D'Arc

by Robert Repino

  She didn’t like his tone. “I did.”

  “There was a dog commander not too long ago. He had a breakdown on the bridge, and they had to shoot him with a tranquilizer dart and carry him off.”

  D’Arc finished another magazine, slapped it onto the table, and slid it toward the pile. “I’ve heard that.”

  “Well, I heard that this is the same dog. And he’s the only one qualified to fly Big Vee.”

  He dropped a few rounds, but scooped them in his palm before they rolled off the edge. D’Arc continued loading without saying a word.

  “Nothing against dogs,” Lasky added.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s just, you know. It makes you wonder.”

  “Right.”

  Some turbulence tilted the airship for a moment. D’Arc’s sword, resting on a stack of boxes, fell over. It made Lasky nervous. His hands shook as he loaded the bullets. He asked if she had ever seen a wolf. “I’ve only smelled them,” she said. “Out near Lodge City.”

  “What brings you to Hosanna?”

  “The al-Rihla.”

  He stopped loading and stared at her. “You’re going on the al-Rihla?” Lasky said that he had applied, but they rejected him on account of his age. Hosanna needed young men like him to replenish the human population. “I told them they need to find me a girlfriend first,” he said. D’Arc imagined little weak-chinned babies squirming in tiny blankets.

  She couldn’t say it out loud, but more than ever D’Arc wanted to get on that boat and stare out into the water while the land melted behind her, leaving nothing but blue in every direction. Even now, she dreaded the day—far in the future—when the al-Rihla returned to Hosanna. Perhaps, after the exploring was done, the crew would find that the city no longer existed, another settlement that failed on this accursed river. And then they would simply keep going. If she had to, D’Arc would start over again and again and again.

  The intercom crackled to life. D’Arc and Lasky stopped what they were doing and waited for the announcement.

  “Security personnel to the commons,” a woman’s voice said. She repeated it several times. Outside the door, footsteps stomped and people shouted. Some human barked, “Move it, move it, move it!” In response, the traffic became more frantic.

  “We’re not there yet, are we?” she asked.

  “No. Must be a drill. Though they said there wouldn’t be any drills on this trip.”

  “Who said that?”

  “The people who run the drills.”

  Lasky would stay at his post. D’Arc jammed the last two bullets into a magazine and left it on the table. As she strapped on her sword, she tried to recall the image of the sea again, but saw only the stagnant water left over from the flood.

  Ruiz climbed the steps to the upper tier of the bridge. He handed a pair of binoculars to Falkirk. “Sir, we have visual contact.”

  On the port side of the bridge, Falkirk peered through the lenses until he located the Upheaval. The ship flickered. He rubbed his eyes and tried again.

  “It’s not your eyes, sir,” Ruiz said. “Their stealth mode is switching on and off.”

  Falkirk could see it. The hull sparkled like a fuzzy television screen. It blinked out altogether only to reappear seconds later. With the Upheaval running silent, he imagined the entire crew lying dead with the autopilot engaged. In theory, the ship could travel indefinitely so long as it stayed above the clouds to collect sunlight. But a storm could knock it off course. Then the ship would begin a steady descent before crashing in some mountain range, or a desert.

  “Altitude?” Falkirk asked.

  “Cruising altitude of nine thousand. Same as us.”

  “What’s the status of her weapons?”

  “Their tactical display appears to be offline,” O’Neill said.

  Falkirk no longer needed the binoculars. Soon the crew could see the Upheaval looming in the window, flickering like some giant broken toy.

  “Captain, we have a new message from the Upheaval,” Bulan said.

  “I’ll keep an eye on her,” Ruiz said.

  At Bulan’s station, Falkirk scanned the text on the monitor until he came across the words: stand by—incoming message.

  Bulan fiddled with her headset. “I’m getting Morse code,” she said. She pressed a button on her control panel and the sound crackled through a small speaker. “It’s the call sign again.” The signal repeated several more times and then stopped. Static fizzed in the speaker. A voice broke through the noise, saying something in gibberish at first, and then coming through clearly.

