by Rajan Khanna
Then the thug pushes Wilson down into the pit.
Wilson’s screams are joined by a lower-pitched howling as the Feral within the pit recognizes fresh prey. Then the screaming intensifies, joined by grunts and wet, tearing sounds.
I grip the edge of the railing tight. I’ve heard sounds like that before, but it never gets easier. I want to rise up and shoot both figures in the pit, but that will give us away and there’s not much I can do for Wilson anyway. So I force myself to be still.
Atticus is not nearly as successful in his self-control. I look up to see him standing, screaming, his face red, the tendons in his neck like rigid cable.
The two below turn to him as one and begin firing before I can do anything.
The moment becomes chaos and disjointed thoughts. Almost immediately Atticus falls back to the floor of the walkway. His throat is spurting blood and one of his cheeks is gone.
The bullets are still flying.
I grab for Rosie, and together we scrabble as fast as we can, as low to the ground as possible, toward the door. Hoping the sound of the bullets will cover our own sound. Hoping they didn’t see us.
The air of the corridor is a welcome change from the stink of the room with the pit. Rosie and I get to our feet and run down the corridor.
“Where do we go?” Rosie says.
“Look for another access tunnel,” I say.
Any moment now, the thug and the woman in the black cap could burst out of the room behind us. There are doors in this corridor, but we have no time to stop and investigate them. Though we may need to take cover in one.
Fuck, I think. Fuck fuck fuck. I can’t banish the image of Atticus’s eyes as he fell back to the walkway.
“Here!” Rosie points to another metal door in the corridor side. This one has been painted white. As we both work at it to pull it open, I look at the doors opposite me. These have small glass windows cut into them reinforced with metal links. Through the windows I see cages. At least a row of them. And in the cages, naked figures. I go cold because I’m sure these are Ferals. They look cleaner, better-groomed, but something about them, something in their posture, screams at me that they’re no longer human.
Then Rosie pulls me into the access corridor, pushing me in front of her. She pulls the door closed with a loud clang and we move, knowing we have to keep going, knowing they could be right behind us. “What are they doing?” I gasp.
“I don’t know,” Rosie says. I can hear the horror in her voice.
Ferals. They’re playing with Ferals.
They need to be stopped, I think.
We run away as fast as we can.
“Diego said you were brother and sister,” I say, wanting to distract myself. Wanting to push through the numb shroud that seems to have enveloped me.
“Half,” she says. “We had the same father.”
“Wow,” I say.
“What?”
“He convinced not just one woman but two to have his children.”
She smiles for a moment, though there’s not much joy in it. “That was my father. He had a way of making the people around him feel safe. I guess our mothers believed it enough to chance having us.”
“Who’s older?” I ask.
“Diego. Dad met his mother first. He was a zep, too. The story goes that he swooped in, took her up into the sky. It must have seemed a lot safer that way.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“She got infected,” Rosie says. “No one seems to know how. Probably while they were bartering. Dad . . . he had to put her down.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Dad took care of Diego after that, but it was hard by himself, so I think he looked for someone to help him out and then he met my mother. Of course Dad being the romantic, he fell in love with her.”
“Are they still around?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Mom died when I was a kid, she caught something—not the Bug, but just a normal human disease. She got real weak. We tried to give her antibiotics, but they didn’t help. After that, we kept on with Dad, but then his mind started to go. He would forget where he was, what he was doing. He’d forget about getting food. That’s when Diego started taking control. We kept Dad with us for a while, but that proved to be a mistake. One day while we were out looking for food, he left without us.”
“How did you survive?” I ask.
“Diego,” she says. “He found a place for us to take shelter, guarded it from Ferals. At least we’d found some food. We stayed there for a few days, then started making our way back west.”
“On foot?”
She nodded. “That was when Diego started teaching me how to handle a gun, and a knife. How to kill and skin animals. How to cook them. It helped that we were young. We could climb trees and squeeze into small spaces.”
“How old were you?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe ten years old? Eventually we found a settlement, did some work there. We took work on a freight airship helping to find salvage. Worked that way for a while. That’s how we got the Osprey.”
“You stole it?” I ask.
“No. We bought it. The previous owner wanted to upgrade, so he sold it to us.”
They earned their ship.
I stop for a moment. Rosie looks at me questioningly.
“Why are you here?”
“You brought me here,” she says.
“No,” I say. “You had your chance to stay up on Gastown. You chose to come down here with me. Why?”
She looks down at her boots. Then back at me. “I wanted to keep an eye on you.”
“You didn’t trust me?”
“Do you think that I would after you fucked Diego?”
“I didn’t mean to do that.”
Rosie shakes her head. “I don’t care. He’s my brother. I have his back. And you fucked him good and proper. He was on his way to being a Council member. That was all he ever wanted. He used to dream about being part of a real settlement, helping to take care of other people. And your Feral sabotaged all of that.”
“If I had known—”
“What?” Rosie says. “You would have done things differently? Don’t shit a shitter, Ben. You do what you need to do to get by, same as plenty of others.”
