Faster Than Falling: The Skylighter Adventures

by Nathan Van Coops

  Kipling scanned the remnants of the patch. The Mother was burdened with the weight of the vine bridges that used to connect her various arms. In their haste to depart, most of the citizens of the smaller globes had merely chopped the vines at their end, letting the bridges fall and dangle from the Mother like so many umbilical cords. Without the smaller globes to share the burden, they were weighing her down and bearing her closer and closer to the rocky teeth of the ridges. Kipling spotted Jervil Plance, the patch routes ranger, working on one of the residual bridges with a knife. Kipling raced over to him and helped hold tension on the vine as Jervil sawed at it.

  “Have you seen my dad?” Kipling shouted.

  “No time to be looking,” Jervil replied. “Quick and cut those other vines!” He tossed Kip a pruning knife and jabbed a finger toward the next vine bridge. “If we don’t lose this weight, we won’t clear the ridge!” Jervil let the vine he’d cut drop into the darkness and scrambled overhand toward the next tangle of dangling vines.

  Kipling gripped the pruning knife between his teeth and leapt for the closest residual bridge in the other direction.

  “What do I do?” Rufus asked, as he clambered behind.

  Kip plucked the knife from his mouth and began sawing at the thick tendrils. “Go find Bronks! We need to know if he has Samra.”

  Rufus set his jaw and nodded, then scrambled upward on the globe, disappearing over top in search of the guardian captain.

  Kipling couldn’t help but watch the action below. Even as he sawed away the superfluous vines, he kept an eye on the dwindling shapes of the ships. There were half a dozen of them, most now loaded down with bits of the globe patch. He had no idea what they wanted them for. Never in his life had he heard of a patch being attacked by Grounders—certainly not flying ones. And now there was a whole group of ships endangering their patch.

  Four of the craft were lumbering skyward, up and away from the chaos of the festival, but two were racing away, headed for the big cleft in the ridges. The craft in front was tiny compared to the rest and shaped more like a fish. The bigger ship was bearing down on it like a shark intent on a minnow. It was only after a few moments of watching the chase that he recognized the smaller airship. The red nose and yellow fins were a now familiar sight—The Sunshine Express.

  “Get away, Enzo!” Kipling shouted from his perch on the Globe Mother, though the two craft were far too low to hear him. Enzo’s little Express banked and dodged its way through the foothills at the base of the ridges, making the chase a challenge for the bigger predator, but the larger ship was also faster, blasting up and over the rocky outcroppings with more thrust than the little ship could manage. “Come on, Enzo, you can make it,” Kipling whispered, his hands temporarily forgetting their duty with the vines. The Sunshine Express was almost to the upper canyons where the deep clefts between rocks would give it the advantage in maneuverability. A little farther and the bigger craft would have to abandon the chase as the Express lost itself amid the rocks. But just when Kipling was about to cheer, the Express listed hard to one side and was wrenched laterally until it was sideways, presenting its broadside to its pursuer. The tail of the craft flailed back and forth and the nose tried to straighten back out, but the craft only skipped sideways now in lurches, closer and closer to the bigger ship. He couldn’t see it from here, but Kipling recognized the cause of this strange maneuver. The bigger craft had hit the Express with a harpoon.

  Far below, the little airship struggled to get free, but even as the pilot tried to cut away the harpoon, another spike flashed from the bow of the pursuer and struck its tail. A third hit the nose immediately after. The struggling stopped. The Express was dead in the air.

  Kipling muttered curses at the ship below but his attention was quickly diverted by the first jagged ridge of mountaintop passing below the globe. He frantically returned to cutting the vines and as soon as the bridge was loose, raced to the next one.

  “She’s not going to make it!” someone below him yelled. The ridge they were headed for seemed impassible, but Kipling still sawed away at the vines with vigor.

  “Come on. Climb!” he yelled at globe the below him. “Don’t you dare give up!”

