Faster Than Falling: The Skylighter Adventures

by Nathan Van Coops

  Khloe was a big topic of discussion at school because there was another colonist family leaving on Cirra Sola with Khloe’s and Samra’s—that of Jerem Stormblower. Jerem was sixteen and Khloe and her friends were intent on making sure that the new colony would be departing bright with the flame of new love.

  Even from a distance, Samra could spot the rosy shade of pink that had recently begun to appear on Khloe’s shoulders. All the girls in Khloe’s year wanted to be old enough to be considered in bloom, but most of Khloe’s friends were still using tangleberry juice to brighten their shoulders. Khloe’s blushing skin was the real thing, a fact she was keen to show off with as many sleeveless outfits as she could conjure. Khloe’s hair had lost all traces of green, and her long tresses had outdone the usual tawny brown of adolescence, instead turning a vibrant gold.

  Khloe and her friends would no doubt be scouring the Grounder market for new fabrics and dresses when the patch landed. They would all want something new to wear for the festival ball. If ever there was a grand opportunity for Khloe to secure Jerem’s love, it would be there.

  Samra lowered her gaze to her own lap. Her rough trousers were decidedly worn, with rips at the knees and green streaks where she’d stained them climbing the globes with Kip. The skin of her arms was a pale yellow, bright and fresh, but nowhere near to turning pink. Not that she cared. The boys could ogle Khloe’s shoulders all they wanted. She was glad that Khloe and Jerem would be distracted by each other on the new colony. She only regretted that she’d be stuck playing with Khloe’s little brother, Willis. He was harmless enough for a patchling—if you could get past his tendency to drool on himself when his mind wandered—but she wasn’t eager to be designated his babysitter while Khloe and Jerem were off canoodling.

  A shadow passed over Samra and she looked up. The wide mechanical wings of a guardian were spread high above her. The sunlight blinded her temporarily, and she squinted, but then the guardian banked left and glided in a lazy circle down to a dozen feet above her. The wood-and-bone-framed wings tucked together and the guardian dropped, landing silently and surprisingly gently next to her.

  From her seated position, Samra gazed up at the imposing form of Captain Bronks. Broad-shouldered and even wider due to his mechanical wings, the guardian captain’s expression was hard to read with the sun behind him. He certainly looked fierce with his harpoon in his left hand and his warhook dangling from his hip.

  Some of the younger patchlings probably would have shrieked at his arrival, but Samra was not a little patchling anymore. She was due to be an Ascendare like Kipling this year—the age of transition. Even so, she waited quietly for Bronks to speak. It took a few moments, but finally he rested his free arm behind his back and addressed the horizon.

  “Excellent view. I expect mist off the mountains tonight, but we’ll be well above it till morning.”

  Samra stared stubbornly at the horizon, refusing to comment.

  “I suspect one might have an even better view from Tamra Ohna or one of the more mature globes, don’t you think?”

  “Tamra Ohna is where Kaleb’s friends hang out,” Samra said.

  “And you prefer the company of Kipling or Rufus instead.”

  “Kip is busy,” she replied. She realized she didn’t know where Rufus had gone. “Rufus wasn’t feeling well. Had to go home.”

  “Must have gotten lost on the way,” Bronks replied. “Might explain why I spotted him wandering around near the Gate of Thorns, calling your name.”

  Samra winced. She ought to have known better than to lie to a guardian, especially Bronks, who was rumored to have the best eyesight in the history of the patch. Her parents told stories about how he had been made Watcher every year he competed, before being appointed to the Guard. He’d made captain only three years after that. But all of it was before Samra was born, and keeping those sorts of stories fresh in her head took a great deal more effort than she was willing to give.

  “Do you know why I dropped down?”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” Samra replied. “I’m not going to fall off. The restriction shouldn’t be for all patchlings. Just people like Rufus who fall off everything. Doctor Kesh says I’ll be able to glow soon. Then I can pass my Ascendare test and—”

  “I wanted to be sure to say goodbye.”

  Samra sputtered to a stop. “You—you did?”