The words sting.
“I didn’t know what would happen to Diego.”
“But you really didn’t care. I’ve watched you. I know how you feel about your ship. How you feel about Miranda. You would sell me and Diego out in a second if it would help you save either one of them.”
“That’s not true,” I say. But I instantly wonder.
“Whatever.”
“So you’re here to watch me?”
“Yes.” Her hands are on her hips. “Diego somehow still thinks you have some value. Despite being burned by you he still signed up again. He’s a good man, but he’s too trusting. So it’s up to me to watch you. Make sure you don’t fuck him again. Make sure that you do what you say you’re going to do. And if not, if you’re about to fuck us, fuck Tamoanchan, then it’s up to me to put a bullet in your head.”
Her eyes are hard. Unyielding. I’m the first one to look away.
“I understand,” I say.
She shrugs. “I don’t need you to. But if it makes you feel better.”
As I continue on, she says, “There is one other thing.”
I turn back to her. “Oh?”
“Whether or not you believe what you told Diego, about Gastown one day coming for Tamoanchan, I do. It’s only a matter of time. And the more we know, the better off we’ll be. So I came to Gastown. And I came here. And if I can find a place to hit them, to make them weak, I will.”
I believe her.
We move on through the corridor.
We reach the end of the passage and I spare a look back for Rosie. Despite what she told me earlier, she seems ready and gives me a nod, her hand curled around her automatic.
I open the door and se
e the airfield. Above us, zeppelins, blimps, dirigibles of all sizes float, moored to the ground by tethering cables. And there, like the sweetest sight I’ve ever seen, is the Cherub. All I can see are her tail fins and her rear, but I know her better than almost anything in this world and something inside me that I didn’t even know was crawling stands up at the thought of flying her once again.
Of course we have to get to the ship first.
I turn to Rosie. “I’m going to try to get to the ship. Stay here.” I think of telling her to keep an eye on me, but it seems redundant.
Rosie shakes her head, her face tight. “I should go with you.”
“No. I’d feel more comfortable with you covering me from here. If we’re both out in the open and they catch us, we’ll go down quickly. If you hang back here, well, I’m hoping that will be a lot harder.”
She scowls but doesn’t argue.
“If it goes wrong. If they take me down.” I look at the Cherub. “Find a way to get back to Tamoanchan. Steal one of these ships. And tell Miranda and Diego I’m sorry.”
There’s a lot more I would want to tell Miranda, but . . . there’s not time for that now. Sorry will do. I’m feeling now that I have a lot to be remorseful for.
“And if they do get me,” I say. “Make sure you get them back.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t get all sentimental on me. Just go,” she says. “I’ll watch your back.” She pulls her pistol out of its holster and holds it down by her side.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
She looks me hard in the face. “You really love that ship, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I say. Because what else can I say. “The ship is all I have. You have your brother. You have Tamoanchan. I have the Cherub. She’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel safe. The only thing that’s ever made me feel good about myself.”
I say those things, and most of them are true. But I realize as I’m saying them that it’s not entirely true. Miranda makes me feel good about myself. But she’s back on Gastown.
Rosie nods. “Go get her.”
To my surprise, I only see one guard on the airfield. Then again, what do they need to guard against? The plant is well hidden, the location protected. All they’re really worried about, I suppose, is some boffin getting antsy and trying to make a break for it. But they’re already broken, and so one man with a rifle seems to be all that they need. And if he fires, I’m sure others will start running.
Knowing Claudia, she would take the stealthy approach. Approach the guard from a distance. Maybe just shoot an arrow through his throat and walk past him as the body was still twitching.
I walk up to the man calmly. Confidently. The fact that I can see the Cherub gives me some of that confidence. The rest I fake.
“What are you doing here?” the guard says. He’s unshaven, fair-skinned, wearing a wool cap down low on his head. He unslings the rifle that’s strapped to his back. His eyes narrow.
“I got a report that one of the scientists saw something in the utility tunnels.”
“What kind of something?” he says.
“He thinks it’s a Feral.”
The guard’s eyes widen, and I can see his expression shift as a number of questions flit through his mind. But the one thing that must be at the forefront is the possibility of a Feral being there.
“Look, just help me check it out,” I say. “It’s probably just a rat or something, but, well, you know protocol.”
He looks at me questioningly. “Look,” I say. “I’m working inside with Kressel. You know, the skinny bomb guy? And he stopped working when he heard it and I just want to at least show that it’s fine. That we’re airtight.”
The man relaxes a slight bit. “Did you tell Boggs?”
I sigh. “You, too? Look, come with me and we’ll tell Boggs together.”
He looks back at the field. “But . . .”
“Two minutes. In the access corridor. This way I can say you were there.”
He starts moving with me back to the compound, and then I grab him around the throat to take him down.
Only he’s holding his rifle in a strange way, up high near his neck, and it blocks my arm. He elbows me in the chest and spins away.
