Broken Sky

by L. A. Weatherly

  The newly-formed Central States split off with Gunnison in charge, and then he’d slammed the borders shut. You could still get in; getting out was another matter. All that we knew about life over there now came from his official, glowing news releases…and the underground pamphlets that sometimes popped up with more chilling stories.

  “You know what I heard?” Vera gazed into her mirror, stroking bright red lipstick across her mouth. “Gunnison’s got something against Virgos now. They’re all having to go in and answer questions.”

  Harlan’s brow furrowed. “What’s a Virgo?”

  “Virgo the virgin. It’s an astrology sign.” Before Harlan could make some crack about virgins, I went on: “And no, I think Virgos in general are supposed to be okay, but not if their moon’s in Libra or something. It’s complicated.”

  “It’s nuts.” Vera peered behind her, adjusting the seams of her stockings.

  “Hey, he’s still better than that clown we’ve got in charge,” said Harlan. “The Central States ain’t exactly poor.”

  No, and that was why plenty here in the Western Seaboard gazed at them with such envy, despite Gunnison. No one could call us prosperous any more.

  “Well, President Lopez can’t magic resources out of thin air.” I propped my foot on the bench and pulled on my shoe. “Anyway, Gunnison can claim whatever he wants. He doesn’t let anyone out of the place, so who’d even know for sure?”

  It was just turning into the kind of conversation I enjoy – something I could really sink my teeth into – but then Harlan shrugged and said, “All right, enough about the loon across the border. You playing later?” The ongoing nightly poker game had reached epic proportions.

  I shook my head. “I’m going out.”

  “You?” said Vera. “Miss Hermit?” She glanced at my denims and wrinkled her nose. “Want to borrow a dress?”

  I laughed. “I’ve got one, actually. I need to go home and change; I didn’t have one with me when—”

  I broke off as Clem, a T4 pilot, came in.

  At first I thought the expression on his face was because of the locker room. It took a while to learn to act casual around all the naked bodies; then one day you realized you actually did feel casual about it. But Vera and I were fully dressed. And Clem’s freckled face was ashen.

  He sank onto one of the benches.

  Silence fell. I straightened and clutched my locker door – so hard that the metal dug at my skin. Not this, I thought. Not today.

  When Clem spoke, his words held a terrible sense of déjà vu. “I, um…I have some bad…” He choked to a stop.

  “Who?” Vera said softly.

  Clem swiped a hand over his eyes. “Stan. He was fighting against the Indasians. His plane went down over the water. He drowned.”

  My lips went dry. I deliberately didn’t look at the locker across from mine, with the name scrawled at its top on grey masking tape: S. Chaplin.

  Only two hours ago, Stan had stood there joking with me.

  “You know what I love about you, Amity?” he’d said as he pulled on his trousers. “You look so capable.”

  I’d been buttoning my shirt, trying not to think about what day this was, but I’d still had to laugh. This was a new one. “I look so what?”

  “Capable.” Stan had scanned me up and down, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Like, if someone dropped you in the middle of the Arctic, I bet you’d just strangle a polar bear and then build your own igloo.”

  My fingers had paused on my buttons as I stared at him. “Why would I strangle a polar bear?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you don’t like polar bears.”

  “So you see me as violent and erratic.”

  “Strong and spontaneous,” he corrected. “My kind of woman.” He put his hand over his heart and heaved a dramatic sigh. Stan was quick and wiry, with dark hair and a thin face, and he’d thought of a new compliment for me every day since I’d known him.

  Over three hundred offbeat compliments now. He never repeated the same one twice.

  “You’ll have to run out of things to say at some point, won’t you?” I’d mused as I pulled on my leather jacket. With Stan, banter was easy…and today I was grateful for it. “I mean, there must be a limit.”

  “With you as inspiration? Never.”

  “Man, just ask her out, Chaplin. This gets boring, day in, day out,” said a guy named Levi as he brushed past from the shower, his dark skin damp.

  Both Stan and I had probably looked a bit horrified; then Stan caught my eye and we laughed. Not everyone knew he was gay. “We could go out if you want,” said Stan, tucking in his shirt tails. “Hey, want to go into the Heat tonight? I feel like celebrating.”