  “It’s a big responsibility leaving as a new colonist. It’s going to be difficult.” Bronks fixed his dark eyes on her face. “I’m glad Cirra Sola will have someone as brave as you aboard. There’s no telling what dangers the patch might run into, and with only a second-year guardian on hand to defend it, you’ll need to keep a sharp eye on things. Every person aboard a new colony is vital to its survival.”

  Samra stared at the guardian till she realized her mouth was open. She knew her patch had been assigned one of the newest guardians as its protector, but she still didn’t consider that she might be as important as him to her colony. “You think I’m brave?”

  “And you’ll need to be. A colonist’s job is a hard one. No telling where the winds might blow your patch at first. It will be a great adventure. Someday, when my duty to the Globe Mother is complete, I hope I’ll have the opportunity to start a colony of my own.”

  “You want to be a colonist?” Samra couldn’t believe what she was hearing. If you listened to Kip, guardian captain was the greatest job in the world. She hadn’t ever thought of Bronks doing something as menial as manning a new globe daughter on its way into the winds.

  “We all have our dreams. I think it would be marvelous.”

  Samra lapsed into silent awe, wondering what Kip would think when she told him that his hero wanted to drift away in the wind somewhere and live far from the glory of the Guard.

  “I thought you were just coming down to kick me off this globe,” she said.

  “I’m certainly doing that as well. May I recommend taking the stalk back? You could use a handhold once or twice and really make me happy.” The guardian pointed a muscular arm down the vine-covered stalk that led back to the Mother. A subtle smile played at the corner of his lips.

  Samra frowned, but got to her feet. “You’ve never had to rescue me, you know. Not once.”

  “Let’s see if we can preserve that record a few more days then, shall we?” Bronks smiled.

  Samra climbed dutifully along the stalk and even stooped to brush her hand along the vines a few times as she walked. She didn’t have to, but he had already admitted she was brave. You don’t have to prove what’s already a stated fact. She realized she’d never said thank you, and turned around, but Bronks was already airborne, launched back into the sky as quietly as he’d come—back to orbit the patch with silent, dutiful circles.

  The girls on Tamra Ohna watched her pass. She couldn’t hear their comments, but she knew what they’d be saying. She’d heard it all before. Red Sam. Samra the dim. Samra the faller.

  She kept her hand on the vines. She would do it for Bronks—do it his way for once—and prove that she could play by the rules if she wanted to. She walked.

  Dasha Cormunger said something that made the group of girls titter and cover their mouths with their hands.

  Samra was getting warm. Despite her determination to stay calm, her hands were beginning to turn red and she could feel the heat rising in her face.

  She looked up to the figure of Bronks, high overhead, his silken wings backlit by the afternoon sun. He disappeared beyond the tallest globes, leaving her alone in her walk.

  “Watch your step, Coley,” Dasha shouted. “Nobody around to save you.”

  Samra gritted her teeth and kept walking, trying to cool herself down. Her skin only seemed to be getting redder.

  “Not that anybody would!” Dasha added.

  Samra broke into a run down the stalk as it curved away from Tamra Ohna and branched back toward the Mother.

  Laughter followed her retreat.

  She didn’t need saving. Not today.
Not any day. And she would prove it.

  Samra sped to a sprint and launched herself off the vine bridge, letting the wind lift her hair as she soared into the wide-open space between globes. Then she plummeted.

  The wind now tore at her hair as she fell, hands forward and feet back, aiming for the central stalk of the Mother. Her vision darkened as she fell, but she refused to breathe until the sound of Dasha’s laughter had vanished in the rush of the descent. She fell three hundred feet before she finally inhaled, stretching for the last thick tendrils above the wispy and fragile fronds of the Mother’s cloud net.

  She grabbed hold of the tendrils and slid to a stop, now at the very base of the patch. Samra clung to the vacant tendrils at the bottom of her world and her body shook. After a while, her skin finally cooled.

  She had escaped the laughter from Tamra Ohna but now had a long climb to get back home. Had Bronks seen her jump? Was he disappointed? She scanned the sky but saw no sign of the winged guardian.

