Wings of Equity

by Sean Kennedy

  He shuffled back into the cockpit, wiping at his eyes. He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, and pulled the door to the crawlspace closed again.

  The ship was now floating on the wind; the engines had cut out automatically when the chute was released. Jazz turned to look at him, and winced. “Forgot about the physics again, huh?”

  “Just tell me we got him.”

  She looked up, and pointed at the human-shaped obstruction in the chute above them. “We got him. But we still have company.”

  “Get us out of here.”

  “You’ve got to get the chute down again, first.” Jazz started the engines again, but let them idle, just to keep them airborne once the chute folded again. The drag of the material would cause them no end of trouble if they tried to fly with it still unfurled.

  Ezra looked back up at where he could see the shape of Icarus lying on the cushion of material and wind. He hoped the man had enough sense to stay there until they evaded the other ship and managed to land their own.

  But they were dealing with a fugitive—if Icarus became desperate enough, there was no accounting what he could do in the name of self-preservation.

  “Hurry up! I need you on the guns!” Jazz yelled.

  Ezra turned back to his console, and made sure that he did not meet Jazz’s eyes. She was furious once more with their situation, and Ezra wondered just how far he was pushing her this time. But they had Icarus now, and if they managed to evade the other ship, the reward was all theirs. Their dream of financial emancipation had never been closer….

  Even if they were dealing in blood money.

  Ezra recalled the words of an old man in the bar he and Jazz had eaten in the night before. He was talking with his cronies, but Ezra had been able to eavesdrop quite easily. “That Icarus is a hero. There ain’t nobody who cares about the likes of us, who are worked to the bone in order to make life in the cities easier for you folks. He wants to make our lives better, and because of that he is enemy number one. Anybody going after him should be ashamed of themselves if they are willing to make us go on suffering in order to make a buck.”

  In that man’s eyes, if they were to turn Icarus in, Ezra would be contributing to their hardships. He might not be stealing food out of the mouths of babes directly, but was he signing the paper to do so instead?

  I feel sorry for them, Ezra thought. But Icarus is breaking the law, and somebody will make money out of it. It might as well be us.

  “Do I have to do everything?” Jazz demanded. “Snap to it, Kneebone!”

  He blinked at the console and realized that they were dangerously close in range to the other ship. If they fired, the Lilliput could be hit.

  “Starboard!” he instructed Jazz.

  She didn’t question him; she turned the Lilliput starboard, but still keeping it in the same position, and Ezra suddenly had the other ship’s weaponry in target. Before they could target the Lilliput, Ezra fired upon the enemy ship. He could see them trying to turn wildly, but fire erupted upon the surface of the dirigible’s balloon.

  The other ship began to careen, and Jazz shook her head grimly.

  “Flying will be smoother now,” she said. “They have no chance of catching up to us for now, once we get out of here. If I were you, I’d get up to the chute and bring Icarus in before he manages to fly away again, and so I can start relying upon our engines.”

  He nodded at her. He knew she was right. But hearing his own justifications and thoughts coming out of her mouth were painful, as if she was twisting them back upon him so he could hear just how mercenary he was becoming.

  But what else could he do at this point of time?

  EZRA slammed the small hatch door at the top of the cockpit back down behind him as he braced himself against the ropes attached to the chute. The wind was strong up here, but Jazz hadn’t lied when she said that the ride would be smoother from here out. But he still played it safe, having clipped a rope onto his belt and attached it to a secured ring on the roof just in case he fell. He also carried a second rope to secure Icarus. It seemed funny to need a rope for a man who could fly, but last time Ezra had seen him in the skies, his wings had been giving him trouble.

  “Hello!” he called out, feeling foolish.

  He heard a groan from above him, and then a reply. “Do you require a salutation?”

  Ezra couldn’t help himself; he grinned at the laconic greeting. “Are manners necessary in this situation?”

  “I don’t know. Am I meant to be polite, if I’m your captive?”

