Skyland One

by Aelius Blythe

A ship full of soldiers... Nowhere to go.

  There were no other guards, but Harper and the young soldier were not alone in the obsidian room. Unlike the cold room on the Skyland ship, this room held a handful of others dressed in civilian clothes. Some sat in the chain-bag seats beside him; some leaned around the edges of the room; some wandered in and out. Like the city folk on the Skyland ship, they did not look interested in the flight. Most were reading, a few chatted quietly, and a couple had lolled their heads on their shoulders and seemed to be sleeping. Harper did not find them particularly interesting either. Only the space, the empty, empty space sitting outside the window, like the inside of a monster's belly, captured his attention.

  But after a while, Harper tore his eyes away from the space outside the window. Bored, he looked around, finally taking a closer look at his fellow passengers.

  On his right, was one that he recognized.

  The red jacket, the bowed head, eyes closed, lids squeezed tight holding back tears, the rest of the face clouded with a somber expression: Harper remembered looking over at that same profile in the space of Infinite Space. It was the Union worker who had knelt beside him to pray. Still in his red Transport uniform, he now had a roughly torn piece of black curtain tucked under his lowered chin. It was tied at the back of his neck, but with his head bowed, it was clamped between his chin and his chest as if he were holding it secure.

  In his last walk through the halls of the Skyland ship, Harper had seen the hanging tatters left behind by those who did not have a symbol when they came aboard and grabbed desperately for bits of comfort in their fear. The majority like Harper, like the blue-clad Skylanders, had just watched the news in silence. But here and there, the Infinite Space folk had wandered, the scraps of their sacred color tied about their arms, or necks or hands.

  Harper looked at the red-coated man and wondered why the soldiers would bring a Transport Union worker back to Skyland.

  The man sniffed.

  Then he opened his eyes. One hand curled into a fist and rubbed roughly at one eye. Harper thought he should say something. He hesitated a moment. Then,

  "Hi."

  The man looked over and didn't reply.

  "Are you okay?" Of course not. Bad question. "I mean.... are-are you..." What? "...okay?" he finished lamely.

  "No." The dead tone matched the lifeless eyes.

  Of course not. "So why are they making you go back?"

  "They're not." The man sat up straight, raised his chin and squinted, a hard look in his still-damp eyes.

  "What d'you–"

  "I'm enlisting."

  "Enlisting?"

  "They put out the call right after the attacks. Aren't too many troops out here. They need all the help they can get."

  "So..."

  "I already have training. So, technically, I'm re-enlisting."

  "Why?"

  "I took a pledge. To protect–"

  "No, I mean, why the new recruits? There are bases out here with soldiers–"

  The recruit shook his head. "Not nearly enough."

  "Not nearly enough for what?" How many does it take to arrest a handful of Sky Reverends?

  "For war."

  War? Harper's lips moved around the word but no sound came out. He shook his head dumbly.

  "Union's been at peace for a long time. They need to gather the manpower and fast–"

  "But f-for a few Sky Reverends?"

  "But it's not!" The man sat up straight – as straight as the chair-bag would allow. His neck craned forward. "It's the whole institution."

  "What institution?"

  "The terror culture, the zealotry, the backwards-thinking, primitive–"

  "Hey!"

  "That's what we need to rout out."

  "But–"

  "It wasn't just Skylanders!"

  "What?"

  "It wasn't just Skylanders they killed. Union engineers. Union pilots. Unions stewards. I had friends on that ship. I could have been on that ship."

  Yes you could have. Harper pursed his lips together to keep from gaping. People were starting to look around and he kept his voice low. "I'm sorry."

  "It was a declaration of war. And war is what they'll get."

  Harper stared. Again his mind ground through the word that he couldn't quite make sense of. War.

  Investigation, maybe. But war? A cold shiver raked through his stomach and he flinched from the revelation: It's the whole institution... that's what we need to rout out. But it wasn't an institution. It was a planet. His planet.

