Faster Than Falling: The Skylighter Adventures

by Nathan Van Coops

  Rufus stared out the window again. “Is Auralee on guard?”

  “Everybody is. Everybody except Bronks.”

  “Then you won’t make it either. They’ll be looking down to spot Grounders. They’ll see you jump for sure.”

  Kipling frowned at the thought of being dragged back aboard the patch after never even making it to the surface.

  “Unless . . .” Rufus continued, “ . . . someone created a diversion.”

  Kipling smiled. “If only I knew someone good at those . . .”

  He was in position. The wings were tucked in tight against his back, covered by the blanket he’d thrown over himself. The straps were as tight as he could get them and he’d rigged the controls to his wrists. It was harder than he’d expected. He’d never actually used guardian wings before but he’d certainly watched it done enough times. That would be enough, wouldn’t it?

  He’d snuck down the central helix of the Globe Mother’s internal root structure, past the empty globe son pods, all the way to the cloud net. Below this point, the thin, water-absorbent strands were too delicate to descend. He was heavy now, too. Heavier than he’d ever been in his life. It took extra care and more time than he expected to not tumble the entire way down the core of the Mother and ricochet out into the night. He’d be plummeting soon, but not yet.

  He’d had to sneak past two guardians perched on the outer tendrils, but luckily both were watching the sky. Now he waited for the signal.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  Rufus’s shout carried from the trailing end of the patch, floating on the wind as he shrieked. Rufus was lighting up, too, flashing as much as he could to draw eyes to his position. The guardians stationed above Kipling muttered and moved upward, one ascending the roots and the other spreading his wings and soaring out toward the source of the noise.

  That was his cue.

  Kipling kept the blanket wrapped tightly around him, shielding any involuntary flashes of light he might be emitting from stress. He crept out of his hiding place among the roots and eyed the long drop to the darkened terrain below. The mountains seemed to seethe and roll in the darkness, though he knew that was just a trick of the light. It was over fifteen thousand feet to fall. A long way in the dark. But this was his chance. He was really leaving.

  He’d never feared a fall before, but with the weight of all his gear, his knees began to quake.

  “Help! Help! Look over here!” Rufus shouted into the night. The lights of the guardians were almost on him. So fast. They were reaching him too fast.

  Kipling tore his eyes away from the rescue going on above and forced himself to concentrate.

  Just let it out.

  He exhaled forcefully and took a step. The overloaded buoyancy belt did the rest.

  He ripped through the soft trailing membranes of the cloud net and plunged into the darkness below. The blanket whipped and flapped around his shoulders, straining to rip itself from his grip. Why hadn’t he tied it to himself? He could have used tether rope or creeper. For now only his straining fingertips clenched the fabric to himself, with the wind whipping past his face and pulling at his hair.

  He was falling face-first, the buoyancy belt pressing into his abdomen like an anchor. He lost his grip on the blanket with one hand, then the other. The fabric soared away from him as he fell, thrashing upward into the ripping wind and then fluttering slowly after him. It disappeared into the darkness as he continued to fall.

  His eyes scanned the night above and the slowly shrinking patch around the Mother. So far none of the guardians were pursuing him. Their attention was still at the tail of the patch, or what was left of it. The patch looked so much smaller now. He’d only ever known the globe patch of the Mother to be this enormous network of life. A city in the sky. Now it looked fragile—torn and vulnerable.

  Something brushed his face with a cawing swoosh. The faint, sudden caress of feathers or fur—it touched his skin and then was gone. But it happened. Contact.

  He wasn’t the only creature in the sky tonight.

  His wings were still tucked in and he was only drawing tiny sustaining breaths, then expelling hard. He couldn’t tell how fast he was falling. He also couldn’t see the ground. Everything below was blackness. Fog? Trees? How would he know when to open his wings? The wind was so loud around his ears. He couldn’t even hear himself think.

  Look for reflections. Starlight on water or moonlight on leaves. Something to use as a reference.

  There. Water. A glint in the darkness. Reassuring but close. Too close!

