Falling Sky Page 2

  I grit my teeth. Step forward. “Well this ‘some’ would have to be particularly fucking naive. I’ve been hired to protect you people. Sometimes that involves shooting down the Feral about to bite your throat out.”

  I’m somewhat impressed when he stands his ground. But that only makes me want to hit him all the more.

  “You’re right,” he says. “Your breed is necessary for the time being. But there will come a time when you won’t be. When we find the cure, what will you do then?”

  I laugh. “Go away, Clay. I’m tired of looking at you.”

  Clay shrugs in a way that’s entitled and snide. “Be seeing you,” he says.

  I head for the Cherub wanting nothing more than to be aboard my ship, in the air where I belong. As I’m all too often reminded, the ground is full of ugliness.

  Clay joined the group only a few months ago, another scientist moth attracted to the flame of the Cure. He’s into the same things Miranda is—virology, cell biology, biochemistry. They have similar backgrounds, the children of scientists. And Clay is a believer. He holds on to the idea of a cure the same way a preacher holds on to God. Only, as he’d no doubt tell you in that sanctimonious drone of his, he’s a rational man. A man of Science. Thing is, he still believes in a fairy tale.

  I rummage in the Cherub’s storeroom and come up with a bottle of moonshine that some of the boffins distilled for some celebration. Louis Pasteur’s birthday or something. I take a swig. It’s harsh and it burns as it goes down, but it’s warming and I can feel the alcohol spreading out in my system, helping to blot out the anger and frustration.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  It’s a question I’ve been asking myself ever since accepting Miranda’s offer.

  Then I think of Gastown and the way it was overrun, and I think having something to look after, something to protect, can help save a man. The Core has clean water, clean food, and fuel. And they make enough for me to barter for ammo. My needs are met, and all I have to do in return is risk my life down on the ground from time to time, risking exposure to the Bug.

  Fuck.

  I take another swig of the moonshine and settle down against the console.

  We are all Life’s bitches, until Death steals us away.

  Miranda’s knock on the gondola hatch wakes me from the light slumber I fell into. I wipe my mouth and go over to open it. I always know when it’s her—she always uses the same pattern of knocking. When you’re a forager, out on your own, you learn to pay attention to sounds.

  She climbs up into the gondola and falls back into one of the chairs. She sniffs. “Drinking?”

  “Just a little nightcap.”

  She nods, as if she understands. “Have any left?”

  I raise my eyebrows and reach for the bottle, pass it to her.

  She takes a big swig from it but swallows it down easily, a slight flush of her light-brown skin the only reaction. “We need to go out again,” she says.

  “What?”

  “We need to go back. To the last location.”

  I reach for the canteen of filtered water and take a gulp. “Why?”

  She pushes back the wavy brown hair from her face. “Because I need to find that Feral. The one I drew the blood from.” She looks at my face. “There’s something in it.”

  “Yes. It’s called the Bug.”

  “Something else.”

  My eyes narrow. “What kind of something else?”

  She takes another slug from the bottle. “I’m not really sure. A mutation maybe? But the virus seems to react differently in him, and I need more plasma to look at. I need to maybe do a physical examination. It’s by no means sure, but this specimen could exponentially increase our knowledge of the virus and help us find a cure.”

  I rub my hands over my face willing her not to say it.

  “Ben. . . ”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “We need to capture it. Alive.”

  I shake my head; I can’t stop myself. Craziness. I keep telling myself she’s really not all that fucked in the head, and then she opens her mouth and—

  “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Ben—”

  “No.” I start pacing. “No. I thought you were crazy when you wanted to transport blood. And you are. And yet I found a way to accept that. To deal with it. But now you want to capture a Feral, knock it out, and what—bring it on my ship? No. No way. Not ever.”

  “Ben, you know this is important.”

  “Why? Because you say it is? Because you believe that you’ll find a cure? I once knew a woman who believed the Bug was God’s judgment, and that one day he would rescue those who were pure from this hellhole of a life. What’s to say that your belief is any better than hers?”

  “C’mon Ben—”

  “No. Fucking no. You. Jesus. You hired me to protect you. To keep you and the others safe during all of this. Well, I can tell you that dealing with a live Feral is not. Fucking. Safe. Especially if you’re thinking of. Goddamnit. Thinking of poking it with needles and getting all up close to it. You know how it is. One drop. And that’s not even considering what happens if the sedative wears off prematurely. Or if he manages to escape and run wild in the Core. Goddamnit, Miranda.”

  Miranda stares at me. Silent. Then says, “Are you done?”

  “I just might be.” It takes a moment for what I’m saying, what I’m really saying, to sink in.

  She shakes her head. “You confound me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ll risk your life for trinkets—for scissors and hubcaps—but something real. . . ”

  My face flushes with heat. “I risk my life so that I can prolong it. I risk it for food. Or I risk it for things I can barter for food. You find me a magical machine that spits out good food on a regular basis and I’ll hole up there until my old age. Until then, I aim to keep on living. What you’re talking about reeks of going in the opposite direction.”