  I will help them find the dirt stores. Nothing more!

  Harper stared at the Union worker, who was quiet now, slouching back in the chair-bag again. The fingers of one hand drummed against his cheek. His lips trembled and his eyes squinted in anger. He sniffed. His other arm was crossed tight across his stomach, the hand clenched in a fist.

  Harper looked away. "I'm sorry," he said again.

  The man didn't answer.

  Harper's eyes drilled into the deep, empty void outside the window.

  "But it's a crime, not a war," he added softly.

  He looked back as the man's narrowed eyes whipped back towards him.

  "Look," he sucked in a breath like a hiss, "look, I know that's your planet but," he sucked in another breath, maybe a sob, "y-you were leaving so you c-can't defend them." He looked away.

  "I'm not," said Harper quietly. His jaw was clenched, his mind stalled, but he tried to get the words out and keep his tone soft. "But a planet is more than an institution."

  "But the Sky Reverends–"

  "You can't declare war on a few criminals."

  "If it's really only a few criminals, all the more reason to rout them out. To protect the rest." Both his arms were crossed over his chest now, his chin was high, and his lip no longer wobbled.

  "Isn't that a job for a courtroom, not a battlefield? Isn't war the wrong–"

  The door of the obsidian room opened.

  Heavy boots stomped in.

  The young guard jumped to attention, brushing crumbs off his uniform. The newcomer ignored him and leaned against the black wall, arms crossed.

  "Harper Fields," he drawled.

  It was the angry man. His face wasn't as red as it the cold room of the Skyland ship. Now, the pouchy jowls were a mottled shade, pale and pink. A few veins spidered out under the heavy jaw.

  He didn't look angry now. The frown lines around his mouth weren't so deep. But Harper couldn't help being wary and didn't respond, except for a thoroughly unfriendly,

  "Hhm."

  "Mr. Fields?"

  Harper didn't answer.

  The man waited.

  Harper wondered if he was trying to look casual, leaning against the wall. Non-threatening, maybe? Last time they had met, he'd has his face inches from Harper's, leaning forward, spit flecking the air between them.

  "Mr. Fields?"

  "Hhmm." What do you want?

  The man tried again. "How are you?"

  "Fine." Because you care?

  "Good. Good."

  He pushed himself away from the wall and paced along it a bit. His arms swung awkwardly, heavily. Another attempt at casual? It still wasn't working.

  "Take a walk with me," he said. "Let me show you around."

  "Hhm."

  Harper fumbled with the harness of the hanging bag-chair. Eventually it disconnected and he detangled his limbs and got up. The no-longer-angry man walked out and Harper followed. In the hallway he walked awkwardly beside the soldier for a minute without saying anything. Finally, the man broke the silence.

  "Are you comfortable?"

  What? Harper started at the question. "Why?"

  "I know it's not as nice as the ship you left, but are you comfortable?"

  "Why?" Harper repeated his answer to the bizarre question.

  "What, I can't look after our guest?" The man tried for a laugh. It sounded more like a grunt.

  "I don't understand."

  "You
don't understand what?"

  "Guest?"

  "We want you to be comfortable while you're with us. I know it isn't much, but–"

  "But, guest?" Prisoner more like it.

  "Yes?"

  "You threatened me with charges. An accessory, remember? Now, a guest?"

  "You are. Right now."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means that you are not a threat right now."

  That's not what you said last time. "So I can leave? When we get to the planet, I can turn around and–"

  "No!" The man took a heavy breath then tried again in a calmer voice. "You're not in a prison cell are you? You're not in restraints, are you?"

  Harper laughed. He stared at the soldier next to him. Then he turned around. There was a guard at the corner they'd just come around. Harper pointed. "One." He looked ahead to the next corner and the next armed sentry. "Two." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Three, in the common room," he counted, wondering vaguely is the snacking soldier actually counted. "Four, five at the entrance," he continued, trying to recall all the soldiers he'd seen since being escorted on board. "Six–"

  "This is a war ship. They're on guard duty."