  “That’s up to you. But you’re lucky that we got you, rather than the others.” Ezra didn’t mean to sound like such an addle-headed coot, but he felt it was true nonetheless. He wasn’t going to do anything to hurt Icarus, whereas the other bounty hunters might have had a little fun tenderizing him before turning him in to the law.

  “Oh, is that luck I’m feeling right now?”

  Well, there was no need for him to be so persnickety.

  “Does the truth hurt?” Ezra asked, activating the retraction lever. The chute began to lower, and Icarus moaned. Ezra could see him holding on tight, not wanting to fall off.

  “A little, but the bullet wound hurts worse.”

  Ezra, alarmed, grabbed onto the ropes to steady them. “You were shot?”

  “Happens sometimes when people are shooting at you,” Icarus said dryly.

  Ezra could now reach for his captive’s feet. He pulled on him gently, and Icarus fell into his arms. He was grimy with smoke from the downed dirigibles, and sticky with sweat. But it wasn’t only the sweat that soaked Ezra’s shirt as he held the other man. Blood was seeping from a small wound in Icarus’s stomach.

  “Sorry about your duds,” Icarus breathed.

  “They’ll be fine,” Ezra said grimly. “Let me get you into the cockpit.”

  “Do you not get all your money if I die?” Icarus smirked.

  “Don’t talk like that,” Ezra retorted. “You ain’t gonna die.”

  “You a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Then I want a second opinion.”

  Ezra’s fingers strayed across the other man’s stomach. The bullet, luckily, had passed through his body and hadn’t hit any bone. “My pilot will give you a second opinion.”

  “Is he a doctor?”

  “No. She’s the best damn mechanic in Shrevesport.”

  “So she can patch up my hull, and replenish my fluids?” Icarus smiled, and his eyes closed.

  Desperately, Ezra slapped him. “Wake up! Don’t you go to sleep!”

  “Thought you said I wasn’t dying?” Icarus opened his eyes again, and looked at Ezra clearly for the first time since landing in his arms. “Hey, it’s you. The good kisser.”

  “You were pretty good yourself,” Ezra said, before he could stop the words.

  Icarus grinned and closed his eyes again. “I knew you were one of us.”

  Ezra slapped him again.

  “Ow!”

  “What did I say about not sleeping?”

  “What did you say about getting me into the cockpit?”

  “Oh,” Ezra said. “Right.”

  “I’ll try not to bleed over the furniture.”

  Ezra worried as Icarus closed his eyes again, but he could tell he wasn’t asleep or unconscious.

  “Just resting my eyes,” Icarus drawled, as if reading his mind.

  Ezra struggled to throw Icarus over his shoulders; it was cumbersome, to say the least, especially with the wings attached. Ezra pulled on the strap that hung by Icarus’s side, and the wings retracted into their harness. That made him a bit more manageable. Kicking open the hatch to the cockpit, Ezra lowered them in, wishing that he had planned for a rope ladder or some steps that could be folded away against the roof. Maybe that was something to consider for the next prototype.

  After all, it looked like they were going to have the money to build them now.

  For some reason, that thought didn’t cheer him l
ike it used to.

  As he hit the floor of the cockpit, he stumbled, and weighed down by Icarus they both fell against Jazz’s chair. Jazz regarded them with a sly amusement, although there was an edge to it that Ezra didn’t like.

  “I see you got your quarry, then.”

  “Our quarry,” Ezra reminded her.

  “Your decision,” she reminded him.

  Icarus groaned against Ezra’s shoulder.

  “The one thing we never built for the ship was a sickbay,” Jazz mused.

  “Come and have a look at him,” Ezra pleaded. “You’re better at this stuff.”

  “You’re going to have to take the controls,” Jazz said, not sounding happy about it. “Get the kit while you’re up.”

  Ezra gently laid Icarus against the wall and headed to the back, where a small trunk was bolted next to the crawlspace that led to the engines. Within it he found a medical kit; it was limited, and Ezra felt that perhaps in their line of business they should stock supplies more suitable for heavier injuries.

