by Cally Black
Lucky for me, the toilets on Six have wet walls and my screwdriver was snug in my boot. First toilet stop, I was gone.
‘If you make me check this place from top to bottom, I’m just gonna be mad as hell by the time I catch you,’ McVeigh yells. ‘And I’ll catch you, even if I have to call half the crew in here.’
True. I need to climb back up to the vent, and McVeigh waits between me and the stack of boxes next to it. If he calls anyone else in here, I’ll be snagged.
‘Come out, you little ship-rat!’ His voice has an edge now.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers. I should’ve checked where he was. With Gub late to sleep, McVeigh had to be around. I’m too keen for the shakes. Too keen to be taller, to pass for sixteen, to prove I’m good as any of them, not some thieving, hiding rat like McVeigh thinks.
The vents are just too high, never mind the extra boost I’m gonna get from low grav. It don’t matter that I can take giant strides if I can’t jump high as a vent and get away.
‘I hear you can’t speak,’ McVeigh says, his voice creepy.
He’s real mean, McVeigh. I seen him blow up over nothing. I wanna say that I’ll tell if he touches me. But that won’t get me nowhere.
If they catch me again, it’s better they think I’m some kinda mute. They’ll give up yelling at me sooner.
I’m never gonna get no prize for talking anyway. I mean, how loud’s a voice even supposed to be? Aunt Lazella tried settling us on Dios when Gub was born. She had a food stall and sent me to get supplies while she cooked. But when I spoke, the other traders negged on me. ‘Speak up!’ they yelled, hard as. They wouldn’t give good prices. We took the next freighter off Dios.
‘Thank the universe for Starweaver Shipping,’ Aunt Lazella said when she got the job on Starweaver Layla. I just screwed up my face at going back to living quiet as, in a cabin just bigger than a coffin, but Lazella kissed my cheek and said, ‘Shush. Just looking for my rainbow, kid, cos I already got my stars.’ Then she kissed our little star, baby Gub, as well.
Yeah, so thanks, universe, for Starweaver’s shit-arse cold tiny cabins and shit-arse pay and no-workers’-kids rule. It’s something in a world of shit-arse nothing.
I wiggle a can of beans from its wrap, quiet as, and heft it high, so it bounces down a pile of boxes. McVeigh stomps off towards it and I slide around another box, getting a bit closer, another can in my hand. I heft that can hard at the ceiling so it clunks and bounces. The noise draws McVeigh’s eyes up and I slip out of veggies and over to the stacks of bulk bags. I have to move now, cos McVeigh knows where cans of beans are kept.
He storms through veggies, his hook swiping and him groaning like an idiot. If I was in the vents right now I’d be holding my belly, silent laughing, but the old arse’s not letting go of guarding that box stack that I need a head start to. We’ll be circling down here forever, and I gotta get back to Gub before he wakes.
‘I can do this all day!’ McVeigh yells, like he’s reading my mind.
Can I find the words to talk him round? Trick him to moving? But that’s not a thing I can do.
After a whole life of hiding, whispering, my words belong only to me and Gub, until at night when Lazella comes back to our cabin. She whispers back a while, then tells me to stop and let her rest. She opens the humidicrib to kiss sleeping Tamiki goodnight and slides into bed beside me and looks down at me with dark pools for eyes, and I see myself reflected in that soft darkness. And what I see there is love, and there’s no words, nowhere, for a look like that anyway. She holds my head to her chest, plants kisses in my palm like I’m a little Gub too, and I listen to her heart with one ear and listen to the screen with the other and too soon she’s asleep and my words are trapped again. Just me and quiet mumbling movies I’ve seen over and over. Me, movies, and Lazella’s beating heart. Two hearts side by side, beating together.
My heart’s a long way from sleepy-beating right now. It’s going fast to get me out of this fix. I pull out a box of pancake mix and throw it high as, so it hits a stack of boxes in the centre of the storeroom, explodes in a puff of white. I take off and launch up to the overhead runner ahead of me. I hit the runner hook hard with both hands, latch on and set it rolling flat out across the storeroom. My plan is to drop off and run for my stack of boxes if McVeigh takes the bait, but he’s not moving from his guard point and turns in time to see me rolling by high up.
