by S A Shaffer
He realized the uneven ground along the canyon floor was actually thousands of geysers, each one bubbling and bulging. As he sped through the canyon, geyser after geyser burst along the stone floor, knocking three additional skiffs behind him. It was down to him and the triad of frontrunners.
He tried to pass them by cutting the canyon corner, but each time one of the trailing skiffs would cut off his advance. If he was going to pass any of them, he’d have to pass all of them at the same time. Flying over was impossible, and under would be suicide. As they rounded the next corner and raced down a straightaway, he drafted behind David Harris until his skiff was only a few fathoms behind. If he could squeeze into their formation, he might be able to pinch off the two rear skiffs in the next turn. Then it would only be him and David Harris. Unfortunately, just before they reached the next turn, one of David Harris’s partners bumped David and knocked him back again. He was in the middle of planning his next attack when he felt his skiff buck so hard that he thought he’d collided with the canyon wall. His head rattled inside his helmet as he slammed into the hard seat backing. He gasped and tried to regain his bearings, only to choke and cough as his lungs filled with an acrid taste of rotten eggs. He looked out his windscreen, but it had fogged over. He cut thrust on instinct—an instinct that told him flying at full throttle in an unknown direction was a bad idea. All at once, he felt himself give way to weightlessness. Then he figured it out.
He rubbed his windscreen and cleared just enough of the fog to realize he was half a grandfathom in the air. A geyser must have caught him from beneath and superheated his pontoons. His governor automatically shut off his burner, sending him into a free fall, the canyon floor approaching far sooner than he preferred. The same geyser blast caught one of David Harris’s companions—David couldn’t tell which—and his skiff floundered a few fathoms beside him in uncontrolled circles. The pilot’s governor would turn on before he smashed against the canyon floor, but if he didn’t get his glide under control, he might impact against one of the redstone walls. David looked around, trying to see over his pontoons at what lay beneath him. That was when he saw it: the end of the raceway. From this vantage point he could see the stands, the finish line, everything. Before the geyser had caught him, he was about to round a knob of the canyon, the last U-turn of the race. That was it, then; he’d lost. The Ike legend would end with him.
He sighed as he angled his skiff forward and toward the raceway. If he was lucky, he might still come in fourth, and that was worth something. But David paused, and without thinking he angled his skiff over the canyon knob rather than back down toward the raceway. If he could glide over the knob, he might have a chance at cutting in front of David Harris. He could still win this race.
David clenched his jaw and slammed down the throttle. It was going to be tight. If he could get enough forward thrust, his skiff would glide over the canyon wall, cut off the final turn of the race, and maybe, just maybe, pass in front of David Harris. If he couldn’t get enough forward thrust, well, David just hoped his mother was praying at that moment.
His skiff seemed to be moving forward at a painfully slow rate while falling at an excessive speed. As David glided over the canyon knob’s front edge, he checked his altimeter: A hundred fathoms. This would be very tight. As he passed over the knob’s midpoint, it read fifty fathoms. David squeezed the wheel and yelled as his skiff dove toward the raceway. As David crossed the canyon wall’s back edge, his altimeter read zero fathoms. He felt the bottom of his skiff scrape rock and vegetation before he plunged back into the canyon. He had made it—sort of. Hopefully the academy wouldn’t charge for the dent in the skiff’s hull.
David roared down the canyon wall at the same time that David Harris came around the last turn in the race. They were on a collision course. David opted for speed over elevation, pouring every bit of power into the thruster. After he got in front of David Harris, then he could work out the altitude discrepancy. David angled his skiff a little so that he could turn back onto the raceway before smashing into the canyon wall opposite him. David Harris appeared to be pushing his skiff for every bit of speed it had, but he couldn’t compete with good old-fashioned gravity. David left a trail of dust down the side of the canyon as he shot in front of David Harris and turned down the raceway toward the hill that led to the finish line. David Harris and his remaining cohort drafted him, but there simply wasn’t enough race left for tricks. David sped up the hill, then roared through the stands of onlookers and across the finish line.
The people thundered with delight. No doubt they’d witnessed his stunt of jumping the canyon wall. David coasted to a stop and released his grip on the controls. His hands ached. He leaned back in his ill-padded seat and took a long, slow breath of the acrid, still air. What had just happened? The people continued to cheer, loud enough to echo inside his helmet. He had a funny feeling—part shock, part disbelief, and part delight. He’d done it! He’d actually won! He could join with the Ike legend now, not just ride in its wake. He didn’t know what to do with himself. Should he shout in delight and run around his skiff, or just smile and take a bow? He’d never been in a situation like this before. In the end he just started laughing. He popped his canopy, climbed out of the skiff, and looked around at the cheering people and their smiling faces. It took him a moment to find the place where he had left his father and grandfather, as there were at least twenty thousand people present. But he saw them now, their arms raised and the faces beaming. His mother was with them. She looked … more relieved than ecstatic. David laughed and waved back.