  “Vesuvius, this is Upheaval, do you read me?” a man said.

  “Upheaval, we read you,” Bulan said. She gestured at Falkirk so that he could respond.

  “Upheaval, this is Falkirk, acting captain of the Vesuvius. To whom am I speaking?”

  More static. Falkirk thought he heard two voices arguing. “This is Lieutenant Commander Jeffrey Trestman, first officer.”

  “Lieutenant, it’s good to hear your voice. Where is Captain Demir?”

  A pause. “Captain Demir is dead.”

  The bridge froze as everyone waited for Falkirk to respond. “What is your situation?”

  “Sabotage in engineering.” A wave of static drowned out his next sentence. Falkirk made out something about a coolant pipe bursting. When the interference cleared, Trestman continued. “Caused a chain reaction that disabled the ship. We have casualties. Heavy damage to the onboard systems.”

  “We have to help them,” O’Neill said.

  Falkirk put up his hand for silence. “Who sabotaged you?”

  “It was a fish-head. A stowaway. Killed five crew members before it was all over.”

  “Jesus,” Ruiz whispered.

  Falkirk remembered the inspection from the day before. He thought of all the hiding spots he may have missed. “Lieutenant, were you able to contact Liberty One?”

  “Negative. Out of range. But I can tell you that Tranquility ordered us to follow you right before we were attacked. They want both ships back in Hosanna.”

  “What about navigation and propulsion?”

  “Barely operable. We need to . . . reboot the system. We’re down one engine.”

  Falkirk turned to O’Neill. “How far are they?”

  “One mile and closing.”

  “And how far are we from our destination?”

  She read the number, but did not speak.

  “How far, O’Neill?”

  “Seventeen miles. Captain.”

  “Sir, they say that Tranquility wants us to go back,” Ruiz said.

  “I heard what they said. But we can only abort on direct orders from Liberty One.”

  “But given the circumstances—”

  Falkirk ignored him. “Lieutenant Trestman, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, Captain. Go ahead.”

  “We are under strict orders to proceed to our destination. If you have regained control of propulsion, you need to turn around and request help as soon as you can reach Liberty One.”

  The speaker whistled with feedback. Falkirk covered his ears. “Uh, negative Vesuvius,” Trestman said. “You’ve been ordered back. And we require assistance. We have casualties.”

  Falkirk called Ruiz over. Outside, the Upheaval grew larger, its blinking surface casting odd shadows on the bridge.

  “Has this crew ever attempted a docking procedure?” Falkirk whispered.

  “No, sir. I’m sorry. There was no time—”

  Falkirk made a throat-slashing gesture to cut him off. Docking in midair would take too long, even with an experienced crew. Anchoring the ships and transferring the wounded over the ground would take even longer, and would run the risk of provoking the local wolf tribes. The wolves would love to capture the first canine airship commander
, put his head on a spike.

  “Is there anything we can do for these people?” Falkirk asked. “Anything short of stopping the entire mission?”

  Ruiz searched for an answer, but the expression on his face said enough.

  “Captain,” Bulan said. “Upheaval is requesting a flyby so we can examine their hull damage from here.”

  “Yes, of course. Unoka, slow to one quarter. Let Upheaval pass us.”

  “Aye aye, Captain. One quarter.”

  Upheaval veered to the north, expanding from a perfect circle into a horizontal oval that filled the entire port window.

  “Everyone on the bridge,” Falkirk said. “If you see anything, call it out.”

  “We’re within fifteen hundred feet, sir,” O’Neill said.

  “Gondola looks fine,” Ruiz said. “They’re not venting. Other than the stealth malfunction, I don’t see anything wrong with the hull.”

  Falkirk went to the com station. “Bulan, see if you can get them to transmit a full damage report. Maybe then we can know what to look for.”

  “Aye, sir. It looks like—”

  A Klaxon sounded. A row of red lightbulbs flashed on the ceiling.

  “Sir, Upheaval is listing toward us,” O’Neill said. “Twelve hundred feet.”