  “What I’m talking about is the long view, Ben. What happens when the food runs out? When your sources of barter dry up? If we find a cure—”

  “That’s a big fucking if, Miranda. And in the meantime, people are going to die. People are going to be infected. And then more. And then more. And I’m not sticking around to have it happen to me.”

  She leans forward. “There are risks, yes. But what we’re trying for . . . it’s worth it. Don’t you want to help save the world? Isn’t that worth putting your neck out for?”

  “Not if I lose my head,” I say.

  She shakes her head again. “You’re a selfish coward.”

  The words sting more than I thought they would. “Fuck you, Miranda. Get off my ship.”

  “Ben—”

  “Now!”

  Her scowl breaks for a moment and I see that she’s hurt. And for a fraction of that moment, just a tiny little space, I want to reach out to her and tell her I’m sorry. But I don’t, and she hardens up again. A little part of me is proud at that.

  She doesn’t say anything as she lowers herself to the ladder. And for that I’m grateful.

  I finish the rest of the bottle after she goes.

  I wake up the next day with a steady pounding in my head and a taste in my mouth like a Feral’s ass. The bottle of moonshine is lying on its side next to me, a small, clear puddle around it. And of course today is the day I am leaving. I came to that conclusion last night some time before getting stinking drunk. Miranda’s not going to change her mind this time—I know her too well.

  Neither am I.

  So I have no choice but to leave. Though there’s still time before I need to. Time for something to eat. And water.

  That’s one of the other big things about the Core that makes it valuable. They built a filtration system that produces fresh water. There’s a collection of vats that take dew and rainwater from the air, but then there’s also the stuff they take from the ground. It’s boiled first. Because of the Bug. It still makes me nervous, but th
ere’s not one person around who doesn’t get used to boiling water if they want to survive. I just take it as truth that boiling kills the Bug.

  But the stuff at the Core is some of the best I’ve had. Maybe even as good as the stuff they used to bottle back in the Clean.

  So I pull myself up and pull myself together. I know I look like shit, but what else is new. I think about maybe even grabbing a shower before I go, or what passes for one here—a bucket and some clean water. But they have this stuff that cleans you up real good and that’s also something worth taking advantage of before I take off.

  I descend the ladder, wincing at the sun as it stabs into my eyes, but my stomach feels okay, which is good because I’ve flown before while puking into a bucket and it’s not something I feel like repeating.

  I take a while to clean myself up, brush my teeth (yes, they have that, too), shower, nibble on some dried meat and cheese. After I’m done I feel much more human.

  Miranda is nowhere to be found.

  Before I head back to the Cherub, I stop to see Sergei. He nods at me. I feel like there’s already more white in his beard than when I met him. People age quickly in the Sick.

  “Miranda said you might be leaving,” he said.

  I guess Miranda knows me better than I thought. “Well, tell me you expected me to stay this long.”

  He shrugs. Then extends his hand. “Thanks for all your help.”

  I take it. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about this plan.” He raises his eyebrows. “I think what you need to do is build a cage. Then stash it in the cargo bay. You could even cover it with old screening material. It would help hold back anything it might fling at you while letting it breathe.”

  He nods. “That could work. We could rig something up fairly easily.”

  I nod back. “If I could figure out a way to hang it from the ship and still keep the thing alive, I’d tell you to do that. But I know that’s not going to fly with Miranda. Just keep your eyes open and stay sharp. Stay alert for any raiders. You know things have been messy since they took Gastown. Make sure you take enough ammo with you. Best to just grab this Feral, wrap it up, and haul ass back here.”

  “Okay,” he says. “We’ll be able to handle it.”

  I nod again and start to walk away. Then turn back. “And watch that starboard engine. It’s been a little shaky, I noticed. Make sure you keep an eye on it.”

  “Okay, Ben,” he says. “Good luck.”

  “Same to you, Sergei.” I mean it, too. Sergei’s stiff, but he’s a good guy.

  I start wandering through the Core before I realize I’m doing it. Then I realize I’m looking for Miranda. No, I tell myself. Not a good idea.

  On my way back to the ship, my pockets full of the Core’s food—I mean, I have been working for them—I run into Clay again. He cocks his head at me, which just makes me want to punch him. I resist the urge. But only barely.

  “So you couldn’t hack it,” he says, a smirk on his face. And my willpower slips just a bit more. “Well, I can’t say that it’s a surprise.”

  “Move out of my way,” I say.

  “We’re going to do it, you know. We’re going to change the world. While you’re picking among the scraps of the old world, we’re going to create a new one.”

  I think of about thirty things I could say to him, about ten ways I could hurt him. But in the end, I just push past him on the way back to my ship.

  “Don’t worry,” he says at my back. “I’ll look after Miranda.”

  I stop for just a split-second, then curse myself for it. But I force myself not to turn around. Then I continue walking.

  All I want is to be in the air. To be in the air and fly away.

  So that’s exactly what I do.

  I have to admit as I fly the Cherub away that she’s handling better than she has in years. Sergei and some of his friends were good mechanics. I’m going to miss having their input. Their tools. Their skills.

  Shut up, Ben. That’s all done.