  I glanced at him, suddenly noticing how buoyant he seemed. “You do? Why?”

  He winked. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday. I did something I should have done months ago, that’s all… Come on, you up for it?”

  I reached for my ID tags. My father’s and mine, on the same chain. I ran my finger slowly over them, then put them on and cleared my throat. “Sounds good. But only if you don’t talk about polar bears.”

  Stan didn’t comment on my tags. No one here ever had. “I am not hampered by having to limit myself to other topics,” he informed me with dignity.

  I laughed. “No, I bet you aren’t.”

  “See you later, then.” He grinned. “Better brush up on your igloo-building techniques, just in case.”

  It was the last thing he’d ever said to me.

  The silence in the locker room was stifling. Stan, trapped in his plane as it crashed into the water. Scrabbling for his straps, struggling to get out as the water rushed in… I couldn’t speak.

  Finally Harlan sighed and pushed his hand through his hair. “Took the big swan dive, huh?” he murmured. “Well…the man went out doing what he loved.”

  Vera nodded, eyes bright. “Marcus and I will lift a glass to him in the Heat tonight.”

  “Hell with that; we’ll all go in,” said Harlan firmly. He clapped Clem on the shoulder. “Pilot down. That means we give him a good send-off.”

  A good send-off. Usually the words felt comforting, even for people I’d liked as much as Stan. I swallowed hard, seeing green fields of gently waving grass, hearing the sound of grasshoppers.

  “There’s a new jazz player at one of the speaks,” Vera was saying. “Stan would’ve loved that – let’s spread the word.”

  “You’re on,” said Harlan. “We are going to paint the Heat red.”

  I clanged my locker door shut. The photo of the laughing man disappeared from view. All at once I felt hot. I stepped across to Stan’s locker and slowly ripped away the name tape; it made a noise like tearing paper. I crumpled it, stickiness plucking at my skin, and kept crumpling until it was a tiny ball.

  I threw it aside. It rolled across the floor and came to rest under a wooden bench.

  “So we’ve got a free locker,” I said into the silence. “I don’t know why we even bother to put names on these things.”

  “Amity…” said Vera softly.

  I kept my gaze away from the screwed-up ball on the floor, where a curve of the S was still visible.

  Finally I let out a breath. “You’re right. We’ll give him a good send-off,” I said.

  Chapter Three

  When I’d first arrived at the World for Peace complex, the vastness of it had awed me: sixty-two Peacefighting bases, one for every country in the world. Taken together, they spanned hundreds of square miles. Each base was the territory of its own country – effectively, a mini-nation.

  The Heat alone was neutral territory. It was really Heatcalf City, named after one of the World for Peace founders, and was a dense, throbbing metropolis right at the heart of it all. It was where pilots went to unwind; it was a slice of the whole world. You could start out in a Western Seaboard diner eating chowder and end up in a New Moscow bar throwing back shots of vodka.

  Vera’s speak turned out to be a dar
k cellar with scuffed tables and a wailing jazz trio – too noisy for conversation, and I was glad. We sat toasting Stan with shots of some terrible liqueur that tasted like almonds. The saxophonist seemed in a trance, closing his eyes and swaying as the notes soared out.

  “Do you like this music?” Harlan bellowed in my ear.

  I nodded. It was wild, discordant. It suited my mood. Levi sat on the other side of me, eyes half-closed as he patted the table to the beat. Clem had some girl on his lap; they were kissing like tomorrow might never come.

  Vera leaned towards us. “He’s really good, this guy!” she shouted.

  Harlan made a face and pushed his chair back. “More drinks,” he announced.

  Vera propped her cheek on her hand, gazing at the band. Marcus sat beside her, his arm around the back of her chair. He was thin, with a good-natured face and hair so pale it was almost white. He said something to her and she nodded; they got up and started moving together on the tiny dance floor. He held her close, as if different music entirely were playing.