As he watched, David Harris climbed out of his skiff, along with Jerome. Conroy followed a moment later after he’d coasted to a stop; his skiff listed and rattled something awful. They didn’t say anything as they walked by him toward the stage where the judges sat. It was then that David saw the smoke rising from the back of his own skiff. Evidently his little scrape had done more than just dent the hull. No matter—it was worth it. As he checked over the rest of his skiff, more contestants glided in and parked their skiffs behind his. A few congratulated him when they learned he’d won. A group of them hoisted David up on their shoulders. In time all the other cadets flew in and each pilot collected around the judge’s stage. The students holding David on their shoulders tossed him up onto the stage. He was red from his nose to his toes. For once, he was thankful for the flight suit. The academy’s commander, Commandant Cripton, motioned the crowd to silence, and David shuffled over to where David Harris and his cronies stood. Why Conroy was there, David didn’t know, as he had taken fourth place and wouldn’t receive any special accommodation. They were just then talking with the judges, but before David was close enough to hear what they were saying, Commandant Cripton started speaking:
“Congratulations, cadets. You have finished a challenging course, and finishing this race is an accomplishment in and of itself.” He allowed the crowd to cheer again before he continued, “Skiff racing is the pride of Alönian culture. We are unique in the Fertile Plains for requiring all military airship officers to first pilot a skiff before receiving any kind of command in a man-of-war. The skiff races are a way for our cadets to prove themselves, and participating in a skiff race is required to graduate from our military academy. The majority of the racers here today are seniors, and this race signifies for many of them the first step toward graduating this cycle.”
The crowd cheered again as the commandant paused. David heard one or two enthusiastic families yell embarrassing things to their blushing sons.
“Now,” the commandant said as he turned toward David and the other frontrunners. “On top of race completion certificates, we also hand out special accommodation for those pilots who place first, second, and third.”
The crowd interrupted with another outburst of delight.
“Yes, yes,” Cripton said, “I understand we are all very excited. However, before I issue those awards, I’m afraid that I must deal with some rather unpleasant business. C
adet David Ike. Not David Harris Ike—just David Ike.”
David stepped up to the commandant and stood at attention. He did his best not to smile, as he supposed he was about to be the object of some practical joke. Another fun thing about being the youngest cadet in history and the son of a legendary family was the endless hazing he had to deal with, but it was all in good fun.
“Mr. Ike,” Cripton went on, “while you did arrive in first place, you only did so by cheating. You cut off the final turn of the race by riding a geyser over the canyon wall. You may, if you choose, receive an academy skiff race completion certificate, but only if you take your skiff back and complete the final turn of the course.” The commandant looked past David and continued with hardly a nod. “For that reason Cadet David Harris Ike will receive first place, Cadet Jerome Whitely will receive second place, and Cadet Conroy Franklyn will receive third place. My congratulations to each of you; it is a fine achievement.”
David stood for a moment in the center of the stage waiting for the commandant to turn around and wink, or laugh, or slap him on the back, or something, but he didn’t. It was when the commandant started handing out the awards and David found himself in the way of the pictures that he realized it was not a practical joke. Cripton had been serious.
The audience didn’t seem to care one way of the other. They cheered just as hard for David Harris as they had for him, except now the sound gave David the chills. Each whistle made him jump, and all the pairs of eyes gazing at the stage made him want to run and hide. He did his best to slip off the stage, escaping with only one snort from David Harris. He picked his way through the other cadets, unable to look any of them in the eyes. Luckily he still had his helmet on, so he didn’t have to. As he reached the back of the crowd, he went to the only place he could think of: his skiff. Once there, he leaned against the pontoon and took deep, soothing breaths.
David might have been the youngest cadet in history, but fourteen was still far too old for tears. He grunted and cleared his throat and started looking over his skiff by habit. There was a slimy residue smeared across the bottom of his pontoons, the same sludge smelling of rotten eggs. When he bent to look at the burner, wondering if that was where the smoke wafted from, he felt a firm grip on his shoulder. He knew the grip in an instant. It was his father.
Before the race he couldn’t look at the man because he was afraid to show his nervousness. Now he didn’t want to turn around for fear he might show his distress.
“David? Are you okay?”
“Um … yeah, I’m fine. That last geyser shook me up, but I’m okay.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
David closed his eyes and sighed. He turned and looked up at his father. He saw the same compassionate man he’d seen at the beginning of the race. Everything was the same, save the fire behind his eyes, the fire of a father concealing righteous anger.
David took off his helmet and let his head slump against his father’s chest.
“Why did he do that, Father? He called me a cheater in front of everyone. I … I was just making the best out of the geyser. I didn’t mean … I didn’t know that it was cheating. I … I’m sorry. I’m sorry I embarrassed you and Grandfather.”
“You did nothing of the sort! You didn’t cheat, and you didn’t lose. That was some of the best skiff flying I’ve ever seen. This … This has to do with something else.”
