Skyland One

by Aelius Blythe

  "I need to... I need to go..."

  "No grandpa, you don't."

  "My wife... I need to get my wife. She's–she's back–back at the–"

  "No old man, come now drink some tea."

  "My wife is back at the–at the shop..." He looked up at the professor. "I need to go get her... I need to..."

  The chair maker looked up from his elbow and the tugging hand to the face that was addressing him. The professor's face look odd. Lopsided. The broken glass of one lens of his glasses distorted his eye, just a bit and the crack bisected it. The chair maker stared at the odd face under the glasses. The eyes were tense, the lips pinched up, almost pouting, in a strange expression.

  "Look..." said the professor, "I'm sorry to tell you, but I don't think she made it."

  "Who?"

  "Your wife. I don't think she made it."

  "Made what? She's just back... back at the shop..."

  "Yes, and I don't think she'll be going anywhere soon."

  "No she's waiting... I have to get back..."

  "No grandpa, I'm sorry but I think she's ah, gone into the Sky. I'm sorry, but–"

  "No, we weren't going on the ships... she–she didn't want to, you know. We were going to stay... and watch. One's leaving today, you know."

  "Right."

  The chair maker looked away from the odd face of the professor.

  I should really be getting back.

  He picked up the tea, watching the little ships land one after another in the reflection. He really ought to be polite, he thought. After all he was a guest in... someone's home. So he drank the cold tea. In a few gulps it was gone and so were the little ships in the reflection. He put the cup back on the window sill and looked at the empty china, now dull and rough.

  Behind him a woman's voice and the professor's went on, incoherent, babbling.

  "Did you come from the interior?"

  "Yes. Well, I did. The university."

  "Which one?"

  "City. Chemical sciences division. I thought the lab would be a bad place to stay in all the chaos."

  "Yes of course."

  "I was going through one of the older neighborhoods on my way out when I picked up the grandpa."

  "Is he yours?"

  "No. Just saw him through a door – him and his... wife, what was left of her anyway."

  "Poor thing."

  "He was just sitting there in the rubble of his shop, letting it burn around him."

  The chair maker looked out at the ships – the big ones sitting on the docks. There were fewer of them now. He dug back in his memory to try to remember how many had left so far. He counted them on his fingers. There was one the day before, then there was one today. It was hard to remember. He was getting so old!

  But where did the black bullet-ships come from? He shook his head. He couldn't keep up with the technology of the city. When there was barely any fuel to work by or money to import it, the rich youngsters of the city interior zoomed around in personal planes filled with imported fuel. You'd think there hadn't been a hundred-year drought over most of the planet!

  One ship zoomed overhead. He flinched.

  Why?

  He looked back to the professor, to the broken lens in his glasses.

  broken glass... broken glass...

  Another ship zoomed overhead, closer than the others. The chair maker looked out the window. Out the window...

  The window... the window was broken... shattered...

  The window was perfectly in tact. The glass was smooth, the frame open to the sandy air. But unbroken. The chair maker leaned against the window frame. His hip brushed against the china cup and it fell to the ground, breaking against the hard-packed dirt.

  Shattered... shattered glass...

  The tinkling china, the shards spread out on the floor, the sharp edges sticking up from the dirt... The chair maker knelt down.

  One broken piece of the cup dug into his knee.

  His lip wobbled and he didn't know why.

  What...

  Behind him the woman's voice babbled on, incoherent, irrelevant. "Oh grandpa. Don't worry about it, old man. Let me help you up." The professor's voice wove through hers, wobbly, lopsided like his face under the broken glass. "You've already got enough cuts on you, come on."

  Broken glass... He picked up one half of the teacup, felt the sharp edges against his callused thumb. There was a bandage there. The cup dropped to the ground. The callused hand curled into a fist. It hurt... Already cut... Why? Why? The chair maker looked up. "Where... where..."

  The woman was on one side of him, her hands on his arm. "Let's help you up, there."