  Marcus worked at a restaurant in the Heat. Pilots didn’t date pilots. There wasn’t a rule; it just didn’t happen much. We saw each other as teammates, poker buddies, and saved our dalliances for the Heat. If I’d wanted to date, I’d have done the same as Vera: found some guy who had nothing to do with flying. Though Marcus had to be kind of dense – what had happened to Stan could happen to any of us. Didn’t he know that?

  But I guess if you’ve never had your heart ripped out, you don’t think to protect it.

  I swallowed and looked down. What had Stan wanted to celebrate? Something he should have done months ago, he’d said. Maybe he’d gotten out of a bad relationship.

  A matchbook with a shamrock design lay on the table. I fiddled with it blindly. I had on a blue dress sprigged with flowers; I wondered what compliment Stan would have given me. You are like a daisy, Amity. No, wait, I’ve got it – like midnight with tiny pink blossoms.

  If it had to happen, why did it have to be today?

  Harlan appeared and put another shot glass in front of me. “Drink,” he said.

  I drank.

  Later, with the music reaching a shrieking climax and the pulse in the speak something palpable, I pushed my own chair back and headed to the restroom. I stopped halfway, squinting through the smoky darkness. Russ sat in a corner with two other men.

  The mood at his table seemed out of place, somehow. Russ leaned forward on his arms as he spoke, his expression intense. One of the men laughed and wagged a finger at him.

  An irrational anger touched me. Whatever Russ was saying that was so important, it wasn’t about Stan. He didn’t know – he hadn’t been at the base when we’d rounded everyone up.

  My thoughts were a little blurry by then, but one thing felt clear: my team leader had to be told. This instant. I started across the crowded, table-packed room, almost having to climb over people.

  “Hey, pretty thing,” laughed one guy, trying to pull me onto his lap.

  I batted his hands away and kept on. As I drew closer a woman got up; when I could see again Russ was sitting alone and the two men were heading past me towards the door. One had curly hair. The other was bald, and wore a neck chain with a gleaming gold pendant.

  A hand took my arm. “You trying to abscond?” shouted a voice in my ear. “If I have to listen to this crap, you do, too.”

  Harlan. I shook my head. “Russ doesn’t know,” I called back stubbornly.

  Harlan peered drunkenly at the dimly-lit corner. His blunt, handsome jaw turned as determined as mine. “Well, we’ve gotta tell him then!”

  Russ sat looking down. His head snapped up as we reached him; he tucked something in his jacket pocket and rose. “Vancour, Taylor. Night out on the town?”

  There was something tense about his smile. I didn’t dwell on it. “Stan’s dead,” I said, lifting my voice over the music.

  All my life, I’ve never known how to soften news. I especially couldn’t do it after drinking shots. Russ winced. I thought I saw him say, “Oh, no,” though I couldn’t hear the words.

  “You’re giving him his send-off?” he said finally.

  “Over there.” Harlan nodded at our cluster of tables.

  Russ didn’t ask for details. I guess he didn’t really need to.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll buy the next round.”

  The residential section of our base was like any other Western Seaboard town: leafy streets lined with houses. They were all dark as I walked past them hours later. The others were still in the Heat. I’d left them to it and caught the streetcar back alone, resting my cheek against the car window and gazing at the reflections of other passengers.

  The small house Vera and I shared was silent. I groped for the light switch; the front room with its worn furniture sprang into view. Magazines lay fanned across the coffee table.

  After we’d all left the speak we’d wandered the heaving streets for a while and ended up in the Stardust Ballroom, built in some of the Cataclysm’s ruins, drinking shots that tasted of peppermint this time. I’d danced with a guy I didn’t know – stupidly good-looking, clutching me close as we swayed to the orchestra, surrounded by uneven walls and pieces of ancient concrete.

  When he’d tried to kiss me I’d let him. It’s been so long since I’ve been held that it just…felt nice for a moment. I’d wrapped my arms around his neck and pretended he was someone I cared about.

  I rubbed my head and put my handbag down on the coffee table.

  An orange striped cat came mincing across the rug, meowing. I smiled, somehow wanting to pretend for him. “Hello, Peter,” I murmured as I picked him up. “Did I wake you?”