  "Guarding me?" Guest indeed!

  "Guarding the ship."

  "From me."

  "From danger!" The red was seeping back into the soldier's face. The forced friendliness seemed to be slipping. He took a breath, swung his arms a little and tried again. "Look, we just need to keep an eye on everyone right now. That's what the guards are for."

  "Uh huh."

  "We're not going to hurt you and we're not going to lock you up. We just need you to help us get to the bottom of this Skyland mess and make sure no one else gets hurt."

  "Right." This Skyland mess...

  "And in the meantime we want you to be comfortable."

  "Hhm." Whatever happened to 'I'd stick you in a cell transport...?'

  "Are you?" he prodded. "Comfortable?"

  "Not really."

  "Well... it's not luxury liner. But if there's anything we can do–"

  "You can tell me what you want."

  "Excuse me?"

  "When we get to Skyland. And I help you find the dirt stores. What am I expected t–"

  "You're expected to stay out of the way until we need you."

  "Stay out of the way where?" I can't go home...

  "Troops from the periphery have set up a base. You w–"

  "A base? Already?"

  "They moved in immediately to secure the area. You'll have a spot at the base. Then you can relax until we need you."

  Relax? "Hmm."

  "I'm afraid it's not much nicer than this, but it'll be safe."

  "Safe..." Safe inside a war.

  A door slid open. Harper twitched at the sound.

  They were back at the room with the hanging chairs. Harper looked around confused. He hadn't taken note of where they were going. The thin black corridors all looked the same.

  "If you need anything let the guard know. He's an incompetent dolt," he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. "But he can relay a message at least."

  "Right."

  "Well, we have the night before we reach the planet," said the soldier. "Get some rest."

  "Thanks." The word slipped out. Automatic. Meaningless.

  The angry man looked around the room for a minute. Then,

  "You!" He pointed at the Transport Union worker from the Skyland ship.

  The Transport worker jumped. "Yes, sir?" He started fumbling with the straps of his harness.

  "Gather? That's your name, isn't it?"

  "It is, sir." The straps were undone and he jumped to attention.

  "Then you're the new recruit."

  "I am, sir."

  "Unit 93. Uniform. Tags. Instructions. Waiting for you down the hall, fifth door on your right. Five minutes."

  "Yes, sir."

  The angry man spun on his heel and stomped back down the hall. The young guard sat down again and started picking at the crackers he'd abandoned. The transport worker patted his pockets as though making sure he had everything he'd come with – which appeared to be nothing. Harper went back to his bag-chair and sat down, watching the new recruit.

  Off to war...

  The man looked at Harper and smiled. His lip twitched like he was trying to keep the grin from growing. They stared at each other for an awkward moment.

  "Five minutes," Harper reminded him. "He said five minutes. You should–"

  "Yeah, yeah. Um.... Harper Fields?"

  "Yeah. Gather?"

  "Ben. Call me Ben."

  "Have fun, Ben."

  "Fun... I'm not going for fun."

  "Of course not."

  "Look, I'm sorry about before. I don't want you to think–"

  "Five minutes," said Harper.

  "Right." The smile was gone.

  The recruit looked down. Then he held his hand out, and Harper shook it because he didn't know what else to do.

  A moment later the Transport-worker-turned-soldier was gone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  in which there is more cold...

  The chair maker shivered.

  His ear screamed in pain. The cartilage was folded under his head as he lay on his side. He lifted his head, clutched his ear and took a breath. The air froze in his lungs. When he breathed out a cloud of white mist rose in front of him. He pushed himself to his knees and this time instead of dirt floor and china shards, his hands pressed against the sleek gloss of an obsidian floor.

  The chair maker shivered. Again. He turned his head.

  "Ow."