“Fuck,” I gasp as he starts to raise the rifle. I bat it to one side, but he recovers quickly, chopping at my face. He catches my neck instead and I can’t help reaching up to grab it.
Then I see a blur racing toward us and I recognize it as Rosie.
I kick at the man’s legs, but he skirts back away from me.
But a few steps closer to Rosie.
He raises the rifle.
Rosie tackles him with all the force of her momentum, and the two of them go flying to the ground. The rifle spins away on the ground.
It seems that they’re both on their feet in an instant. The man clearly knows how to fight, even without a weapon.
But so, apparently, does Rosie.
The guard aims a kick at her head, but she blocks and kicks him in the groin. Hard, from the look on the man’s face. Then they’re attacking each other so quickly I can’t track their movements. Throwing arms and legs, fists and feet, against each other.
I scurry to the rifle and grab it, getting to my feet.
It’s not a time for gunshots, though.
I move closer. Wait for Rosie to aim a vicious kick at the man’s midsection. He pulls back. And I slam the butt of the rifle hard into the back of his head.
He crumples to the ground. I smack him again with the rifle butt, then I give him another kick just to make sure he’s down.
“Thanks,” I say, massaging my neck.
Rosie smiles. “Wouldn’t want to lose my ride out of here.”
Together we drag the guard back to the access tunnel and drop him inside to keep him out of the way.
Then I run off toward the Cherub.
They keep the Cherub in the air, opting to use the ladder rather than bring it to the ground. I climb that ladder up to my airship, and it’s like coming home. Each rung on the thing is familiar to me. I wonder how many times my fingers have curled around them, how many times my boots have pressed against them.
I push through the hatch and up into the gondola. The smell of it fills my nostrils. A lived-in smell that probably wouldn’t appeal to many other people, but it’s like the smell of your father. Even down to the undercurrent of sweat.
I’m smiling, enjoying being back home, when I realize I’m not alone.
Music is playing on the phonograph. My music. And I catch a whiff of something smoking. People have found a lot to smoke in the Sick, but cannabis is the most common. This, though, smells like tobacco smoke. I find that smell even worse.
Someone else is in my fucking ship. Like that story, Goldilocks. Sleeping in my fucking bed.
My joy turns to anger. I pull the knife from my belt.
He’s standing at my console. Moving slightly to the music. Smoke curls around his head.
He doesn’t hear me with all the noise.
I think about sneaking up behind him, knifing him in the kidney, or cutting his throat. And I want to do this. I want to punish this man who’s had the nerve to invade my home. He might even be the one who stole it. But . . .
But I hear Miranda’s voice in my head. She’s telling me to think. And I do. Instead, I stride up to him, grab his arm with one hand, his head with the other, and swing him down, as hard as I can, into the console’s edge, far enough away from the instrumentation.
He’s off-balance, from his dancing or what he’s smoking or both, and he goes down. Hard.
I feel the impact move back into me as he crashes against a bank of the Cherub’s controls. Then, just to be sure, I do it again.
He collapses to the ground.
The Cherub is mine again.
I give her a once-over, checking the controls, checking the rooms. Checking my things.
The controls are all in order. Everything else is a fucking mess. A lot o
f my gear is missing. The food, the water, all my supplies are gone. My sleeping mat looks used—I’ll probably have to burn it. But like I said before, the Sick has taught me that possessions are temporary. The Cherub is okay, though, and that’s all I care about.
I find some rope in my utility closet. At least my collection of junk is still there. I bind the man up tightly and stuff some rags into his mouth.
Now that I’m there, I don’t want to leave. I want to fly away. And as soon as Rosie climbs aboard I will.
Where is she?
I look down at the airfield but don’t see her. What the hell happened?
With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I return to Goldilocks and take his red scarf and red gloves. I trade mine for his, then descend down the ladder back down to the airfield.
She seems to have disappeared.
I stand there for a moment with my hand on the handle of the revolver, scanning for some sign of her. Should I go back to look?
Then she appears from the direction of the access tunnel and trots over to me. “What happened?” I ask.
“I thought I heard something,” she says. “I wanted to check out the tunnel.”
“Clear?”
“Except for the guy we dumped in it.”
“Okay, let’s go then.”
I push her in front of me and she climbs up the ladder. I stay down, the revolver out, making sure I keep her covered. All of me wants to get back into the Cherub now that I’m here, but we’re still in the open and someone has to keep an eye out. I see her boots near the gondola door and then she’s in. I’m about to follow her, my hand on a rung, when I hear the gunshot.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m hitting the ground, and my face rasps against the asphalt. Pain sears through my chest and I shudder on the ground. I can’t move. I can’t think. It takes a moment for things to make sense.
Gunshot.
I’ve been shot before. Several times, in fact. But this time it keeps me down. I try to roll over and push myself up, but my body refuses to obey.
And I know the shooter is coming toward me.
And I know he’s going to finish the job.
And I know the Cherub is hanging just over me. So close. But far enough away. I still can’t move.