Broken Sky

by L. A. Weatherly

  “No idea,” I said.

  His eyes flicked to mine. “Really?”

  “Really.” Though it was true I had a vague sense of guilt, as if I did know what Madeline had meant. From somewhere deep down a thought tried to surface. I pushed it away and shook my head.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it’s that I was arrested for shoplifting once – I told the WfP about it during my Peacefighting interview. I was only fifteen then, though.”

  “Background,” mused Milt again, drawing the word out. “Yeah…maybe.”

  In a strange way, the files’ contents had been a relief. They’d made it clear that most Peacefighters upheld their vows – that many in the World for Peace had no idea about the corruption. But the depth of Madeline’s involvement sickened me.

  I’d thought I’d known this woman. My father had been a Peacefighter with her; she’d romped with us through my childhood summers. Yet in another memo, I’d read:

  Yes, of course I warned Hendrix not to approach her; I can only assume the communication went astray. However, I stressed the need to take great care in recruiting any pilot, since few would deliberately lose fights for their country regardless of recompense. In general he acted competently. Apparently Russ Avery had gambling debts and Stanley Chaplin’s family was in financial crisis – this, along with their birth charts, made Hendrix initially think them good prospects.

  As I read, anger and sadness clenched my throat. Concordia’s family had been poor, too. Is that what they did – preyed on pilots with the “right” birth charts who needed money? But then why ask me? Ma might be struggling a little; we weren’t destitute.

  Outside the auto, the pine trees stirred in the breeze. Milt had put the other memo aside and was scribbling something in his notepad. “All right, does anyone else know what’s going on?”

  “No,” I said flatly.

  Milt’s pencil stopped in its tracks. He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

  “I can’t tell you that,” I said, relenting a little. “Surely you can understand. People’s lives are in danger.” Not only Collie’s, but Ingo’s – he’d been furious, and scared, when we’d left the World for Peace building.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?” he’d hissed at me as we hurried through the dark streets. “How can I go back and fight now, knowing this is going on?”

  But we’d both known that he had to. Though I was as filled with dread as Ingo, what I was trying to do now was our only hope of stopping this.

  Milt shrugged. “Yeah, I got you. Okay, I’ll skim over that part in the piece.” He glanced again at documents from the Conflicts Council, showing approved fights. My suspicion was that they were also fights that had been thrown.

  “I haven’t been able to check how many of those wins benefited Gunnison yet,” I said.

  Milt’s brow was furrowed. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it… Hey, kind of strange that you were able to get this stuff, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly given to me.”

  He replaced the papers in the file. “No, I’m sure it wasn’t. But listen, you say this Madeline dame’s known you from when you were a kid, right? So when the plot to kill you didn’t work, what’s the first thing she should have guessed you’d try?”

  My skin prickled as I stared at him. “You mean – she let me get these documents on purpose? That’s impossible! She couldn’t have known I’d be able to get into the World for Peace building.”

  I’d glossed over how I’d managed it, and Milt didn’t pursue it. “Must have known you’d give it a shot, though,” he said. “Sounds like she knows you pretty well. And middle of the night, things are dead in Heatcalf City. If they were watching for you, they’d have seen you. But they didn’t capture you. Why?”

  “I didn’t see anyone,” I said. I’d almost said “we”.

  “Lots of shadows there at night.”

  “No – it doesn’t make sense.” My voice rose. “Why would they let me get this information on purpose? It incriminates them at the highest levels.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe some of it’s a plant. I’ll tell you straight, though: it’s making my journalistic alarms go off like crazy.”

  “You believe me, don’t you?”

  Milt lit another cigarette and tossed the lighter onto the dashboard. He was silent for a moment. “You know, I think I do,” he said. “Not that it matters. I’ll write a hell of a story either way.”

  My laugh tasted sour. “So that’s all you care about?”