  He set the kit next to Icarus, and stood behind Jazz to take the controls from her. She moved deftly, and he took over her seat. Watching out of the corner of his eye, he observed Jazz crouching next to Icarus and inspecting his wound.

  “Hold still,” she told him.

  Icarus winced as she uncorked a whiskey bottle.

  “Take a swig first,” she instructed him.

  He did so, and cried out as she then poured a healthy amount over his wound.

  She turned back to Ezra. “The bullet went straight through.”

  “I saw that. Best bullet wound to get, though. Clean.”

  Jazz seemed appalled at his lack of compassion. “I’m not a doctor. He needs one.”

  “We take him to a doctor, we risk losing him.”

  She glared at him. “Have a heart, Kneebone.”

  “Yeah, Kneebone,” Icarus murmured. “Have a heart.”

  Jazz snorted. “Don’t get your hopes up, mister.”

  Icarus shrugged. “I trust you’ll look after me.”

  Jazz got to her feet, and strode back over to Ezra. “Did you hear that? He trusts me.”

  “He probably just thinks you being a woman and all, you have more care about his welfare.”

  “I think you care more than you think.”

  “Explain,” Ezra asked.

  Jazz sighed. “I don’t need to explain.”

  “I hate it when you get like this.”

  “Listen, Kneebone, if you’re not going to get him proper medical treatment, one of us is going to have to stitch him up.”

  “You’d be better at it.”

  “And I think a doctor should do it. Do you think the govs are going to give a damn about his health once you turn him over to them?”

  Ezra rolled his eyes, knowing when he was licked. “What do you suggest, then?”

  “There’s a smaller settlement, two hundred clicks out of Waulkham Hills. Town called Settler’s Pass. There’s a doctor there, and people won’t be so quick to suspect him of being Icarus if we take him for treatment.”

  Ezra weighed up their options, and decided that it wasn’t worth fighting Jazz any more on this. “Fine. Settler’s Pass it is, then.”

  Jazz made her way back to Icarus. “Did you hear that?” Ezra heard her ask their prisoner. “He’s getting you a doctor.”

  Icarus grunted. “He is, indeed, full of the milk of human kindness.”

  Sometimes, Ezra thought to himself, you just can’t win with anybody.

  And yet, who would have thought that he would start to feel the rats of guilt slowly begin gnawing at his belly?

  Chapter 11

  JAZZ gladly took control of the Lilliput again and plotted a course for Settler’s Pass. Ezra moodily sat in his chair for a short time, staring out at the brilliantly blue sky.

  “Kneebone.”

  It wasn’t Jazz who spoke; it was Icarus, from the corner in which he was slumped against the wall. It was the only name he had heard Ezra called by.

  Ezra ignored him and continued to search for shapes in the clouds.

  “Kneebone, I know you’re hearing me.”

  Ezra called back to him without turning around. “What do you want?” He could see Jazz glance at him, but he didn’t acknowledge her interest, either.

  “Come back here and talk to me.”

  “Why?”

  “I could use the company, and it doesn’t look like you’re doing anything.”

  Ezra finally swiveled around on his chair and stared at his prisoner. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

  “Come here,” Icarus said. He was now looking paler than he had before, and Ezra was now glad that Jazz was forcing him to take Icarus to the doctor, even though he would never admit it to her.

  What have I got to lose?

  Ezra took the four steps toward the back of the cockpit and crouched besides Icarus. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to talk,” Icarus said; his eyes, heavy lidded from the stress of his injury, giving him an alluring look. “Maybe I want to kiss you again.”

  Ezra looked around quickly to see if Jazz had caught that. “Hush!” he hissed.

  Jazz was concentrating on her console, but she was concentrating a little bit too much, if you asked him. She was undoubtedly listening to every word and drawing her own conclusions from whatever would be said between them.

