Rise

by S A Shaffer

  He reached the mirror and fell against a table, sending another lance of pain through his shoulders, but he shrugged it off and looked into the mirror. His mouth fell open, and all the pain seemed to vanish. He reached his mechanical arm up and touched the glass with a coal-black finger. He cocked his head and noted that his shoulders sat level without their usual slant. He worked them back and forth for a bit, admiring their mobility. But that wasn’t all: he was taller! Either that or everything else in the room was a few inches shorter.

  He looked at his legs again and realized that having two of the same length made a considerable height difference. He smiled and looked back across the room, determined to take another few steps. He’d walked with a limp for so long that stepping with an even gate sounded wonderful. He stepped, and his even stride felt as though he was walking on somebody else’s legs, and he loved it. The pain reassured him that they were indeed his own. He walked by the mirror again and admired his square physique, despite his grimaces. Then he saw a large handprint denting the metal tables he’d leaned against. He looked down at his hand and furrowed his brow, wondering if he’d made the dent.

  He made a fist and punched one of the beams in the middle of the room. His eyes widened, and he bellowed a cry so loud he was sure the entire city heard him. He leaned forward and panted as the pain subsided. When his wits returned, he noticed a scrape in the beam but not even a scratch on his fist. David stood very still, holding his arms outstretched. At the same time, the door opened, and Mit and a doctor rushed in.

  “Are you alright?” Mit asked with concern, but then he surveyed the room and chuckled. “Oh, I see you’re just getting used to your new limbs.”

  The doctor was not so amused. He scowled at David but held his tongue.

  “Everything is… different.” David said, between gasps as he scooted back to his bed, holding his mechanical arm above his head.

  “Perhaps if you’d stayed in bed—” The doctor began before Mit cut him off.

  “Nonsense Dr. Abraham. Sometimes you have to run before you can walk. You may prefer an idle patient, but I prefer active sneaks.”

  “Well, for the sake of my surgical center, please refrain from running.” Abraham said, and then he stepped over to David and began examining him.

  His fingers were cold to the touch, and David’s skin prickled with every contact. All the while, Abraham mumbled to himself.

  “That has healed nicely. I do the best work, I always say. Lift your shoulder lad, that’s right. Any resistance? No, of course not.”

  Mit stood for a moment, but then he busied himself cleaning up the wrecked surgical room. He snickered when he saw the handprint in the table. David, feeling uncomfortable enough as it was, remained silent as Abraham prodded him, prattling on about his expert work. At last, Abraham sat back in a chair and nodded.

  “Before you stand again, and wreck another room, understand exactly what it is I did. Your accident in cycles past, not only severed your arm but broke your leg in such a way that it stunted its growth—hence your limp. The mechanical contraption those beastly butchers attached to your shoulder worsened the condition. It weighed nearly a kilogram more than your natural arm, and over the cycles it contorted your skeletal structure. I didn’t simply replace your arm; I also did a bit of work with your shoulders, spine, and leg in order to straighten your posture. In particular, I lengthened your leg and augmented it to the point where it is just a slight bit stronger than your regular leg—this is why you might feel a poor sense of balance. Your back and shoulders are now in a position where you will not feel the need to slouch. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  David, who had been nodding along, stopped and shook his head, no.

  Dr. Abraham sighed. “Suffice it to say, you are going to be in a lot of pain for about two weeks. I’ve given you some supplements and serums to accelerate the regular healing process, but science can only do so much. The rest is up to you. We will steadily increase your exercise over time. Understand?”

  David nodded.

  “Now, your arm,” Abraham rubbed his hands together in greedy self-approval. “Your arm is a work of art designed in my home country of Armstad. The dent you put in that table is only a fraction of its capabilities. For starters, it’s fashioned from ebony iron.”

  “What?” David said aghast. He looked at his arm in newfound wonder. “Ebony iron? But that must have cost a fortune. This arm is worth more than an airship!”