  He grinned. “Pretty much. But yeah, since you ask, I think you’ve uncovered something big here, and the powers that be are scrambling to cover it up.” He blew out a stream of smoke as he studied me. “What I haven’t worked out yet is if you’re as true-blue as you seem…or if you were in it up to your neck, too, and now you’re turning on them to save your own skin.”

  I couldn’t be angry at his cynicism. If I’d been a little more cynical myself, the other pilot wouldn’t have died yesterday. I’d have done what Collie asked and refused to fly.

  Collie was a cynic. He’d known all along this could blow up at any second.

  My chest tightened at the thought of him. I cleared my throat. “Well, while you’re figuring it out, maybe you could give me a lift to the station.”

  “Sure thing – I think I’ve got everything I need.” Milt handed me the files back. “I won’t ask to keep these,” he said. “The photos should be enough to convince my editor, once I develop them.”

  “Good, because I can’t give you any of this.” I ran my pinched fingers down a file’s spine. “Will you be able to get the story published? The papers lately have been full of such fluff.”

  Milt nodded and stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “My editor’s old-school and he hates Gunnison – this is just the kind of story he’s been itching for. Once it hits the stands, they won’t be able to put the cat back in the bag. We’ll get an inquisition out of it and those fights reversed, wait and see.”

  I nodded tensely. I hoped he was right.

  Milt started up the auto. He hesitated before putting it in gear; for the first time, a shadow fell over his face. “The World for Peace, though,” he murmured. “Ah, hell…who would have thought it?”

  We drove in silence. When we finally pulled up to the nearest train station, Milt glanced at me curiously. “You got someplace to go?”

  “I’m not telling you that, and I’m sure you don’t really want to know.”

  He shrugged. “No, you’re right. Not a good idea.”

  I hesitated. I was desperate to ask Milt to check on Collie for me, but then he’d guess that Collie was implicated in all this. I didn’t entirely trust Milt not to do something with that knowledge, if it would make for a better story.

  I looked away and picked up my parka from the seat. “When will the piece run?”

  “Next couple of days, with luck. You better lay low until then.” Milt held out his hand. “Take care of yourself, Amity. Those bastards mean business.”

  “You, too,” I said as we shook. “Be careful.”

  Milt grinned. “Ah, I’m just a nobody journalist. Listen, you know how to reach me if you need to. And here, have a present – something to read for your trip.” He opened his briefcase and handed me the newspaper.

  For the first time, I saw the headline below my own.

  TIER ONE FIGHT REFOUGHT – GUNNISON WINS RIGHT TO EXTRADITE ALL WESTERN SEABOARD DISCORDANTS.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The train rocked through the night. I sat in the open boxcar with my knees drawn tightly against my chest, watching the moonlit landscape pass. A chilly breeze buffeted the inside of the car, empty apart from a few crates.

  I yearned to go faster. Hal’s letter felt like it was burning a hole of fear in my pocket.

  The news story’s photo had shown Gunnison with his easy grin. I’m relieved that we can help our Western Seaboard neighbours by dealing with their Discordant elements,
he was quoted as saying. We in the Central States have been sorrowed by your recent hardships. Without the Discordants, you’ll soon see an upswing in your fortunes.

  It was clear now what Gunnison’s men had been doing at Ma’s. People in the WS who’d already had their birth charts done had saved the Guns time: they could check them for anything that madman might deem a threat. Though we weren’t even his citizens, Gunnison could extradite whoever he wanted now and throw them in a correction camp.

  Including, unbelievably, my little brother.

  The Guns had known that Tier One fight was coming up. They’d known what its outcome would be.

  The fight. I rubbed my temple with a cold hand. Had there even been a fight? There didn’t really seem a need to go through the charade any more; they could claim whatever they wanted. Or had Collie been set up the same way I had? I imagined his plane exploding in the sky – saw his lifeless body sprawled against red grass.

  No. No. I sat huddled, trembling. Please be safe, Collie. Please.

  I couldn’t help him. I could only pray that he was still alive. But maybe, with luck, I could help Hal.