McVeigh’s face, goggle-eyed like a goose as I shoot by, makes me snort. Got my own ja’im: sneaky, fast, uncatchable. ’Cept for that one time.
I yank up my legs as he waves the pole at me. Then I drop back in among the racks and stacks, listen to his boots thud and him curse and swear about wastage. I’m sad for the pancake mix too. Hardly ever get pancake leftovers.
There’s noises from the next level in, Level Two.
The ship shudders. A massive boom thumps above, like something just exploded.
I pop my head up.
McVeigh is facing the door that sits at the top of the ramp up to Stores Two. ‘Tāmāde! What now?’ he grumbles, runs his hand through the grey stubble on his scalp and hurries towards the ramp.
I run, hit an overhead hook, lift my legs and whirr behind McVeigh, who twists back and slides to a stop. I swing, leap and bolt away, heading across the storeroom, towards the stack of boxes. My hand-me-down boots scuff and slap on the floor.
‘Hey!’ McVeigh shouts. His boots thud after me. Slow and regular.
He’s faster at moving in low-grav than I thought, old arse. Weight and muscle make his legs take way bigger steps. I bet he’s got himself a cabin on Five, so this gravity is easy as for him.
I leap up to the first crate. Something smacks my boot.
‘You little shit!’ he yells. The hook punches the box beside my next step, tearing a hole as he drags the pole back. Packets tumble out.
I’m up the second crate. The hook grazes my ankle, catches the top of my short boot, rips that foot out from under me. I smack down on the crates, latch on. If he hauls at me, I’ll pull this crate down on both of us, I don’t care.
I pull my foot free from my boot, still on the hook, and scramble up another crate.
Another boom rocks the ship, shudders the crates under me something bad, and McVeigh swears, ‘Tāmāde!’ He gives up on me and runs towards the ramp to the door.
A strange blam, blam sound starts up above. I don’t know what. Something mechanical gone weird, maybe.
I’m up the stack and into the vent just as the door above McVeigh slides open. Shouting, and a crazy whistling, join the hammering noise. Sirens too. Safe in the shadows of the vent, I twist back to see.
And through the open door, black legs start down the ramp.
AIN'T NOTHING SO ALIEN AS THE LIKES OF US
The legs are impossibly long and thin, wearing tall black boots. Something glints off the toes, and whoever it is has a leathery cape and is carrying a massive weapon. McVeigh backs off. The stranger keeps coming, long-legged stretches of shiny black uniform kicking down the ramp. And it’s not a person. Facing McVeigh is this tall half-crow, half-scarecrow thing, all dressed in black. Shiny black armoured ridges line down the centre of its chest and across its shoulders like the back of a crocodile. Its head is a massive beaked helmet. And it’s not a leathery cape, cos it’s moving by itself. They’re wings. Wings that lift high and quiver.
What movie character is this? What kind of joke are the storemen playing on old McVeigh? But no, McVeigh’s rag-bag face is pale, twisted, lips pulled back.
My scalp prickles. Not right. This is not right. This is a real thing!
The tall half-crow thing fires the weapon. Blam! Like the sound of a fridge door slamming down in my aunt’s kitchen, ten times louder, loud enough to hurt my ears, but a sound that’s soft at the edges, like the seals on the fridge door muffling the slam. The sound hits McVeigh, lifts him off the floor. As he lifts, he changes shape, bends in the middle, like he’s snapped, and he glides down the r
amp and across the storeroom, away from that Crowman. McVeigh hits the floor and skids, face buried in his knees, each half of his body barely connected. A puff of something red ahead of him. A spray. Both halves slide, leaving a dark trail.
I blink into the dark vent to unsee that mess. I can’t believe it, but I can’t look again. I stare at the vent, following the shape of the struts that hold it square, seeing how the light slices in through the next vent cover, seeing patches of rust, like my vision is suddenly narrow, like looking through a pipe. My world is just me sucking for air and the rust spots and a pounding in my head. Panic smacks my body and sets me crawling away from whatever that was. Did it look up? Did it see me?
Aunt Lazella would’ve told me if things like strange Crowpeople existed. She would’ve warned me. But she always says, when I’m worried about movies, ‘Ain’t no aliens out here, doan worry. Ain’t nuthin’ so alien as a human the likes of us, anyway.’