  “A very nice airship.” Mit said as he straightened the surgical instruments he’d put back on the table.

  “Quite so,” said Abraham. “That means it’s the same weight as your natural arm yet nearly indestructible. You could take the full firepower of a super fortress and still be able to bequeath that arm in your will. You’ll also find the appendage to be extremely agile. Strength wise, your body will give out far before your arm, so you must understand your limits. That’s probably all you need to know for now to help you familiarize yourself with the appendage. Once you feel as comfortable with this new arm as you are with your natural one, we’ll talk about upgrades and attachments.”

  David gulped. “Upgrades? Attachments? I can’t imagine anything upgrading this beyond what it already is.” He looked at Abraham and then at Mit. “I’m not sure I will ever be able to thank you for such a treasure. Not only the arm,” David said as he spun the wrist a few revolutions, “but also the ability to stand without a stoop.”

  “Trust me, lad,” Mit said. “You will earn the right to wear that arm… if Francisco has anything to say about it. You’ll train with him every night for the rest of the season until the golden days. By the time your Thornton mission arrives, you won’t be able to recognize yourself.”

  David continued to smile, in spite of himself, flexing the arm and admiring its superior quality. It had been so long since he’d known anything… normal. But, at the same time, it wasn’t normal. It was extraordinarily strong, sleek, and compact, a beautiful marriage of man and machinery. However, if he had known then exactly how much work training with Francisco meant and how sore he was going to be for the next season, he might have given the appendage back right then and there.

  OLD FRIENDS

  Mit desperately wanted to scratch his back as he lay in the snow at the base of the Rorand Mountains, but four cycles of hard training taught him self-control. This mission, the first of his career, was not at all what he expected it to be. For cycles he’d dreamed of excitement, daring sprints and glorious firefights. Thus far, he had sat in an airship flying through chilling winds only to take up a position on a half-frozen hill to wait in four feet of freezing snow. Berg, he decided, was the most unpleasant country in the Fertile Plains. No wonder the Bergish people had such an itch to conquer other lands. They desperately needed a beach where they could thaw their frostbitten limbs.

  Mit clenched his muscles to ward off a shiver. Despite the weather, and the boredom, he still possessed a thrill in his throbbing heart, the thrill of knowing he was singled out of an entire class of sneaks to perform this mission. How he had swelled with pride the day his instructor called him in and outlined the mission. Berg, a long silent enemy, had a turncoat, or at least a self-proclaimed turncoat. His mission was to cross the Bergish border, flying close to the foothills of the Rorand Mountains until they got to Vojh Nović’s Mound—a hill with a statue of the famed Bergish Admiral erected in honor of his brave sacrifice, or suicidal butchery as Mit described it. There, at midnight on the 37th day of Derecho Season, they would meet their turncoat friend. Mit liked the mission brief, up until the part about his escort. The armada wanted a hand in this mission. If Alönia was going to disturb the waters and cross a long-established line, the armada wanted to make the most of it. They insisted that one of their own recent graduates fly Mit in on a skiff and be ready for evacuation if the mission boded ill. While Mit’s mission was to meet and assess the possible turncoat, the armada’s representative was to update the Alönian annals on Berg
’s military might. Mit disliked the idea about as much as all Sneaks disliked Armada officers. But what was to be done about it?

  His escort was a legend at his academy in the same way that Mit was a legend at his. He was a four-time champion of their oh-so-blessed academy skiff race, a feat only the legendary Admiral Ike had accomplished. This Ensign Ike even shared the same name as the legend, though anyone who knew him could tell there was no connection with the famed Admiral. He was too quiet to be the son of a famous admiral.