  “I told you, you were a good kisser,” Icarus said with a grin.

  “And I think you’re becoming delusional,” Ezra retorted.

  “Maybe I’m just looking for a way to distract you and then make my escape,” Icarus said. “I’m sure that’s what you’re thinking, anyway.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “I bet quite a few do.”

  “Not really.”

  Icarus sized him up. “You do that to put others off balance? Make them underestimate you? You’re not as stupid as you like to make yourself out to be.”

  Ezra’s face burned, and he said steadily, “I don’t think of myself as stupid. But you’re doing a pretty good job at trying to distract me again.”

  Icarus shook his head. “Not in this case, I wasn’t.”

  “What’s your name, anyway?” Ezra asked. He couldn’t keep thinking of him as Icarus; it seemed foolish.

  “You think that I, as your captive, should be forced to give you my real name?”

  “It’s just a question.”

  “You can call me Icarus. It’s what everybody else does.”

  “Obviously it’s not your real name, though.”

  Icarus winced as he repositioned himself against the wall. A new blossom of blood appeared on the bandage Jazz had wrapped around his wound. “Would you swear to that? Maybe I had parents who appreciated the Greek classics, and when I decided to take on persona for my life of crime, I used my real name as inspiration.”

  “No parent would saddle their kid with a name like Icarus.”

  “So says the man called Kneebone.”

  Ezra gave him a dry smile. “Ezra Kneebone.”

  Icarus laughed hoarsely. “Ezra? Ezra Kneebone? And you poke fun at Icarus?”

  “Not poking fun,” Ezra told him. “Just interested.”

  “Well, my name is my own. There’s power in a name. So I’ll just keep it to myself while I can,” Icarus said gravely.

  Ezra wondered how long he would be able to maintain that, especially once he was in proper captivity with jailers who would care less about his welfare than he and Jazz did.

  “Anyway,” Icarus continued. “I asked you over here for a reason. If you’re serious about taking me to a doctor—”

  “I told you I was.”

  “—then you have to help me get these wings off. I’m going to be the most recognizable person in town if you take me in still wearing them. And then if the rest of your friends turn up, you’ll have one hell of a battle trying to keep me.”

 
He had a point, but Ezra had to make one thing clear. “Those other people aren’t our friends.”

  “You have the same goal. So you’re comrades in arms, at least.”

  Ezra didn’t like the comparison. But he knew that if he were to examine the whole situation from Icarus’s point of view, he probably didn’t seem much different than the rest of the money-hungry bounty hunters that were out to bring him to… well, if not justice, then to cash him in to line their pockets.

  “You can think what you like,” he replied gruffly.

  Icarus shrugged, and it was obvious that he had forgotten it would cause him pain. He didn’t cry out, but a hot and heavy breath puffed out between his lips even though he tried to hold it in.

  “How do we get this thing off you?” Ezra asked.

  “There are metal clasps on the side,” Icarus told him.

  It was like Icarus was bolted into a cage. The clasps on his left side acted as if they were a hinge on a door. Ezra tried to be as gentle as he could, but it didn’t help that the metal harness partly rested on the area of the bullet wound. Once he had undone the clasps, Ezra propped Icarus up into a fully seated position, and leaned the other man against his chest. He had to try and discount the pleasant feeling that resulted from having Icarus in his arms, even though the man was bloody and grimy and had the sharp tang of sweat emanating from his pores.

  It seemed as if his body remembered Icarus, and the brief contact they had had before. He had to stop himself from taking advantage of his prisoner and running his hand further down his back to cup the lovely swelling of his ass.

  “Having trouble?” Icarus asked, as if he were fully aware of what was going on in Ezra’s head.

  Ezra wasn’t sure if he was flushed, but he was glad Icarus couldn’t see his face at the present time. “Just trying to figure out a way to get this off with as little pain as possible to you.”

  “Just do it,” Icarus instructed him. “It may be more painful, but at least it won’t last as long.”