  I carried him with me into the kitchen and put him on one shoulder as I opened the icebox. Its shelves held a jar of mayo, some olives, a murky-looking pint of milk. I’d have to grab something at the canteen in the morning. It was open now – nothing here ever closed – but I didn’t feel up to facing anyone. There were times I didn’t feel like it even normally. Here at the base it wasn’t like the outside world; no one would ever say, Amity, you look so serious! Smile! But still, people at least expected you to talk to them.

  You always have to talk. To connect, even if it’s only superficially. Sometimes it seemed like everyone had the knack except me.

  That hadn’t always been true. A memory came of sunlit fields: a day of green and gold, and an endless, aching blue that was the sky. My best friend and I had lain in the grass and pointed out clouds to each other, arguing about their shapes (A fire engine. No, don’t be stupid, that’s a pony!) and when my father had landed his plane we’d run to meet him, clamouring to be taken up. My two pilots, my dad had said.

  Everything about the memory was engraved in crystal…but especially the sense of belonging so completely to those two people. Now one was dead, and the other might as well be.

  Over four years without a word.

  I realized that I was staring blindly into the icebox, letting out its cold. I closed the door with Peter still balanced on my shoulder.

  I needed coffee. I made some, then sank tiredly onto the sofa and flipped through the magazines. One cover showed Gunnison, a solid-looking man with blond hair going grey at the temples. He was smiling, holding an astrology book. Behind him was his infamous Harmony symbol: the stark red-and-black swirls that were a corruption of the old yin-yang.

  I knew better, but opened the magazine. The main article began: With a warm, genuine smile, President John Gunnison shakes my hand. “Call me Johnny,” he says cheerfully. “Nicknames make things friendlier, don’t you think? Mind if I call you Bill?” When I ask how the Central States stays so prosperous, Gunnison winks. “The power of astrology, Bill. You folks in the Western Seaboard should tell President Lopez to try it.”

  The story left out what else we’d heard Gunnison did with the so-called power of astrology. If he thought someone was a “threat to Harmony” then they were dubbed Discordant, sometimes just bec
ause of their astrology chart. The Discordant apparently didn’t last long. Gunnison’s chief advisor, Sandford Cain, dealt with them, though the papers remained vague on the details. In the single photo I’d seen of Cain he’d gazed coolly out at me, with eyes so pale that I’d thought of grubs that lived under rocks.

  I usually felt a sick fascination when I read about Gunnison’s regime. Tonight the sight of his easy grin just made my throbbing head worse. How could people believe this garbage? I drained my coffee abruptly and went into my bedroom.

  Peter sat on my bed and watched, tail flicking, as I got undressed and pulled on my pyjamas. His expression said, Hurry up, stroke me, you’ve lollygagged long enough.

  We’d inherited Peter a few months ago, when a pilot I’d known only distantly had gone down. Before that he’d belonged to someone else. And someday, if what had happened to Stan happened to Vera and me, he might move on again.

  Strange, to realize that something I loved as much as flying might kill me.

  Peter waited for me to slip under the covers. Then he settled purring on my stomach as I stroked his smooth back.

  It’s not the goal to kill the other pilot. The World for Peace wouldn’t sanction that; no one would. But deaths happen, and you couldn’t have too many regrets or you’d go crazy.

  “Three,” I murmured, and my voice startled me in the quiet.

  That was how many pilots had died after battling me in the year I’d been a Peacefighter. Three was low – I was just thankful it wasn’t more. I was fiercely glad of the anonymity policy. I would never learn those pilots’ names or view images of their faces. And if I died, the other pilot wouldn’t know who I was, either.

  “Not much different from here on base, is it, cat?” I said softly. We had tattoos with no stories attached, laughing banter that said nothing, photos that no one would ever ask about.

  After my father died I’d shut myself away in my bedroom, seeing the crash over and over. I’d been there. I’d kneeled beside him, pleading with him to stay alive, to please be all right – but though my hands had grown wet as I frantically tried to stop his bleeding, I hadn’t been able to keep him from slipping away.