  Mit felt a light nudge at his shoulder that brought him out of his musings. There was movement at the edge of the frozen tree line and the Armada Ensign had spotted it first. Mit gave an almost imperceptible nod, something he hoped would communicate that he already knew about the movement. This Ensign Ike had been a quiet fellow following Mit’s lead as the mission parameters required. He only offered suggestions when Mit was unsure how to proceed, and only then when Mit looked to him. The lad was tall, not as tall as Mit, but taller than average and about Mit’s age. His athletic bearing made Mit wonder if he could have him in a fight. He piloted them through the night along the Rorand Mountains with almost careless ease, as if flying and breathing flowed from the same instinctual source. Their stealth vessel never left the mists, yet, they arrived ahead of schedule at the precise location without any deviation in course, a navigational wonder. If Mit had to pair with an Armada Officer, Ike seemed probably the best choice.

  The movement at the base of the mountain transformed into a man extricating himself from the shadows of the tree line. Only the light of the moon revealed the figure. He trudged through the knee-high snow until he reached the base of the embankment. He looked around for a moment before he started the slow assent to the top of the mound. Mit and Ike chose a knoll at the top of the mound a few strides to the right of the statue as their hiding place. They lay there for a moment as the turncoat walked thrice around the statue, ignorant of their presence. At last he stood and leaned against the statue, checking his wristwatch and breathing out clouds of steam. Only after an additional five minutes did Mit climb from the snow in his all white camouflage and approach the turncoat. The man jumped when he saw Mit, seemingly shocked that a person had materialized out of the frigid air. Mit approached him slowly and with his arms cradling his repeater, a gesture that was one part friendly and two parts forceful. He reached the turncoat in a dozen strides upon which the stranger raised his hands in a solute.

  “Strength to Alönia.” He said with his Bergish lilt.

  “Peace friend.” Mit replied in perfect Bergish. “What brings you to this dismal monument?”

  The man paused for a moment, apparently surprised at hearing his own tongue in such fluency from a foreign mouth. But the traitor persisted in his own broken Alönian.

  “You who I’m supposed to meet, yes?” He said reaching out his hand.

  Mit did not take it, but he did switch to Alönian as the man insisted on speaking it. “If you are a traitor, then yes. I am who you’re supposed to meet. What information do you have for me?”

  “No.” said the traitor with a shake of his head. “Leave Berg first. How many come? Can we get out and safe?”

  “I can get you safely out, but only when I know what you’re willing to give us. Your message promised information. We will not leave until you tell me the quality of the information you possess.”

  “You only?” The traitor said in apparent frustration. “Where the rest? Where your airship?”

  Mit balked. “Airship? How the devil did you expect me to get a whole airship across Berg without being seen? I came alone through a pass in the mountains. I have enough gear to get us back to Armstad and then Alönia.”

  The traitor looked aghast. “You alone, no airship? Impossible. Crossing Mountain is death.”

  “Perhaps, but it all depends on how determined you are.” Mit said. “So tell me, Mr. Bergish traitor, how badly do you want to leave Berg?”

  “No airship.” The traitor said with a sigh and a nod. Then he snorted and gave Mit a sly smile. “No Berg would ever leave. We are strength, and Berg is power.” In an instant the turncoat pulled a pistol from his sleeve and pointed it at Mit. At the snap of his fingers, a squad of soldiers rushed out of the tree line around the mound and ascended.

  “Drop weapon.” The traitor said. “Or I shoot.”

  “No information then?” Mit said as he dropped his repeater in the snow.

  The Berg laughed. “You information. We wanted airship, but you will do.”

  By that time, the squad of soldiers had reached the top of the mound and surrounded Mit and the would-be-informer in a tight ring. Mit placed his hands on his head and closed his eyes. He could hear the hum of an airship approaching from the east, no doubt to collect him and his capturers. He could hear a soldier approaching from behind him with a pair of jingling arm restraints. As he heard the men around him prattling on in their guttural tongue, he squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could and waited.

  It happened quickly, a flash so bright Mit could see it through his shut eyes followed by the growl of a repeater. As soon as Mit heard the sound of the gunshots, he lunged forward onto the spot where he’d thrown his own weapon. It was well he did, for bullets pelted all around the place he’d stood mere moments after he landed in the snow. A red splotch stained a place right next to where he lay. It oozed from the man he’d come to meet, a rather ironic turn of events. The traitor of a turncoat had trapped himself within his own trap.