  He spread his arms and deployed the wings. The cords on his wrists yanked upwards, but his momentum barely slowed. He kicked back to move the tail fin attached to the back of the wings, hoping to level out his dive. Nothing happened.

  What was wrong? Had he not rigged the controls right?

  One wing caught the air and spun him, a momentary lift on his left side, but then it was too much. He toppled to the other side, whirling and banking out of control in a terrifying spiral. His other wing ripped back and the control line came loose from his wrist. The weight of the belt around his waist was still pulling hard toward the surface, but his wings were only making him spin. The world was a dizzying cyclone of starlight and darkness, the faint glow of the Mother above, the reflection of moonlight on the water growing rapidly closer below.

  Kipling gasped. He sucked as much air into himself as he could to arrest his fall. He slowed, ever so slightly, then a little more. He struggled to orient his vision and prepared to light himself up. The ground was there, wasn’t it? Somewhere between that inky sky and murky glow.

  Something hit him.

  A creature’s talons sank into the wing attached to his left arm and wrenched it loose.

  He yelled and fell faster. The other wing was now just a hazard, flailing about his head and thrashing in the wind as the belt pulled him down. He gulped air as fast as he could but there was too much weight. He wasn’t slowing fast enough. The creature struck him again from the side. This time one of the talons dug into his shoulder and he screamed. The flailing wing caught the creature in the underbelly and dislodged it. The black mass of feathers and claws dropped off to his left, then flapped away.

  The nightbeast wheeled and turned, keening into the darkness before tucking its wings and diving hard for Kipling again. He watched in terror as the talons advanced, boring straight toward him. He channeled his fear and lit himself up, flashing to life and burning as bright as he’d ever glowed. The light poured out of him and beamed into the night. Inches away, the creature pulled up.

  He hit the water.

  Cold blackness swallowed him. Bubbles churned and frothed, racing around his face, glittering jewels desperate to reach the surface—a surface that was slowly retreating. The water was murky, encroaching on his glow. It dimmed him and robbed his heat.

  He wanted to breathe. He wanted to rise, but this was not his element. He needed the air and he needed to be free of this crushing weight. His fingers found the straps of the wings first, shedding the now useless contraption into the darkness. Next his fingers dug into the belt, prying loose weights from their pockets. Not all of them—he still needed them—but just enough.

  He began to rise.

  Faster and faster he raced to the surface, overtaking the bubbles and erupting into the air.

  He gulped and swallowed the night sky—only stopping when he felt in danger of drifting loose from the water’s surface.

  He was victorious, no longer in danger of sinking. He only needed to make the shore.

  Kipling had never swum before. He’d never had the need. Only with this weight belt dragging at his waist had he ever been heavy enough to sink below the surface. He’d seen it done before though, so that was enough, right?

  This time his plan didn’t fail him. He paddled and stretched for the shoreline, hitting the reeds on the bank in a matter of minutes. He clawed his way through the grasses and weeds till his fingers sank into thick
mud.

  Kipling’s skin was dim when he reached firm soil and finally felt the first satisfying crunch of pebbles and shell. He walked, feet making sucking noises in the muck, till he reached the rocky terrain beyond. He collapsed to his knees and sat on his heels. Slinging the tether of his warhook around till he could reach the handle, he hoisted the weapon and waved it at the sky.

  “I made it! You didn’t stop me!”

  Overhead, shadows still whirled in the darkness, but nothing plunged to attack him. High, high overhead, he could just make out the glow of the patch, the Globe Mother in the center, drifting off beyond the wispy clouds. The sight of his home so unreachably far away quieted his jubilation at having reached the ground. As his body came down from the high of his success, his shoulder began to throb. He used the warhook again, not to threaten his airborne enemies this time, but to prop himself up. He climbed to his feet.

  He studied the dark line of the horizon and began to walk, unsteadily at first, but then with greater conviction. He’d made the ground. He’d taken the first step. From here on out, he’d either rescue Samra or die trying.