  The sea boomed as it crashed into the rocky barrier islands. The wind smelled of salt spray. They’d be over land soon, beginning the descent into the Rift Valley. It was still out of sight but the snow-capped peaks surrounding it were coming into view beyond the first row of mountains. She wondered briefly if any of the Grounders in those mountains were staring back in anticipation of their arrival. For now, all she saw were rocks, seabirds, and the long way down.

  Samra lifted her eyes to Cirra Sola and slowly climbed for home.

  5

  ATLAS

  Atlas squinted at the sky, studying the gaps between clouds for any sign of movement. So far, he’d only spotted a few birds and a slow-moving school of kettle rays. No airship.

  The rickety fence along the west pasture smelled of wet goat. The rough-hewn rails made for an uncomfortable seat, likely as not to fill a tenant’s rear end with splinters. This fact didn’t deter him, but he was getting annoyed with the goat.

  A tattered rag in his back pocket had attracted the attention of a grizzled, white billy goat a few feet behind him. It tugged at the rag, attempting to free the prize from his pocket.

  “Cut it out, Murph,” Atlas said, swatting at the animal’s muzzle. The goat only chomped down harder and backed away. Atlas tried to yank the rag back, but Murph dug his hooves in and held on tighter. Atlas was about to hop down and continue the fight on the ground, but at that moment the sound of the airship’s fans reached his ears. He spun around and sprang from the fence with a yell, launching himself into the tall grass beyond. The billy goat froze, the rag still dangling from its lips, but Atlas let him have it. He turned toward the sky instead and waved wildly as a yellow-winged aircraft danced its way over the treetops.

  The Sunshine Express hadn’t even rolled to a stop before Atlas was climbing aboard, his fingers clinging tight to the lateral fins.

  “How’d it go? Did you see ‘em? What did they give you this time? Was it something we can use for the Dragon?”

  Enzo slid his goggles up onto his head and smiled at him. “Heavens alive, Atlas. You know we old folks have to breathe between sentences. Let me get my feet back on the ground and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Fledge, the cliff fox, let out a screech and climbed out of the front seat, perching on the edge of the cockpit and shaking out his wings. Atlas ruffled the fur atop his head, then hopped back into the grass, eager to see the day’s treasures.

  Atlas helped the old man float The Sunshine Express off the runway and stow it in the barn. The baggage compartment was significantly lighter than when the craft had taken off, but there were now bundles of blankets tied with string and a few reed baskets full of goods from the Skylighters. There would be more time for trading in the days to come. The festival always meant a bounty of good spirits and bartering for adults and kids alike. Last year, Atlas had been able to trade wool rope and a few bushels of wild apples for a genuine Skylighter star chart, and he had plans to double his haul this year. The nomad colonies had seen the entire northern hemisphere and some of the south in their travels, and their charts were the most accurate an aspiring aviator could hope for.

  “When will the patch arrive?” Atlas asked.

  Enzo took off his leather cap and hung it on a peg near the door. “I expect they’ll be on the horizon by tomorrow night if these winds stay light. Sooner if we get a strong gust or two from the west. I’ll be telling the mayor as soon as I get back to town.”

  The thin old man hefted the baskets out to Atlas, who attempted to see his way around them as he carried them to the table near the door. Once the cargo was unloaded, he unwrapped some of the parcels. Nothing interesting, just tubes of messages bound for other regions, baskets of dried herbs and spices, fresh sun peppers, strings of colorful eggshells, and bits of star lily root carved into jewelry or artwork. Enzo rummaged around and finally handed a package to Atlas that was about the width of his chest. “I think this might be the one you’re looking for.”

  Atlas tore into the dried leaf wrappings impatiently, exposing bits of gnarled brown wood. He let out a gasp as he ripped the last of the scraps away. He held a smoothly polished half-wheel made of globe heartwood. It was a steering yoke. His fingers found the correct places at the sides of it and he grinned up at his grandfather. “It’s the perfect size!”