  His nose had knocked into something hard. Rubbing his face with one hand, and his ear with the other, he looked around. A sharp corner protruded over a table leg, black and shiny like the floor.

  "Sit."

  The chair maker looked up.

  "Sit."

  The chair maker craned his neck over the edge of the table to see who had spoken.

  A man sat at the other side. He looked down a sharp nose, over the table at the chair maker still kneeling on the floor. A neat, closely clipped white beard, contrasted with a few too-long strands of white hair that framed a faintly lined face. A blank face. Aside from the fine lines on the forehead, around the mouth, around the eyes, the face showed nothing. It was perfectly still. His long-fingered hands were folded in front of him, still as stone.

  "Sit," the man said again.

  The chair maker pushed himself up from the ground. His legs shook. Whatever they had used to knock him out was still pumping heavily in his veins and he leaned on the table. His eyes moved slowly, lids reluctant to stay open. He stared down at the table under his hands. There was an empty chair along the side right next to him, opposite the white-haired man.

  "Sit."

  The chair maker didn't want to do what the man said. Even his half-asleep mind didn't trust the stern, statue-like figure sitting across the table from him. But his knees were shaking under him and his arms were shaking from the strain of supporting him and his head was nodding with the strain of holding itself up.

  So he sat.

  Or he tried to anyway. Eyes barely open, he felt his way to the chair, and pulled it clumsily out; it tilted under his weight and he almost fell to the ground. The bearded man across the table stayed put and didn't make a move to help him. The chair maker righted the chair, and felt for the seat. Finally, the chair was under him, his feet planted on the floor, his elbows on the table keeping him upright. His head dropped into his hands. He rubbed again at his sore ear and his bruised nose. The pain shook his near-sleeping mind awake.

  He shivered.

  He lifted his head. The man across the table waited. The chair maker looked around the room. Only for a second. There wasn't anything to see. Black walls, black table, black floor. His reflection looked back at him from around the room in the sheen of the dark walls. He sighed sleepily, and mist rose from his breath. His hands abandoned his s
till hurting ear and nose as he wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing them, still shivering.

  "Mr. Carpenter."

  The chair maker looked up at the sound of his name. He looked back at the man across the table, but his teeth had started to chatter and his throat was clenched tight against the cold and he couldn't speak. The man waited only half a second.

  "Mr. Carpenter, we need your help."

  The chair maker stared at the bearded man, who remained completely still except for his lips as he spoke. He was like a statue, and the chair maker didn't want to talk to a statue. But the man was silent for longer this time, still eyes fixed across the table, waiting.

  "I-I... " the chair maker forced his throat open, forced words to stumble out, "there's nothing I can... I can't help... anything, I need to get back t-to... to my wife ... she is back–back at the shop–at my shop. She didn't... she didn't... make... " He shut his eyes. The image of white hair nearly gone, burned off wisps floating up in a smoky workshop, the smell of burning fuel, burning wood, burning varnish, burning... He didn't want to talk about his wife. "Where are we?"

  "Unimportant."

  We need your help. "I don't understand why–why I'm–"

  "We need your help. So if you'll just answer a few simple–"

  "Why is it so cold?"

  "Think of the temperature as a... timer."

  "What?"

  "A timer. It's simple. You answer a few of our questions and the temperature stops falling."

  "A... a timer?"

  "As you're body temperature falls, you'll start experiencing the stages of hypothermia–"

  "What?"

  "Death."

  The word did not match the serenity of the statue-still face across the table, the eyes blinking softly.

  "You're... killing me?"

  "Not at all."

  But death... "Then what–"

  "We just need you to answer a few questions. Preferably before the... time expires."

  Before I die. "What–" His throat seized up against the cold again. "What can I tell you?" He forced the words out.

  "We need to know about the explosives used to destroy the ships. Specifically, what they are made of and where they come from."

  "And you're... you're asking me?"

  "Very few people deal with the materials you do, isn't that right?"

  "But I don't know anything..."