  The professor was on the other side tugging gently at the chair maker's shoulder. "Come on now, it's okay. Why don't you lie down over here."

  "Where is Belle?"

  He stared up at the lopsided eyes of the professor. The lopsided eyes behind the cracked glasses looked back at him, the mouth under them still pinched up in a pout, or perhaps in some futile effort to control the expression. One hand lifted to the face under the broken glasses, rubbed the corners of the eyes. The pinched mouth twitched a little; it looked like it was having trouble making words come out.

  "Grandpa..."

  "Where is my wife?'

  "I don't think she made it, gramps."

  "Didn't make..."

  "I think she–"

  "She's dead?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "I-it can't be."

  "It looked that way."

  The chair maker pushed himself off the ground, a sliver of china embedded in his hand. He didn't look at it.

  "I need to go back. To-to get her.

  "There's nothing you can do now. Come on, have a rest."

  "I need to go back to get–to g-get her b-b-o..." He couldn't say it.

  "You can't."

  "Why not?"

  "It's not safe."

  The chair maker looked out the window. "But all the fires are out."

  "Soldiers. They're moving through every neighborhood in the city, searching, securing it."

  "What?"

  "The city is crawling with Union soldiers. You can't go back."

  Chapter Twelve

  in which there is cold...

  Clouds.

  Harper watched the white mist in front of him. He opened his mouth and pushed out more air. His breath ribboned out from his tongue, his lips, his teeth. Strings of white, curls of air puffed shavings floated in a weightless pile before him. Behind the cloud, in the polished obsidian walls he could see himself like a dragon, mouth open, breath moving in and out, a physical cloud in front of him. He shivered in the cold and rubbed his hands against his arms.

  "Where is he?"

  A hand slammed down on the cold, black table. An arm had pushed through the mist. The cloud shivered before it dispersed. Harper breathed another one. His reflection had gone away, too. Between him and the obsidian wall was a face, an angry face that leaned down, leaned on the hand that had slammed the table, on the arm that had pushed through the mist. Another hand came up and swatted the cloud that Harper had just breathed. The nails on the hand, clean but just a little too long, missed his face by a hair. They tickled Harper's cheek as they passed.

  He looked at the angry face.

  "Why does the air turn into white when I breathe?" When we breathe. He noticed clouds rising from the angry man's mouth and nose as well.

  "Forget the fucking air! Where is Reynold Fields?"

  "I don't know. Why is it so cold?"

  "To keep you awake! Where is your father?"

  "Is the air white because of the cold?"

  "Shut up and tell me where Reynold Fields is."

  Harper stared at the angry man leaning on the table. He shook his head. Again.

  "Where is–"

  "I don't know."

  "You do!"

  "No. I don't."

  "You are his son!"

  "I know that."

  "Then
where the hell is he?"

  "In his house..."

  "Don't be stupid. We already know he's not. Your people can't find him."

  Of course not... they don't want to find him. "And you expect me to know?"

  "You are his son!"

  Staccato puffs of white struck the air from the man's flared nostrils. Harper tilted his head and watched the clouds curl away and disappear, and he didn't answer.

  "You are his son!" the man repeated. Again.

  "I know that. If he knows you're looking for him, and if he's not at home then I have no idea where he would be."

  "You must... you must have some idea... Your own father! You must know something."

  "Why?" he asked, still not looking at the angry face.

  "Because he is your father!"

  And you think I betrayed my father and my people because we are so close? "Well, he's on Skyland, if he isn't dead."

  "Don't be stupid–"

  "I'm not–"

  "Where is he on Skyland? Where is he?"

  Harper looked back into the angry face. It was red and pouchy. The clouds of mist curling from his lips and nose stood out stark white against the scarlet cheeks. Colorless eyes, only a shade darker than the mist, squinted under fleshy lids.