  Overhead, the nightbeasts shrieked and circled in the sky.

  He’d know soon one way or the other.

  15

  DAYLIGHT

  The sky was only a fraction less than black when Atlas woke. By the time it faded into gray-blue on the horizon, he had the Sun Dragon completely uncovered and it floated close to the door.

  The wolves were gone. During the night, as many as twelve had sniffed around the barn, but they didn’t last. The pack was hungry, and their patience was not up for the long wait till dawn.

  Atlas made the most of the delay.

  He reminded himself that a good pilot is never in a hurry. Enzo had repeated the phrase so often he could hear it in his head almost as though his grandfather was standing right next to him.

  He’d been foolish last night. He’d rushed. Once his mind had settled, he realized he hadn’t even packed the maps. How did he expect to find Enzo in the canyons without any references?

  It was an oversight he remedied before the dawn light had even reached the tops of the canyon walls. It took two runs to the house to gather the rest of the supplies he needed, but he made the trips with efficiency and none of the clumsy rush of last night. He was an aviator now. He had to think like one.

  He opened the doors to the barn and pulled out the Sun Dragon with careful but efficient movements. The air tanks were full. Safeties and gust locks removed. The craft hovered above ground, tugging gently at its tether. His cargo was all carefully stowed. He’d done the math. Once he was aboard she would be perfectly balanced. Ready to soar.

  He climbed into the cockpit and took his seat. His hand rested on the tether line. This was really it.

  “Atlas!”

  The canyons echoed with the yell.

  Amelia raced down the trail. Her braid was undone and her hair flew about her shoulders in a messy wave. Her shirt was torn at one sleeve.

  “What are you doing out here? Don’t you know how worried we’ve been?” Amelia’s face was red from exertion as she forged through the high grass toward the Sun Dragon.

  “I’m going after Grandpa,” Atlas shouted. “They’re chasing him. He needs help.”

  Amelia reached the side of the airship and grabbed hold of the lateral fin. The Dragon sank under her grip and the tail fin bumped the grass.

  “They were raiders, Atlas. And they’re dangerous. You’re not going up there.”

  “I have to!” Atlas threw off the tether line and tried to float free of the ground. Amelia clenched the fin harder and held the airship down. She only weighed perhaps 130 pounds, but it was enough to keep the craft from climbing. Atlas kicked the rudder fins to turn and dislodge her, but she held tight.

  “Atlas, they raided the village! They got into the town hall and stole the village relic. Dale Merritt is dead.”

  Atlas stopped kicking the pedals. “Mr. Merritt?”

  School wasn’t exactly Atlas’s favorite thing, but his teacher was about as close a friend as he had in town when it came to grown-ups. The idea of him being dead . . .

  “Put this thing on the ground, Atlas!” Amelia was struggling to keep her grip on the stowed lateral fin as the breeze coming down the canyon attempted to lift the Dragon’s tail.

  “Grandpa needs me.” Atlas refocused his attention on the task at hand. “If they’re after him, then I have to hurry!” He kicked the rudder hard and the tail skidded around till it was perpendicular to the barn and facing into the wind. Amelia hung on.

  “You’re just a kid, Atlas! You’re lucky to be alive as it is. You can’t do this.”

  “I have to!”

  Amelia struggled to hold the Dragon but her feet were skidding in the grass now. “You’re not your mother! Okay? I know you want to be like her—to be like Enzo—but you have to stop this. You’re not a pilot! Your parents wouldn’t have wanted you to do this either. They wanted you safe.”

  Atlas fumed. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t. How could she when she’d spent her entire life on the ground and hiding from the sky? This was his moment, his chance, and Enzo needed him. His fingers found the air valves to the lateral fin deployment system.

  Amelia was grunting now and she spoke through gritted teeth as she dug her heels into the dirt and wrenched the Sun Dragon downward. “You’re my responsibility, Atlas, and—”

  “Not anymore,” Atlas said. He pulled the deployment lever and the air charge burst into the lateral fin actuator. The fin sprang from the side of the fuselage into its open position, lifting his aunt off her feet and flinging her into the grass. She landed in a heap on her back as the Sun Dragon sailed backward and upward. The deployed fins caught the wind and Atlas shoved the control wheel forward to climb.

