revolver. Funny thing is, as dangerous as this is, I’m a lot calmer than I would be on the ground. Psychopath blood is nothing compared to a Feral’s.

  Two rough-looking men push their way in, large, all swagger and scowls. “Barter?” one of them says.

  Diego nods. I’m impressed that he looks so calm. I have to give it to him, the man seems to be a professional. “Got a recent score. Thought we’d come here and see if we could sell it.”