David rubbed his eyes and frowned at his father. “Something else? But I lost.”
“You used the circumstances you were given and made the best of them. You used the terrain to your advantage, as any good airman should. Look, David, there are two things that come with a famous heritage. Sure, you get instant recognition, easy popularity, and sometimes the things you work for will come just a little bit quicker. But there are downsides too. People will hate you just as easily as they’ll love you. They want to see you fail just as much as they want you to succeed. Your friends will never be anything more than shallow, yet your enemies will always be malicious. Things have happened recently. Your grandfather and I took steps that many in the armada disapprove of. For that reason we are seeing some backlash. I just never imagined they would stoop as low as to attack my son. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
“I think so,” David said as he wiped his face and started peeling off his flight suit. He wore his academy uniform beneath. “A lot of the things that come my way, whether good or bad, will be because of who I am, not what I’ve done.”
His father nodded. “Some, but not all. You found a place in this academy through a blind application. Neither your grandfather nor I had anything to do with it. But, yes, because of what your grandfather and I are doing in the Houselands, your name and heritage will probably start to bring you more problems than opportunities.”
“What are you and Grandfather up to?”
David’s father smiled. “Something during my last tour, but don’t you worry about that. You get through this academy, and then we can talk military politics.”
David realized that his mother and grandfather were standing behind them. He dropped his flight suit on his skiff and gave them a half smile. His mother looked miffed—probably something to do with the smoke coming out of the back of his skiff. His grandfather leaned on his cane, a smile beneath his bristling white mustache.
“Well, we might as well get a picture of the three of you in your uniforms while you’re all still living,” David’s mother said with a huff as she lifted the insta-camera that David’s father had bought her for her last birthday. “If David pulls any more stunts like that, it will be a miracle if he outlives Grandfather.”
David smiled as he walked over with his father to pose beside his grandfather.
As they walked, his father said, “Yes, and after this we will wait here while David takes his skiff down to finish that last turn.”
David scowled. “I’d rather kiss the commandant’s boots.”
His father snorted and smacked him across the back of the head. “Don’t be a cur. I didn’t tell you the things I did so you could hold a grudge. You will finish the race, and you will collect your skiff race competition certificate.”
David nodded sheepishly and posed next to his grandfather.
“Yes,” his grandfather said. “Do collect that certificate.” But as David’s mother lifted the camera and told them all to smile, he added under his breath, “So I can shove it up the commandant’s ass.”
It was an excellent photograph—three brilliant smiles.
SNOOPING
This was perhaps the most stupid thing he had ever done, and that was saying a lot. David pondered his current predicament as he leaned against a stone wall in Speaker Walker’s courtyard, straining to hear a whispered conversation. If he got caught spying on the speaker, he could kiss any future in politics good-bye. Why did he put himself in these situations?
It had been a few weeks since the Prowler attack, and David had adopted a more aggressive method of gathering information: espionage. In reality he was really just snooping around, but espionage sounded so much more important. The airship transportation facility was mere days from completion, as well as Public Pharmaceuticals—and the census still loomed. There was no way the enemy would give up so soon. David arranged with Ella to look after his mother for a few nights while he went on a business trip. At least that’s what he’d told her.
The Prowler attack had escalated events. David needed answers, and he needed them soon. So he’d come up with a brilliant and also idiotic plan. He made a list of all the individuals who either had ties to the speaker or who David suspected of political foul play. It was a short list of four names, as most of the people he suspected had done nothing more than give him a sour look. The list might have contained all thirteen remaining Pragmatics, but time was short and most of them ran farming, logging, or fishing districts, all of little threat. However, the four names that made the list were all high-profile political officials. Speaker Walke
r was chief among the suspects, along with two of his closest allies: Representative Donald Evanson of House Thornton’s First and Andrew J. Bolten of Stone’s Third. They all stood the most to lose if Blythe succeeded in his bid for the speakership. Each of them had built their futures around a Pragmatic speakership. Losing it would mean financial and political devastation. The last person on the list was a wild card: Representative Herald of House Livingston, Mercy’s former boss. Before Blythe, Herald had been the frontrunner for the Equalist party. However unlikely it was, Blythe had demolished Herald’s bid for power. The chances of him holding a grudge were enough for David to add him to the list.
For the past three days David had dressed as a beggar—something he’d had quite a bit of practice doing over the past few cycles—and spent one night waiting outside each representative’s home: Evanson, Bolten, and Herald, respectively. David didn’t know why he did it, as there was slim chance his spying on these men’s homes would produce any real information. Perhaps he just wanted to see them in their element, see them in a place where they weren’t wearing the political mask. Perhaps he was getting desperate and losing his touch.
Evanson and Bolten had both been a complete waste of sleep. Each man kept a modest yet comfortable home on the outskirts of Capital City while the Assembly remained in session. Both had families, and both spent the entire evening with their family. The only thing it revealed to David was his own longing for a family and the hope that he might have one again someday—not the most productive credentials for espionage.