  “I’m sorry!” Atlas shouted. “But I have to do this.”

  Amelia stared up at him from the ground with eyes wide. “No!” She scrambled to her feet and ran after him, but he was already much too high to catch. Atlas kicked the rudder and turned the Dragon downwind, reversing his movement on the control wheel to now climb forward. He flung open the lever for the upper fins and they sprang into position as well. They caught the wind and carried him up and away from the barnyard.

  He leaned over the edge of the cockpit and watched the steadily shrinking figure of his aunt running through the field below him.

  “I’ll be home soon!” Atlas shouted. “And I’ll bring back Grandpa!”

  Amelia shouted something else in return but he couldn’t make it out. She was falling too far behind and the breeze down the canyon was propelling him faster and faster. Atlas turned forward and immediately wrenched the control wheel back to avoid the tops of the pines stabbing up from the woods to spear him.

  “Whoa!”

  The Dragon responded and rose higher, clearing the treetops and soaring up and into the open valley. Atlas realized he was already headed too far south and banked left, dipping the left fins and kicking the rudder around at the same time. He trimmed the lateral fins and opened the fan valves. A rush of wind surged down the channels near his feet as the forward fans spun to life and blasted air through the tail. The air motors chunked and ticked as the pistons pumped their way up and down, driving the counterbalanced shaft that spun the fans.

  Atlas tapped the mariner’s compass affixed to his dash and slipped his goggles over his eyes. Ahead, out the abbreviated windscreen, the deep cleft in the mountainside marked his destination.

  Last he saw, the raiders were headed for the Rift. So that’s where he’d go too.

  He twisted in his seat and looked back once more, but Enzo’s farm was now just a grassy patch at the foothills of the canyon. Amelia, if she was still watching, would be just a speck beyond the forest.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ll be back.” He wasn’t sure if the assurance was for him or for her, but it made him feel a little better.

  It wasn’t the
maiden journey he wanted. It wasn’t the way Amelia should have seen him fly for the first time. The image of her frantically running behind the airship made his stomach twist thinking about it. He wanted her to see what he could do and be proud. Why couldn’t she see that he was ready for this?

  Atlas shook the thought away and concentrated on his heading. Finding Enzo would fix it. If he brought his grandfather home, how could anyone argue that he wasn’t a pilot? He was a pilot right now!

  The trailing edges of the lateral fins fluttered ever so slightly in the wind and he made a few corrections to his heading to find the most efficient path through the valley. The Dragon was soaring along beautifully, even better than he’d imagined. He’d ridden in the Express enough times to know what the rigging should feel like and this was even smoother than that. The sun was up now and lighting his aircraft in all its glory.

  Atlas spotted the schoolhouse, and for a moment he was tempted to bank that direction and buzz the schoolyard—see if any early arrivals were there to witness his flight. Then he remembered Mr. Merritt.

  Killed by raiders.

  Amelia said they stole the town relic. What on earth for? As far as Atlas could tell, the relic only taught them about farming techniques and grazing animals. It did have some useful medical information—safe health and medicine practices—but the rest was just boring technical stuff: math, physics, reading, and writing. He’d learned all that in school. Why would raiders steal that? Could it have some information Mr. Merritt never told them about?

  Atlas had seen the relic a few times when the class was allowed to visit it in the town hall. Mr. Merritt was proud to be its chief custodian. He called it a treasure and a priceless artifact of the Old World. Not much to look at though. Just a sturdy cube with smooth sides. One side lit up like a window, but you couldn’t see inside. It showed other things, other places. Occasionally Mr. Merritt had to drag it outside and set it in the sunlight. He said the relic would request that sometimes. He talked to it a lot in his free time, sometimes for hours. Used to anyway. Atlas pulled his eyes from the village.