  The Mother was glowing beneath his feet and the internal gases flared even brighter when the patch hit the ridge, but the impact didn’t rupture the globe. She scraped her way up the rocky face of the uppermost tooth of the mountaintop and only caught her trailing roots on the ridge. Citizens down in the root system hacked and sawed rapidly to free the remains of the patch before the winds could dash it back against the rocks. In a few moments the entangled roots were cut away and the Mother soared upward again, out of reach of the rocky spires and into the safety of the Heights.

  As the Globe Mother rose, Kipling looked back over the ridge into the valley at the dull glow of lights beneath the fog. Somewhere in that faint luminescence was the village of Womble, but whatever fate it had met was beyond their help now.

  He slid and shinnied his way down the outside of the globe till he could delve into the thick tendrils below. After clawing his way through the damaged vines, he finally emerged into the central grove. The floor of the grove was littered with debris. Skylighters of all ages were wandering around the interior asking after family members and seeking assistance. One battered-looking guardian was at the end of the grove answering questions and directing people to help stations. Kipling pushed his way through the crowd till he could reach the guardian. He recognized her as Auralee, the patch deputy. Slipping through the adults, he waved a hand to attract her attention.

  “Auralee! Have you seen Bronks?”

  Deputy Auralee turned in his direction and waved him over. “Captain Bronks is in the Citadel, resting. He was injured in the attack.”

  “Do you know if he found Samra? Did he rescue her?”

  “I don’t know who he rescued. You need to report to the registrar down in the commons. We’re taking all the names to see who made it aboard. If Samra is here, you’ll find her name on the list.”

  Kipling swore under his breath and edged his way out of the crowd. He worked his way to the tendril ladder on the east side of the grove. The commons would be swarming with more frantic families seeking lost members, but the Citadel would only be in use by the guardians.

  He reached the ladder and climbed upward into the thick of the colony roots. The ladder ended quickly and he was obliged to work his way along the wide stalks of durable heartwood that made up the roof of the central grove. Here, in the very center of the patch, just below the lower hemisphere of the Mother, the heartwood was the strongest and thickest. The rigid structure of the Globe Mother’s internal frame was derived from this original husk. The globe bloomed upward and outward but always retained these first seed walls. The walls grew to become the strength and core of the patch, and therefore the home of its strongest warriors.

  When Kipling reached the door to the Citadel, he found it open. An engraving in the wood over the Citadel door read ‘We Rise Together. We Rise Forever.’—the motto of the Guard. Inside, the rooms glowed constantly with the light of the Mother, since her bottom hemisphere made up the ceiling, but the glow was eerie, bluish and pulsating. He didn’t know how the guardians could stand the constant flickers and turbulent flashes of light.

  He found Bronks, not in his hammock, but propped up against the wall of the kitchen area, one hand on his bandaged chest, and one on the handle of his bone warhook. Bronks was still large, but here, indoors, and bereft of his mechanical wings, he was diminished. His eyes were shut but flickered open when Kipling approached.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Kip,” the guardian captain whispered. “Your family needs you.”

  “I don’t know where my family is,” Kipling replied. He stood a few feet away from his hero, but didn’t know how to help. “Are you hurt badly?”

  Captain Bronks lifted his head and looked Kipling in the eye. “I didn’t get there in time.”

  “Get where
?”

  “Cirra Sola.”

  “Samra,” Kipling whispered.

  “She got taken.” The voice came from the side of the room and for the first time Kipling noticed Rufus ensconced in an alcove between two thick roots. He was stuck in the upper corner, his knees pulled to his chest. “The raiders took her.”

  “Raiders?”

  “That’s what they’re calling them in the commons.” Rufus sniffed once and rubbed a hand across his nose. “We’ll never see her again.”

  “Don’t say that,” Kipling said. “We can go after her. Or she might get away.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Rufus moaned. “You saw what they did. They fly against the wind and go where they please. We’d never find them.”

  “What do they want with Cirra Sola?” Kipling asked. “Why would they want to kidnap Skylighters?”