Lazella! She won’t run out to Level Six where it’ll be safe behind blast doors. She’ll be coming for me and Gub. She’ll be heading in towards these things instead of out, soon as she hears the sirens. I have to get back to Gub. I have to get back to Lazella and my Gub!
KILLER WAVE
I take the vent above the corridor connecting all the Stores areas. I have to crawl so far round the curve, map laid out in my head, before I go out one level, back to the cabin, back to Gub.
I scramble, thumping knees on struts, knocking my head, scraping skin off the toes on my bootless foot, clumsy in panic. There’s other thumping going on against the floor above my head. I don’t think what. I don’t want to.
Shooting, shouting, whistling and the strange blam, blam of weapons overtake me below. I freeze and lie low near a vent opening. I can’t risk the noise of moving. I should back up from the vent but it’s too late. They’re here. I close my eyes, tell myself it’s launch day noise, that’s all it is. Hustle bustle, boots tromping, loading gear and food and last-minute cargo, people shouting cos launch time’s coming, that’s all.
A scream. Blam! My eyes wide open.
So many Crowpeople. There’s an army of these things! So thin, so tall their black helmets will scrape against the vent. So tall maybe their shiny pale eyes’ll glance up through the grille and see my dark irises staring right back at them, popped out so round they have rings of glowing white.
I lie still, mouth-breathing small breaths, as Crowpeople swarm out of a Stores area just below me. Dark velvety wings flex and hunch above their helmets as they twist their weapons from side to side, gripped tight by claws. Talons flash on the end of tall battle boots with every long-kicking step.
The creatures blast through the doors of the corridor below me like they’re made of glass. Freighter crew yell and run, slammed back by the weapons as if they’re soggy cardboard. The crew pucker and fall. Istanbul slams into a wall below my vent, tool belt clunking, sliding down, limp, blood smearing tattoos, flesh, bone, like the meat packed all around me and Gub when we were smuggled on board.
I shove my hand over my mouth. All I’ve ever done is hide from the crew, run from them, but I know their names, their stories. They don’t deserve this.
One big Crow-thing brings up the rear of the group. It must be the boss. It has a scar under one bulging eye, pale and jagged on its dark face. The scar flashes pink in the shadow of a sleek black helmet that stretches down the long nose, a bent point on an upside-down teardrop.
The others, they shove one arm forwards when they talk to the boss and drop their heads so their leathery wings flutter over their beaky noses. It’s a salute, maybe.
Their wings hover over their long noses like veils. ‘Tootoopne!’ they whistle at the same time. Maybe that’s the boss’s name.
Everywhere he goes, other Crow-things dip their heads and snap their wings up and whistle, ‘Tootoopne!’ and ‘Tootoopne!’ They report back to the boss, all tweets and whistles. The boss is coordinating everything in that long domed head.
I’ve seen veiled people on screen, I’ve seen crows, I’ve seen bats, I’ve seen strange creatures in horror movies, but I’ve never seen anything like these stretched-out freaks.
These creatures have hands halfway along their wings. Maybe like a bat would. Just three hook fingers with claws on the tips, enough to grab those weapons good as any human’s hands. Their wings stretch almost to their ankles, and they’re dark, like plush brown fabric. Eye sockets start at the front of their helmets but stretch way back, almost on the sides of their heads. I can’t see what they really look like under those helmets except for their pale eyes. Their weapons are black, shiny and streamlined like their helmets.
The Crowpeople surge forward like a team, an army squad maybe, whistling and answering, and that one called Tootoopne just strides along like he’s surfing a killer wave.
When they pass and it’s quiet, I scramble on the same way as before. My Gub. My sweet Tamiki. Is he startled awake from the sirens and banging? Is he moaning in his humidicrib already, round eyes full of tears looking for me through the plastic lid? Or is Lazella already there, negging on me for leaving?
I reach the wet-wall and take a plumbing tube out, clammy hands around cold pipes, till I’m back to our cabin’s access hatch, slipping onto our bathroom floor, next to the stinky steel toilet. I take a deep breath, almost too scared to crack the door to the cabin.
I been gone too long.
SHE'S ALL WE HAVE
Gub lies sleeping in his humidicrib like the level above our heads isn’t being smashed to bits, like the siren’s not screaming panic in the corridor outside. Lying sleeping like a perfect safe thing.