  Mit grasped his repeater with firm hands, rolled over in the snow, and unloaded his magazine on the soldiers that still stood. The situation was unfair in the extreme. The Bergs ran wild in their blindness firing their weapons at the sound of gunfire. Half the squad fell to friendly fire; the remainder fell to Mit and Ike’s precise and deadly repeaters. As the last body fell, the two Alönians were on their feet and racing up the foothills of the Rorand Mountains. They reached the cover of the trees as the approaching airship found their carnage with a wandering searchlight.

  “It appears you were right about the trap.” Mit said as the two of them darted around trees. They could hear the sound of multiple airships now, and the trees around them glinted as spotlights searched their shadows.

  “I didn’t know there was going to be a trap,” Ike said as he lurched over a fallen tree. “I just didn’t want to get caught in one.”

  The chemical flash was Ike’s idea, and Mit was very thankful for it in his present condition. At the time, he’d doubted its necessity, but allowed Ike his cautions after the Ensign stressed the necessity to plan for the unexpected. They’d implanted the chemical flashes three days prior to the meeting and agreed that Mit would place his hands on his head and shut his eyes in the event of an emergency.

  “Well, I’m bloody glad you thought of it.” Mit said between breaths. “Now, how about we scuttle our airship and make for the border. Perhaps in a season or two we can thaw our frostbit toes in the Armstad hot springs.”

  “No, I’m taking the airship.” Ike said.

  “What? We’ll never make it out with all of Berg on our trail.”

  “Listen.” Ike said as he grabbed onto Mit’s sleeve and pulled him to a stop. He held a hand to his lips.

  Mit slowed his panting breath and focused on the silence, and then he heard what Ike was talking about, the baying of Bergish red hounds.

  “We won’t make it one hour with those on our track. Our only chance is the airship.”

  Ike let go of Mit’s Sleeve and charged on.

  Mit followed. “But don’t you see, all they wanted was the airship. If you fly out of here, they will shoot you down and recover it from the wreckage. We have to scuttle it.”

  “The only way they will get this airship is if it rains from the sky in fire and ash. Trust me, there will be less of it left if they shoot it down than if we try and scuttle it.”

  By that time, they’d reached the place where they’d landed. Ike bent at the base of a small hill a
nd reached into the snow. He jerked on the corner of a tarp, and the whole hill slid away revealing the two-man skiff beneath.

  “Ensign Ike, I cannot allow this. I’m in command of this—”

  “Wrong.” Ike said as he checked over the airship’s twin tail and intakes. “You are in command of the meeting; I am in command of infiltration and extraction. This,” Ike waved his hand around, “is called extraction. Now you can either join me or walk, but either way, I am flying this ship back to Armstad.”

  The moment hung in the air. Mit gritted his teeth. He didn’t like it, but he knew his place. And he knew Ike was correct about the extraction command structure. It dawned on him that this disagreement stemmed from their vastly different areas of expertise. Ike knew airships and would rely on them in his moment of need. Mit was a sneak. Hounds didn’t trouble him. Seasons in the frozen Bergish wastes didn’t trouble him. Confinement in an airship a thousand fathoms above the ground with hundreds of enemies giving chase through the sky… that did trouble him.

  “You’re sure.” Mit asked. “You’re sure you can make the flight?”

  Ike smiled in that way that only airship pilots could. “I’ll bet my life on it.” he said.

  To his amazement, Mit found himself climbing into the gunner’s seat behind the daring Ensign. The man’s bearing inspired his confidence. Ike seemed like so much more than a lowly Ensign. He carried himself like an admiral, relying on the efforts of others, yet stepping in and taking command when needed. It was this bearing that drove Mit to trust him… that and the prospect of freezing to death in Berg.