  “We don’t know what they’re after,” Captain Bronks replied. “But we need to be ready if they come for us again and be prepared for the next attack. We must defend the patch.”

  “What about Samra?” Kip sputtered. “How do we save her?”

  Bronks shifted his weight and grimaced. “What happens now is out of our hands. I’m sorry to tell you the difficult truth, boys, but this patch isn’t out of danger yet. And as much as it pains me to say it, Samra is on her own.”

  11

  THE SUN DRAGON

  The fog was too dense to see, but Atlas still had his ears. The spinning internal fans of the Express weren’t especially loud, but they were a sound he knew like his own breathing, and he listened intently for it. The village was in disarray. Those festivalgoers who hadn’t already gotten indoors were scurrying down cobblestone alleyways and into hiding places, intent on escaping the violence happening overhead. Only a few brave souls had taken up weapons and seemed inclined to fight.

  Artemis Bartley, the town constable, had rallied a few stalwart men and women and the group was trooping down the main street with their eyes on the sky, waiting for the worst.

  Atlas stuck to the festival grounds, circling Mayor Fillmore’s property astride Destro till he found the tie-downs for the Express. A painted billboard showed the aircraft soaring through sunlit skies with a smiling Enzo waving from the cockpit. But the real Sunshine Express was nowhere to be seen.

  “Quick on him, boys! That’s one we want!” The shout came from somewhere overhead, and a silvery harpoon came plunging out of the mist and imbedded itself in the grass.

  Destro reared and Atlas jolted in fright, thinking the harpoon was meant for him, but suddenly the air swirled into a whirlwind as the fans of the Express spun to life. The aircraft was just overhead, hovering out of sight in the fog, but now it had been discovered.

  “Enzo!” Atlas shouted. He urged the horse after the aircraft. The Express was moving quickly, headed east through the fog and he doubted his grandfather could hear him from this distance.

  Destro was tired from the run here, but he prodded the horse faster as the Express banked away over the rooftops of the village. Atlas was forced to dodge his way through the narrow village streets, Destro’s hooves clattering on the cobblestones. By the time he reached the edge of the village, he could barely hear the fans of the Express, but there was something else overhead in the fog. Something bigger.

  Atlas couldn’t see much, but what he heard was the sound of at least a dozen men. Men shouting orders, men barking threats. Someone was laughing. Beyond that was the whoosh of rudder fins moving air and the steady chuffing of ducted fans. Engines rumbled with explosive power. But even those sounds passed him by.

  “Enzo!” Atlas shouted vainly toward the retreating sounds. Then he was left alone.

  He let Destro trot to a stop, the big horse’s sides heaving. Sweat made the gelding’s already spotted hide even more speckled. The sound of conflict was now far behind him, as were the lights of the village.

  “We have to help him. He needs us.” Atlas muttered the words to the horse but didn’t see any way on. He’d never catch the aircraft on a horse. Even if they did catch up, there was no way he could get to Enzo in the air.

  He didn’t need a horse. He needed a dragon.

  “Come on, Destro! We can still do this.” He turned the horse’s head north and cantered forward, trying to get his bearings in the darkness. He was in another pasture—Minister Teague’s maybe? Somewhere north he should hit the valley road and beyond that it was only a stream and patch of woods till he’d be on his grandfather’s land. He could make it.

  It took longer than he thought to hit the road, but he found it. Destro leapt the stream beyond without hesitation, but when they reached the woods the horse balked.

  “Destro. Go!” Atlas dug his heels into the horse’s sides, but the gelding merely shifted side-to-side, ears pivoting and eyes wide. The trees loomed like sentinels barring his path. Atlas had been through these woods plenty of times, but always in the daytime. In the darkness, the trees seemed ominous. “It’s okay, Destro. We’re almost there.” He patted the horse’s neck and urged him forward again. This time the horse took a few tentative steps. Atlas kept up the encouragement and the horse slowly threaded its way between the trees.