  The frustration in the room had escalated quickly. With every word after Harper Fields? the soldier had seemed to get angrier and angrier. Harper didn't understand it. Why did they think he was here, if he was still working with his father? Did they seriously think he could still be in contact with the Sky Reverends after his betrayal? But the red-faced man wouldn't let go of the idea that Harper could help him, or help the Union. What had begun as a few simple questions about the notorious Sky Reverend Reynold Fields, had escalated into the table-slamming, red-faced wrath in the increasingly chilly room. The man had leaned down so close a couple times that his spit got in Harper's eye. This soldier, who seemed deliberately careful enough not to actually touch Harper, was bursting with his attempts at intimidation. Harper was glad they hadn't brought Zara in.

  But intimidation was almost dull after growing up in the care of the Sky Reverends,.

  Harper could hear the angry man's teeth gritting together in frustration.

  "Where... is.... he?"

  Harper stared right back. He looked into the pouchy grey eyes in the pouchy red face and clenched his teeth, and pressed his lips closed against the mist the man blew towards him on every angry breath. The end of the black cord around the pouchy neck tapped against the table, dangling down as the man leaned forward.

  "Where is he?"

  Harper's eyes fixed on the swinging cord. "He is a priest. Why are you hunting a priest anyway?" Find him yourself.

  "Answer the question."

  "Why do you hunt a priest when you–"

  "Answer the question!"

  "Don't you have priests of your own? Do you hunt them, too?"

  "Where is he!"

  "I don't know!"

  "The Sky Reverends were behind the attack on the second ship. Your father is a Sky Reverend."

  "Yes, but I don't know–"

  "Answer! We don't have time for this. There are four other ships waiting to take refugees off of Skyland. Unless we can secure them–"

  "Four?" Harper shook his head, confused. "There were nine, then this one left, then the second...."

  "Three more on the ground were destroyed when the second ship exploded above them. Only four remain in tact."

  One in the Sky and three on the ground... They took out four ships in one swipe... He felt sick. And almost proud. Then sick again. "Look, I left the planet to get away from my father."

  "Then you cannot defend him!"

  "I'm not."

  "Then give us the information we need to stop him. There are four other ships that may be blown to pieces–"

  "No doubt they will be."

  The soldier was silent.

  He straightened up. The hand that had been on the table moved to his mouth, pinched a the lower lip between two fingers. The mist on his breath came out in thin strands. The pouchy eyes stared. Then,

  "When?"

  Harper shrugged.

  Bang! The hand slammed the table again.

  "When!"

  "I don't know."

  "Don't be stupid. You know that they will be attacked, you must have some idea of the plan."

  "I don't."

  "Your father is a Sky Reverend! They are behind–"

  "Yes they are."

  "Do you understand that when they are brought to court, you will be charged as an accessory?"

  "I am not."

  "You know about their plans. You know about–"

  "I didn't say I knew their plans. I just know their intentions. Flight is a sin against the Sky, and if they can stop the ships from flying, then they will. Everyone knows it! I don't know anything more. And I am not involved in their plans." Not anymore.

  The soldier turned away. He paced the room for a moment, looking back at Harper, then around at the air, then up at the ceiling. One hand was a fist, the arm crossed over his chest; the elbow of his other arm rested on it, its hand still fiddling with his lower lip. Harper waited. He heard the angry man's breath rush out through clenched teeth. The solder moved his hands to the back of his head, as though he were laying down, resting his head. He looked up at the ceiling again and pressed his lips together. Then he looked back at Harper, the thin lips widening in a tight line that could only have been an attempt at a smile. It was creepy. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer.

  "Okay. So you're not in with their plans, you're not on the same page as the rest of them–

  "Not the rest. Only some."

  "Right, sure. I get it. You feel differently."

  Harper narrowed his eyes and remained silent. The man continued.

  "So help us."

  "How?"

  "Tell us where they are."

  "I can't."

  "If you do not help us then you are no better than them!" The anger was creeping back, starting to eclipse the creepy smile.