  He didn’t wait for a response from the old man, but spun on his heel and sprinted for the back of the barn to the hulk of an aircraft waiting there under dusty blankets. He ran around the lateral fin and yanked away the section of canvas covering the cockpit, scrambling up the side of the fuselage using his free hand and then plopping himself down on the cushions he had stacked on the seat to give himself better visibility. He balanced the yoke in his palms, setting it gently atop the rod that would be rigged to his flight controls. The wheel was smooth and solid in his hands and it made it seem more real. Now he could feel it. He could picture the craft soaring through the air with clouds under its wings and him gliding high above the world. Now his Dragon would really fly.

  Atlas waited as Enzo rounded the lower wing of the aircraft and studied his work on the side of the vertical tail fin. The faded letters that once read Sunshine Express were modified. Atlas had eliminated ‘shine’ with heavy brushstrokes of red paint turned somewhat orange by the yellow tail beneath. He had also painted over the faded black lettering of ‘Express.’ Thick lines scrawled overtop now spelled out the word “Dragon” in bold but slightly irregular letters. The result was a combination of the old print and freshly hand-painted scribble. Sun Dragon.

  Enzo brushed some of the hay dust off the wing in a gesture Atlas recognized as affectionate. “You’re almost there.”

  “Do you think we can put it on tonight? Will you help me make it work?”

  Enzo smiled and mussed his hair. “Not tonight, but maybe tomorrow. I’ve got messages to deliver that need to get out right away. I’ll be heading to town. You work on it tomorrow after school and I’ll check your progress when I get back.”

  “Can’t I skip school tomorrow and just come here? We never learn anything important anyway. All we ever talk about is which settlers dug which mines or built some village. Nobody cares. It’s all stupid.”

  Enzo smiled at him. “I know it seems that way sometimes, but it adds up eventually. Schooling isn’t about learning what’s been done before, it’s giving you the tools to figure out what hasn’t been done. You’ll see.” He winked. “So, no skipping. Plus, your aunt would have my hide.” He patted the side of the cockpit and moved away.

  Atlas was a little disappointed, not just to be delaying his maiden voyage in the Sun Dragon. Time working with his grandfather had been scarce of late. When Enzo wasn’t out flying, there was always the Express to work on, or leaks in the pressure machine that needed fixing. Atlas’s Sun Dragon was tantalizingly close to being airworthy, but it still lacked a couple of vital parts. Occasionally he wondered if the omission was intentional by his grandfather, as they were essential enough to keep him fro
m flying it—perhaps some plot by his aunt to keep him on the ground. But Atlas didn’t think Enzo would fall for that, or betray his dreams that way. The old man was a hero and something of a legend—not just to Atlas, but to the whole village. If he could believe in anyone, it was Enzo.

  Enzo wasn’t anything like the other villagers. Most people in Womble had no desire to get more than a few feet off the ground. Out of all the adults in his village, Atlas could think of only one or two who had been more than a hundred miles from home in their lifetimes. A big outing would have been a trip to Kirkshire or the harbor villages along the white cliffs of Dunbery. Hardly anyone ever left Ridge Valley. The high mountains surrounding them may as well be a cage.

  When it came to the other kids, few his age had even made it past the last hedgerows of Barrister Whicket’s barley fields. Enzo, on the other hand, had flown the length and breadth of the entire valley, and even crossed the Strait of Gorra to explore the desert lands in the south. He’d navigated the Rift with The Sunshine Express and brought back stories of wild peoples he’d met and souvenirs from their various cultures to amaze and fascinate Atlas. It was those stories more than anything that fueled his desire to fly.

  After Enzo finished unloading the wares and gifts from the Skylighters, he packed them into the three-wheeled motorcycle that he used to get about the village. The handlebars held the throttle and brake, and a single air-cylinder engine waited under the seat—mostly only good for coughing and banging when Enzo forced the contraption over especially rough country roads. Enzo had rigged the machine to use the same interchangeable compressed air charges that The Sunshine Express used in more plentiful numbers to power its thrust fan pistons.

  “You have enough air?” Atlas asked, as he tapped on the canister affixed to the back fender.