‘Gubby,’ I breathe, step in and lay my hand on the crib. But no Lazella.
Now what? Wait for Lazella? Take Gub to the kitchens one level out? Get all the way out to Level Six and the blast doors? I have no idea what to do, but I have to do something!
Blamming starts up outside in the corridor. The siren shuts off. Boots stomping, stopping, then a blam, and chunks of metal falling, clattering. The cabin doors! One door, two doors, and I’m pulling sleepy Gub to my chest. Blam! Three doors, and I’m pulling the bathroom door shut, locking it. Like that’ll work? Blam! Four doors. We’re the fifth. Gub’s moaning, waking. ‘Shh, baby!’ Put him on the floor, climb into the wet-wall, find footing, pull him in after me. Blam! Five doors. Chunks of cabin door ping and dent the bathroom door. Wrap Gub’s arms around my neck, his legs around my hips. Whisper, ‘Wake up, Gub, cling on!’
Grip the pipes, slide! Chunks of metal clatter through the wet-wall opening, patter down on my head and shoulders hunched over little Gub. I pull us into a sideways vent and wrap myself around him, breathing soft and normal as I can into his ear, ‘Shush now.’ Never mind I’m sweating and shaking so much there’s no normal about me.
Boots crunch on metal chunks above us, rattling, grinding, then the boots crunch away.
Blam! The next cabin. Chunks of metal clatter. Boots thump on, blamming and clattering their way down the rest of the corridor, taking out cabin doors. Screams as they find a shift worker, too tired maybe to mind the siren. I slide my hands over Gub’s ears. He pulls away to look at me, and I smile and nod and hope that he can see my white teeth bobbing in the dark saying this is a game, but not the whites of my round eyes that can’t say nothing but panic.
‘Tootoopne!’ the Crows whistle back to the boss with the scar. The cabins in our section fall silent. I slide my hands down from Gub’s ears and rub his back, hold him tight as. Our hearts, side by side, beating together. Beating fast.
The kitchens are out a level, and out past them again is Level Six. I have to get to the kitchens, make sure my aunt got out, and there’s nowhere I can leave Gub safe.
‘Monkey Miki,’ I whisper in his ear, and he wraps around my middle tight as, never mind that we never played monkey anywhere but the cabin before.
I get back to the damp pipes and mama-monkey out to a services cupboard where shut-off valves sit with
buckets and mops. I do the monkey, ‘Ooh, ooh,’ whisper into Gub’s ear to make him puff out a little giggle, never mind he’s too interested in all the new stuff he can see through grilles and the crack in the services door. To one side of the cupboard is a panel, half unhinged for me to slide aside, and I’m into the massive kitchen venting system.
The soft whump, whump of the fans calms me. The grilles are wide here, lighting it good, and it’s easy to find hand and foot places so the old vents don’t creak and groan, even with the extra weight of my Tamiki-monkey baby. Lazella would’ve heard those monsters coming. She’d have left with everyone else, hoping we’d be safe, locked in the cabin.
But the closer we get to the kitchen, the more full the vents are of steam and a weird metallic tang. She left in a hurry and pots are still boiling maybe?
I sit Gub up and lie in the vent, my hands sticky with grease, staring down through the steam haze.
I find her. At least, I find her feet. Her shoes stick out from behind a bench and I wait for them to twitch and tell me she isn’t dead.
They don’t.
It’s months since I last talked to anyone back on Dios. I don’t do more than whisper. My whole life is don’t bump things, don’t speak out loud. I don’t know how loud my voice can go, but when I yell, ‘Lazella!’ my heart leaps with the shock of it. My voice is all terror. The steam catches in my throat and I cough. Gub stares with round eyes, so I do the monkey, ‘Ooh, ooh!’ and pull my pouty-lip, wide-eye face, so he thinks it’s a game, before I look down again.
No movement below. And I can’t leave without knowing. She’s all we have.
PERFECT MASK
Last ship and the ship before, I’d lie in this spot, my face pressed to the grille and my hips resting on this strut. In the ships before Gub and ‘doan you be leaving my bub alone,’ I watched her work. She’d be all hums and chatter to herself about what she was doing. And only I knew what she was really doing. She was giving me cooking lessons.