  Voices erupted in shouts and technical babble. Unoka yelled something that Falkirk could not make out. Bulan screamed into her headset. “Upheaval, change your course! Change your course, Upheaval! Left . . . Thirty degrees!” Trestman shouted something about a malfunction. Outside, a trail of smoke twisted from the ship’s starboard engine. It would sideswipe Vesuvius in a matter of seconds.

  “Nine hundred feet!”

  “The wind is pushing them.”

  “. . . Upheaval, break left! Upheaval . . .”

  “Captain, they’re right on top of us . . .”

  “Seven hundred feet!”

  And for a second, the sound drained from the room until Falkirk could hear his lungs expanding and releasing. He felt his legs moving. His feet fell on soft earth. He was running away from his family’s house again on the day of the quarantine. The day he lost control of his life and became a stone kicked along a dirt trail. The white takes you, his mother’s voice said.

  “Helm,” he shouted, “port engines, full reverse. Starboard engines, full speed.”

  Unoka and the copilot looked at one another.

  “Five hundred feet!” O’Neill said.

  Falkirk bolted down the steps and stood behind Unoka. “We can’t turn away,” he said. “We have to rotate the ship so we miss them completely.”

  If they could slow the ship enough and angle it, the bow of Vesuvius would slide right past Upheaval’s starboard side. Unoka spun the wheel hard to the left. Falkirk ordered him to lower the altitude—maybe they could slip under. On the control panel, the dials whirred and the digital readouts flashed.

  “It will be close, sir,” Unoka said.

  “I know.”

  “Three hundred feet!”

  The crew held onto their workstations as the Vesuvius pitched hard to port. Falkirk gripped Unoka’s chair. The Klaxon sounded at a higher pitch. Bulan kept screaming into her microphone, hearing nothing but static from the other end.

  “Captain, they’re slowing to match our speed!” O’Neill said.

  “What?”

  “They’re trying to hit us!” Ruiz said.

  Upheaval loomed in the window. Her crew knew exactly the maneuver Falkirk would use in this scenario. There was nothing he could do.

  “One hundred feet! Collision is imminent!”

  “Everyone hang on to something!”

  There was no time to buckle into the captain’s seat. Falkirk gripped the top of Unoka’s chair. The Upheaval blotted out the sky. A shadow crept over the room. No one spoke. Only the Klaxon made a sound that Falkirk could recognize.

  The hulls collided. Like two enormous drums. Bwooom. Falkirk slammed face-first into a control panel. A body fell on top of him. He smelled blood, then tasted it dripping into his throat. Dazed, Falkirk reached for anything that would help him get to his feet. When his hand found purchase on the edge of the panel, he reminded himself that he was not dead, that he needed to live. Get up, he thought. Get. Up.

  D’Arc lay flat on the white plastic floor of the common area. Her rifle was wedged underneath her, the stock jammed into her ribs. The other members of the security team, who only moments before stood in perfect columns, struggled to their feet beside her. Church was going over their assignments when the force of the collision tossed them all like dolls, leaving the lieutenant curled underneath the window. A grinding sound reverberated through the ship as the two vessels scraped against each other.

  Church clutched his elbow and stretched out his arm to make sure it wasn’t broken. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked.

  Along with the others, D’Arc checked herself for any cuts or bruises. She felt a tenderness in her side where she landed on her rifle, but was otherwise unharmed. The other soldiers gathered at the window, some walking, some crawling. The tail end of the Upheaval swung into view. The Vesuvius had jackknifed the other ship near the bow. Now the stern came yawing at them.

  “They’re going to hit us again,” Church said. “Grab something.”

  D’Arc pressed against the wall, with two humans on either side of her. She faced the promenade, where the fountain gurgled in its calm green oasis. After hearing the stories from the Old Man, she spent years imagining this incredible machine. Never once did she picture it crashing. But with the sirens ringing, the guards around her whimpering, and Church’s panicked voice, she thought that the Vesuvius had begun a nosedive into the mountains, where it would explode in a massive cloud that would vaporize everything.