  Inside the woods, the night became even blacker. Atlas regretted not bringing a lantern. They moved forward mostly by intuition, following the faint patches of light they could see and pressing themselves through the soft boughs of evergreens. Before long, Atlas’s palms were sticky with tree sap and he wasn’t sure which direction they were headed. He scanned the sky at every available opening, but the stars remained shrouded in mist and the moons were both out of sight beyond the mountains.

  Each passing second weighed on his mind. Where was Enzo? Who were the men chasing him?

  Enzo was smart. He’d head up into the canyons, lie low for a while till the danger passed. Nobody knew those canyons like his grandfather. He’d be okay. But he might have to hide awhile. He’d need supplies. Weapons maybe. He needed Atlas’s help.

  The claws came out of nowhere, swiping at his face.

  Atlas rolled left, fingers clenching frantically at Destro’s mane. The black shape hurtled past, crashing through the branches and shrieking. Atlas grunted and heaved himself upright on the horse’s back, but it was all he could do to hold on now. Destro’s ears were flat and he was galloping, plunging through the underbrush at full speed. Branches and vines whipped Atlas and the horse alike, scratching and tearing at his clothes and skin.

  It was a terax, or some other forest raptor. They weren’t big enough to lift a horse or livestock off the ground but they’d been known to tear animals to bits and carry off the pieces. He didn’t want to know what they did to boys. The shriek from behind was echoed by one overhead. How many were there?

  A branch struck Atlas across the face and he cried out. The sting made his eyes water. The whole world was dark and blurry, but up ahead the trees were clearing. Destro erupted into the meadow before Atlas could get his hands back on the reins. “No! Not the open!”

  Atlas reached for the flapping leather straps and hauled back on them, but the horse only strained harder. Its mouth was frothy and its eyes wide. The fog was patchier here with little gaps of starlight peeking through, but the sky was turbulent, full of dark shapes circling overhead—a whirl of danger.

  The foothills weren’t far. Enzo’s cottage. He could make it there, or maybe straight to the barn. The high grass whisked past his legs, almost up to the horse’s shoulders. Just a little bit farther. Up over the landing strip. Down the gully. One short fence and they’d be there.

  The impact of the creature unseated him immediately. Destro screamed.

  Atlas’s fists pulled tufts of hair and feathers as he flew through the air and crashed into the field.

  His breath was gone. He gasped for air as Destro’s foamy flanks disappeared into the long grass, the horse bucking and kicking at the dark shapes attempting to alight on its back.

  Atlas rose to his feet and immediately fell, toppl
ing forward to hands and knees in the damp grass. On his second attempt he stayed upright and staggered a few feet.

  He wanted to yell for the horse, but choked back the urge. The cottage. He needed something to fight with.

  He tilted forward and ran, keeping low in the grass but unable to stop himself from looking up and searching the sky. It was too black, too difficult to penetrate the darkness. He could only hope they were distracted enough to give him time. He concentrated on the distant shape of the cottage, partially buried in the hillside. He hurdled the fence at the end of the pasture and raced up the hill.

  Wings beat the air overhead and he dropped, rolling out of reach of the talons. The terax hit the grass beyond him and immediately spread its wings again, lumbering upward and eager to make another pass. But Atlas was there. Leaping upright, he sprinted the last few yards. His feet pounded across the boards of the front porch and his body slammed into the door before he could arrest his momentum. Ricocheting off the door, he plunged his hands into his pockets, fishing frantically for the key. His fingers closed on the bit of iron and he stabbed it at the door in the darkness till he found the lock. Claws scratched the roof of the porch, knocking shingles loose as they worked their way toward the edge, but he was in now, slipping through the open door and slamming it behind him.

  Leaned against the interior of the door, he jammed home the bolt and tilted his head up to catch his breath. His body begged for him to stop—slump right there against the door and rest—but there was still work to be done.

  He rifled through the drawers of the kitchen till he found the flint and a knife. He struck it hard till he sparked the tinder in the fire bowl and used a strip of bark to transfer the flame to the lantern. He lit three just to be sure.