  I took a breath and forced myself to straighten my shoulders. I stared out at the silvery fields, with the bright, flat line of the ocean in the distance.

  Madeline’s treachery.

  My father and Madeline together.

  One thought felt more impossible than the other, and I hated which one it was. And somehow, as the train slowly ate the miles, I was cast back to the night before Dad died.

  Collie had stayed over that night. He did that, sometimes, even with us as old as we both were by then. He had his own bedroom at our place. It was the spare room, really, but Ma always called it “Collie’s room”, and he kept some books and things there. I knew he liked it far better than his real bedroom, though he got prickly whenever I suggested that he could just stay with us for good.

  He didn’t sleep over very often. It was as if he were rationing himself, not wanting to get too used to it. But when he did, everyone seemed happier – lighter. Collie always had that effect on us. We’d sit up and pop corn and play games and just…be a family.

  I remembered that particular night so clearly. Dad had been home too, so it was like a double holiday. He’d been in such a good mood – joking around with Ma; starting a contest to see who could catch the most popped corn in their mouth. We’d all played Make-a-Word, and arguments had broken out every few minutes, despite Hal running to get the dictionary. At one point a rumba came on the telio and Dad jumped up and said, “I must have this dance, Rose.” He pulled her close and they moved around the living room to our laughing groans.

  The moon went behind a cloud and I stared out at the blurred darkness. My childhood had generally been happy, hadn’t it? I’d loved our house, and running wild through the fields. Yet whenever Collie had stayed over, it was as if a mood had lifted for all of us. Maybe I remembered that night so well because it had been so unusual. For once, the gulf between my father’s banter and the real him hadn’t seemed so wide.

  But now, looking back…I wondered if there hadn’t been something a bit too feverish about Dad’s high spirits.

  After we went to bed that night, I’d woken up suddenly at the sound of shattering glass. Someone was breaking in! I’d leaped from my bed and snatched up a baseball bat; still in my nightgown, I crept down the stairs. My blood pumped in my ears. I’d catch the burglars in the act – make my father proud of me – maybe even get my picture in the paper.

  Halfway down, I heard something strange. I stopped, listening hard.

  Singing. No, a kind of low, mumbling noise. Then singing again.

  I eased the rest of the way downstairs, clutching the bat with cold fingers. My father sat at the kitchen table with a bottle in front of him. As I stopped in the doorway I had a sinking feeling that Collie’s mother would know exactly what that amber liquid was.

  Dad was reaching for the bottle when I appeared. He looked up.

  “Amity, what are you doing awake?”

  To my relief he sounded normal. I started into the room and he jumped up. “No, don’t – there’s glass on the floor. I dropped a tumbler. Don’t tell Mommy, all right?”

  He whistled as he got a dustpan and brush and cleared away the mess. I stood watching the glass glint. He never referred to my mother as Mommy. He knew she was “Ma” to me and Hal, and anyway, he always called her Rose.

  “Onwards, soldier – advance,” he said at last.

  I entered and sat cautiously on one of the chairs. “Is that Scotch?” I said, eyeing the bottle. Hall’s Best Blended, read white letters on a black label.

  “Yes,” said my father. “I’ll have to get another tumbler out now and be civilized, hey? Not drink from the bottle like a ruffian. Want some warm milk?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t had warm milk since I was nine. Ma wouldn’t have made that mistake, but I didn’t blame my father. He was too busy with the World for Peace to know these things.

  Dad got another tumbler and poured himself two inches of Scotch. He took a swig and then noticed the baseball bat propped against the table. “What’s that for?”

  My cheeks went red. “I…heard the glass breaking. I thought it was a burglar.” There was no way I could mention the singing and the mumbling.

  “So you came downstairs on your own to stop him?” Dad gave a low whistle. “That’s my girl. Braver than her old man, for sure.”

  I was too on edge to enjoy the admiring look in his eyes. “No, I’m not,” I protested. “You were a Peacefighter.”