  The Upheaval’s stern slammed into Vesuvius. D’Arc’s intestines went weightless for a moment. Her teeth clacked and her rifle fell to the floor. Then the vibrations faded out. Feeling nauseous, D’Arc rested her head between her knees and took in long, slow breaths.

  A new sound cut through the chatter of the guards—a whistling noise repeated three or four times. D’Arc tried to listen. It almost sounded like a whip. Whoot-tissshh, whoot-tisssh.

  “What is that?” someone said.

  Everyone looked to the ceiling. The sound continued.

  “Cables,” Church muttered. “They’re cables. They’re trying to board us.”

  In the window, the Upheaval’s gondola was a mere thirty feet away, looking as innocuous as a next-door neighbor’s house.

  “Look!” Church said. D’Arc was squeezed among several guards, all struggling to see what was going on. On Upheaval’s starboard side, a tube extended from the gondola like a retractable telescope. Wide enough to fit a person inside.

  Church unhooked the walkie-talkie from his belt. “Bridge, this is Security, come in.”

  “Security, we read you.” Despite the static, D’Arc recognized Falkirk’s voice.

  “Upheaval is attempting to dock with us. Are you seeing this?”

  “Affirmative. Get your team to the airlock. There may be Sarcops on board.”

  “Copy that.”

  The docking module made contact with the Vesuvius. The metal screeched, echoing through the chamber. The Upheaval became a giant mosquito piercing the Vesuvius with its hypodermic tongue.

  “You heard the captain,” Church said. “They’re trying to pull some Star Wars shit on us. I need a team in the airlock, and another in the hall.”

  “Sir, who’s doing this?” someone asked.

  “Fish-heads. We’re gonna kill ’em.”

  The soldiers marched two-by-two, with Church in the lead. Their boots created a strange music, a percussion of rubber on metal. The overhead lights passed above like flying saucers. Beside D’Arc, a human’s oversized helmet bounced on his skinny head,
the visor sometimes falling over his eyes. They reached a metal door with a wheel attached to the front. One of the guards spun the wheel until it clicked and the door hissed open. Fifteen of the soldiers poured into the airlock. Inside was another sealed hatch. On the other side of it, the tube from the Upheaval fastened to the hull, making a sound like screws tightening.

  They’re here for the Old Man, D’Arc thought.

  The guards stood in a semicircle around the hatch. D’Arc took a position at the entrance, her shoulder pressed to the doorframe as she aimed her rifle. The others formed a gauntlet in the corridor.

  Church pulled his pistol from its holster and peered out the window, into the dark mouth of the docking device. He flicked on his walkie-talkie. “Bridge, this is Security. The docking procedure is complete.”

  “Copy that,” Falkirk replied. “What is your status?”

  “We’re in position. No one’s getting through.”

  “Keep me informed. We’re working on a way to get us detached.”

  Inside the tube, a string of lightbulbs switched on. Church raised his pistol.

  “Everybody stay calm.”

  In front of D’Arc, a woman asked the cat to her right if they could dislodge the docking device. The cat told her that he never knew the ships could dock in the first place.

  Somewhere behind them, a light patter of footsteps whispered across the common area. Only the animals heard it. One by one, their heads turned, starting with D’Arc. Church stepped out of the airlock, still holding the walkie-talkie by his ear.

  At the end of the corridor, a slender figure appeared. A teenage girl with frizzy hair, no older than fourteen. She walked barefoot, wearing only a tank top and black spandex shorts. Grease and grime covered almost every inch of her skin, making the whites of her eyes stand out like two incandescent rings.

  In her taut little arms, she aimed a grenade launcher right at the airlock.

  D’Arc shielded her ears as the grenade released with an innocent sounding plunk. Barely missing Church, the object struck the wall and exploded before the soldiers in the airlock could even scream. It was just a concussion bomb, but the force of it knocked D’Arc off her feet. The blast whistled in her left ear, so loud she could barely hear the gunfire.