  "I can't tell where the people you're looking for are–"

  "You have to kn–"

  "But I can tell you where the dirt stores are."

  The man paused. He squinted at Harper. "What?"

  "I can tell you where the dirt is." Harper flinched at his own words.

  "What dirt?"

  "The dirt they use to... don't you investigate that kind of thing? If you've been watching the Sky Reverends, how do you not–"

  "What dirt!"

  "The fertilizer, the fertilizer used for the bombs. The special mixes, the most volatile compounds." He paused, choked by his own treason. But the words kept coming. "I know where the stores are kept."

  "Where?"

  "Beyond the brown fields, in a–"

  The soldier held up a hand. Harper paused. The solder looked up into the air, one hand resting on his ear. He was listening to something. He nodded to someone on the other end who couldn't see. "But–what? Okay.. okay." He turned back to Harper. "Okay. You will come with us."

  "What?"

  "You will come with us."

  "Where?"

  "Back to Skyland."

  Harper froze. Abomination. Abomination! his father's voice echoed in his head. "I-I can't."

  "You will."

  "Wha–why?"

  The man laughed. "Hey, I'd stick you in a cell transport and jettison you out to the nearest periphery prison. But they say you're coming, so you're coming."

  "Who?"

  "None of your damn business."

  "Why?"

  The pouchy red cheeks stretched into a smile. "So you don't double cross us. Lead us to a trap and you'll be the first one in. Lie and we'll start this game again. Forget who you're supposed to be helping, and you'll have a nice quiet cell to help you remember."

  "But my wife..."

  "She will continue to the colony. You will return with us to Skyland and help us find the S
ky Reverends."

  "The Sky Reverends? All of them?"

  "You know we're looking for the animals that did this."

  "Not all the Sky Reverends were involved. Only some. I will help you find the explosives, but if you're going to chase down all our priests, I won–"

  "You'll do what you're told."

  Harper glared at the man. Sure. Of course I will... "Will I be reunited with my wife after this is done?"

  "Yes. She will be taken safely to the refugee areas on Den, and you can follow her once we are satisfied that you have been helpful." He smirked. "And that you aren't a threat."

  "Fine."

  "And Mr. Fields?"

  "Yes?"

  "Know that she will be looked after."

  Harper's eyes narrowed and he nodded once, a short, hard jerk of the head, his glaring eyes never leaving the soldier's face.

  Looked after... watched. She will be watched.

  Harper stood in the heat of the hallway. He still shivered. His skin, his hands, his insides were still frozen like the obsidian room. But the air of the ship around him was like an oven after that place, and slowly, slowly it was working it's way in. He opened his mouth wide and breathed out to see if any of the white clouds lingered inside him. He was so cold it felt like they should. But his breath was as invisible as it always had been before.

  One soldier stood silently behind his left shoulder, waiting.

  Harper shivered just a bit, crossed his arms over his chest and walked down the hall. The sound of boots followed him. They walked down the ships halls without talking, down one metallic corridor, down another, around one corner, around another. Right, right, left, right, left, middle passage, left, sliding doors, right, right. He'd memorized the pattern on the way. The ship was so huge and all the halls looked alike, it was the only way he could get anywhere inside it.

  They walked.

  Every few minutes he glanced back to the sound of the heavy boots tramping behind him.

  They shouldn't be so loud

  This wasn't the angry, red-faced man with the black cord from the obsidian room. He had left Harper in the care of one of the underlings – or Harper could only assume that was what he was from the way the angry man had barked orders at him. The soldier walking behind him now couldn't have been older than Harper, and he was small. Stringy. Veins and muscles wrapped around his thin arms and in between his bony joints, Harper couldn't imagine how his steps could be so loud. Maybe the hard matter of the ship magnified his footfalls. Or maybe the soldier was deliberately stepping heavy, an imitation of his superior. Or maybe it was just part of the soldier's image he put every morning, like the dirt colored clothing.