  “Not that kind of bravery.”

  I shifted on my seat. What kind of bravery were we talking about, then?

  “Fighting when your adrenalin’s up – that’s nothing.” Dad took another gulp of Scotch. “You’ll see someday, if you’re a Peacefighter too. Will you be?” He leaned back and studied me. Somehow the question didn’t feel addressed to me and so I didn’t answer, thinking guiltily of Canary Cargo.

  “I think you might be,” Dad decided. “You’re the right type, aren’t you, Louise?”

  He called me that sometimes – the name of our ancestor who’d done so much, fought so hard. “I don’t know,” I muttered. “I’d like to be.” The lie tinted my cheeks.

  “Well, you’re a legacy, so you’d get in easily enough.” My father sounded grim now. His dark hair fell over his forehead as he tapped the tumbler against the table. “I was a legacy, too, of course. Your grandmother. Oh, she had no idea.”

  “No idea of what?”

  My father seemed to come back to himself. He stared at me as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to.

  “Nothing,” he said finally. “Times change, don’t they? Mom knew what it was like for her, but not for me. And if you become a Peacefighter, all you’ll know is what it’s like for you. No one can judge your actions unless they’ve been there. Got that? Nobody.”

  I licked dry lips. “What actions?”

  My father gave a sad, reckless smile. “My darling, if I could tell you that, I’d be king of the world.” He gazed into the glass, swirling it so that the amber liquid caught the light.

  I watched the glinting waves rise and fall. “Dad, you can tell me anything.”

  “Maybe someday,” he said without looking up. “When you’re a Peacefighter, too. It’s the only thing worth being, Amity…I always knew that.”

  I sat poised, tense. I felt as if I were on the verge of some great discovery. Here was the mystery of my father, so close I could almost reach out and touch it…only I still had no idea what it was.

  Finally Dad looked up. “You should get to bed now,” he said, and I was so relieved to have him sound like a parent again that I jumped up without arguing.

  “What time will you fly out tomorrow?” I asked.

  He had a meeting at the World for Peace the next day. Something crucial, though I knew he wouldn’t tell me what. A lot of what he did was classified. I loved telling the kids at s
chool that; the word felt important as it rolled off my tongue.

  “Early,” said Dad shortly. He took another gulp and then stood up and flung the rest of the Scotch into the sink. “So I’d better lay off this stuff, huh?”

  Why had I asked about his departure time? It felt as if a moment had been irretrievably lost. Yet my next question was just as banal: “Will you take the Gauntlet? Or the Dove?”

  My father rubbed a hand over his eyes. “The Gaunt, I think.”

  “Then maybe I could come, too,” I said, feeling desperate. I went on quickly: “I could sit in the lobby and do homework while you have your meeting—”

  “Not this time,” said my father.

  He smiled then. I smiled hesitantly back. “Go to bed, Amity,” he said in a soft voice. “I’ll clean up in here.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “No. Go on,” he said.

  And so I went.

  I’d sat in the boxcar’s open doorway for so long that my muscles were chilled, but I still didn’t move as the shadows juddered past. I could see my father’s face so clearly.

  For years he’d been blurred around the edges, no matter how hard I’d tried to picture him. Now, like falling back through time, I could see his tanned face; the faint lines around his light-brown eyes; his thin, clever fingers that could fix anything.

  No one can judge your actions unless they’ve been there.

  Once I became a Peacefighter I’d thought I understood. Even with the best of intentions, you sometimes killed. Pilots had died, some of them in agony, because I’d shot them down. I’d have to live with that my whole life, just as my father had.

  Now I stared out at dark fields and thought about the word background. Such a nice, solid word. It rolled off the tongue in the same important way classified once had.

  My darling, if I could tell you that, I’d be king of the world.

  The train rattled on. I blew out a brisk, angry breath. No. What I was thinking was crazy. I was just numb from everything that had happened these past few weeks.