  I scan the horizon from the gondola, then flip on the sound system, an old phonograph Dad installed even before I came along. Records are hard to come by these days. Especially when back in the Clean they’d moved on to anything digital. But Dad used to say that records couldn’t fail. And every so often you’d come across a stash in an old house or a store, and from time to time you’d find them at trader stands. We’d lost a lot among the years—from too many scratches or just plain breaking, but there was still a decent stack left on the Cherub. I put on George Harrison, one of my old-time favorites, and rock gently to the music as I fly the Cherub across the sky.

  Truth be told, it feels a little weird to be on my own again. Despite so many years of being alone, it seemed like the last six months had a greater gravity to them, more momentum. It feels weird knowing that I don’t have a place to go back to. Even though the Cherub was always my home.

  On the other hand, it means freedom. I can go where I want, do what I want. Beholden to no one.

  Foraging is my life. I’m good at it. I’d stayed alive this long, hadn’t I?

  I think I might fly down over Southern California, near the coast. The heat would be nice, and the water. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve had a swim in the ocean. That’s one nice thing about the ocean—no Ferals. They live near the coast sometimes, but they don’t swim. At least not out too far. And the Bug can’t live in saltwater. That makes the ocean feel safe. Of course last time I took a splash I couldn’t stop thinking about what was swimming beneath me. Unseen creatures in the dark. Probably harmless, but then again, maybe not. I figured they were happy about the Bug. It meant a lot less of them dying. It meant a change in the ecosystem. And many would say a change for the better.

  But still. The Bug.

  Harrison chugs on in the background telling me all things must pass.

  I think about Miranda and Sergei and the others. I try not to think about Clay. I think about how their little house, the Core, might as well be made of twigs and branches. I think about how just one wrong move, bringing in a Feral, for example, could topple it.

  I think about all that food. All that clean water. All that potential. Wasted. It makes me angry. So I stop. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about all of them.

  I reach for what’s left in the moonshine bottle and slug it back.

  I’m resting my head against the console, the moonshine carving out a nice warm hole inside of me, when I hear the shots.

  Despite the alcohol, my body is hardwired to react to that sound, and I’m up in an instant, running to the window at the front of the gondola, then to those at the sides. Cameras rigged beneath me show me what’s happening. Another dirigible, coming in at me from the port side, to the southeast. Green envelope with silver trim. Medium sized, rigged for cargo but still pretty fast. But why are they firing at me? And why from that distance? They have to know that the shots won’t do anything. And it’s not like ammo grows on trees.

  Then I see the second airship coming down from above. That’s the one that’s firing. On the other.

  I’m ready to push off, to fly the Cherub as fast as I can away from these two airships and whatever quarrel they have between them. Then I see that the aggressor is flying the flag of Gastown. The new flag.

  My hand pauses.

  Gastown. It was a city, built in the sky. A city made up of dozens of airships and balloons all lashed together, with platforms suspended beneath. A city where people lived and worked. A city where they made helium. But Gastown was more than that. It was progress. It was hope. It was a place that created its own economy. It was a place where a forager like me could barter things I found for things I needed.

  Which is not to say that I liked the place. They charged a fucking ridiculous tax just to dock there. And they strong-armed people into working for them. If you wanted to stay independent, like me, you got cheated. Fewer jobs. Less payment for what you brought in. It was theirs to do, of course, but it wasn’t wh
at I was looking for in the city of the future.

  Only it didn’t last that long.

  That helium was too valuable a commodity. And the skycity of Valhalla, off to the east, didn’t have any. And they wanted it. Man, did they want it. So they took it.

  But the way they took it . . .

  Valhalla got a bunch of their ships and attached hooks to the bottoms of them. Then they went fishing. For Ferals. Each of them hooked a Feral the way you might hook a fish and then dropped those dying, bleeding Ferals on a city full of people.

  In a world where you learn that being in the air is safe, no one was prepared for that. It caused widespread chaos. Fear. Panic. Everyone tried to run for safety. Back to their ships, if they had them. Probably to others’ if they could steal them. It was like the outbreak of the Bug all over again. People ran. For their ships, for shelter, for their loved ones. And as they did, the Valhalla raiders flew in and fired on them.

  In the end, it was so easy for them. Those who didn’t leave were picked off by the raiders. Then it just took a little while for them to wait out the Ferals and to clean off the city. By then who was left to take it back?

  I know all of this because I was there. And yes, I ran when I saw those Ferals. I got Miranda and Sergei off with me. And I don’t feel bad about it. There was nothing I could do except die. And if you couldn’t guess already, I don’t aim to do that.

  So here is a ship flying the flag of Gastown, which is essentially the flag of Valhalla, and with all that’s going on, well, it just pisses me the fuck off.

  So rather than turn around, I go toward them.

  Which is something of a problem because I don’t have any weapons on the Cherub. And this ship I’m heading toward does. But it’s distracted. And I have a one-track mind.

  I raise the Cherub so that she’s above the enemy ship, which will protect me from its side-mounted weapons. Then I maneuver myself so that I’m going to pass right over it.

  It’s true the Cherub doesn’t have any weapons—no mounted guns, no harpoons, no rams. Dad never went in for any of those, and I don’t either. She’s a fast airship and that’s usually enough. But I’m not strictly defenseless.