I barely slide to a stop.
Almost over the side, gravity pulls me towards the curvature of the balloon. I lift up my head, my nose scrawling red splotches on the bleached white canvas. I shiver, trying to get a grip on the taut material, but there’s nothing to hold onto. Every movement I make drags me a bit further towards the edge. Propping myself up on my elbow, I blow on my burnt hands. I can feel the heat rising off them. I try making a fist. With a great deal of effort and searing pain, I discover it can be done.
An engine drones behind me. I barely get a chance to glimpse its signature before the aircraft opens fire. Pressing myself to the canvas, I brace for the holes I know will explode into my back. Instead, the fighter screams past. A large explosion ignites from behind, bathing me in heat. A giant blade flips over the side of the balloon to my right. They’ve hit a propeller. Chancing a look back, I see the remains of the strut that once held the blades aloft. It looks more like a torch now.
Terror spikes as the balloon compensates without the propeller to hold it up. I pick up speed, sliding towards the edge. Spiking my elbow down, momentum flips me around, away from the edge. In a final desperate effort, I fire my grappling hook. The hook arcs over the burning strut, disappearing past the curvature of the balloon.
I overshot.
I had one chance to make it. I’m dead because I couldn’t hit a target. A sickening mixture of sorrow and fury grip me. I claw and scrape for some way to slow myself down, but its no use. I begin hyperventilating as the edge charges towards me. No parachute, a grappling gun with no hook, no hand holds.
No hope.
I soar over the edge. The sky opens up underneath me, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I couldn’t protect Cass. I couldn’t come back to her. I should never have kissed her. It would’ve been much less painful if I were just a crewmate who didn’t make it back. I just had to try one more time to make myself something more.
All previous promises to myself to die with honor, grace and all that bullshit disappear in the cloudy vapor. I flail, punching at the air, trying to find some way to save myself. There’s nothing. An anguished scream escapes in the face of the final drop.
Then the hook catches.
My arm strains, fighting to pull from its socket. Shock snaps my feet together. Recoiling, I swing back towards the balloon. I don’t have time to ponder what act of providence swept down to intervene before I seize the gun with both hands. As the balloon swings back up, I pray it’s lost enough air to cushion my impact.
It hasn’t. I slam into a wall of cement. My vision muddies. I open my eyes to a cluster of rotating stars. I cry out as I realize they’re the least of my problem. Shaking off the impact, I can feel my left arm is dislocated clear out of my shoulder.
I grit my teeth as I tuck the grappling gun under my armpit. Shifting my weight, I use my one good arm to pull myself up with the cord. Once I’m high enough, I clamp the wire between my legs and clip the grappling gun back onto my belt. My strength’s failing. I just have to trust the clip’s going to hold me.
I let go.
My freefall ends in a merciful jolt and a taut line. Wind begins swinging me alongside the balloon. I let myself breathe. One crisis at a time. My mangled arm swings uselessly next to my side. Wracking my brain for solutions, I remember watching Cass reset a dislocation once. What was it she did? I think she circled the arm up over the patient’s head before proceeding to pop it back in. Well . . . it’s not like I have much of a choice.
Pressing my back flush against the wall of the balloon, I take a deep breath, then, taking hold of my limp wrist, I swing it in an arc over my head. Intense shooting pain immediately indicates that my technique’s incorrect. It feels like I’ve knotted the tendons. Pain explodes through my left side. My involuntary yell echoes out across the zeppelin, reverberating back to me. With my shaky good hand, I wipe the saliva and sweat stringing off of my lips. One more time.
Grasping my wrist again, I let the sweat pour over my closed eyes, visualizing exactly how Cass did it. More cautious this time. Slowly, I lift my arm towards my head. Pulling it in the widest arc I can, I feel the knob of the bone scraping around the recessed opening. I give it a little more encouragement.
A pop echoes out into the sky.
It’s in. Shock threatens my consciousness, but it’s in.
My body exhausts the last of its adrenaline. The stress and pain from my other wounds hit me harder than the balloon did. I try suppressing the retching, but fail. I vomit over the side of my grappling clip. Spitting, I watch with morbid curiosity as the wind sweeps my old lunch away into the abyss. The gusts swing me back and forth as I lie my head back, collecting myself.
Well . . . at least I’m alive.
Tenderly, I take my back off the wall. Planting my feet on the side, I look at the balloon for the first time. A giant-fanged skull stares back at me. You got to be fucking joking.
I landed on the wrong ship.
I shut my eyes and open them again, expecting a different outcome. The skull continues sneering at me. I slam my fist against the canvas. That was a mistake. My burns crack open, oozing blood.
Swearing, I suck on the open wounds, trying to formulate a plan. Ears pricked, I listen for any sign of life. The intermittent chatter of gunfire pulsates from below. The only way to go from here is down.
Slowly, I shift the base of my feet, placing them on the canvas until my torso is sitting in the air. Carefully, I release my grappling clip length by length, rappelling my way down the face of the balloon.
How could I have made such a stupid mistake, following that fighter so closely? All of this could’ve been avoided if I’d just kept my distance. I try comforting myself by imagining an alternate scenario wherein keeping my distance would have led to me becoming a fireball later on. Yeah, this is the best case scenario. I’ll make myself believe it.
The shots get louder as I crest the underside of the balloon. Figures move beneath me, flashes of light punctuating their gunfire. Dark objects scatter across the deck. Bodies: a lot of them. Unable to decipher who the figures are, I decide it’s best not to hail them. I’ll stay quiet for now.
One last click echoes before my harness jolts. My heart hits the bottom of my stomach. Looking down, I see the bare reel glint back at me as the sun shines through a blanket of clouds.
I’m stuck.
I bite the knuckle of the index finger on my newly reset arm. Hard. Old habits are tough to kick. I become acutely aware of how tired I am. All the bleeding and fighting for my life is wearing me out.
A glimmer catches my eye. I spy one of the cables fastened the balloon to the hull. It’s about twenty feet away, but it’s all I’ve got. Turning to my side, I press my hip up against the canvas. I let my childhood instincts kick in as I begin running along the side of the balloon. Gravity grabs hold toward the edge, dragging me back. Bit by bit, I gain momentum, swinging back and forth.
At the apex of a swing, I almost touch the cable with my foot. Swinging once more, I push my foot off the cable for extra propulsion. With this extra thrust, I swing my legs over the cable, hooking it with all of my strength.
My muscles tense against the strain. Sweat flows into my eyes, threatening to blind me. Throwing a hand up onto the cable, I inch the rest of my body onto the line. The grappling rope fights to rake me back over the side. Balancing, I unclip my grappling gun, letting it swing away. Perching on top of the cable, I take a few breaths, preparing myself.
My new view allows me to gaze into the expanse below. The clouds have moved in, covering the ground. There’s no green to be found, but the angle of the sun throws a purple shade across the tops of the clouds. They would be beautiful if they didn’t remind me of impending death. Wiping my hands on my jumpsuit, I begin climbing down the cable.
Luckily, the cable’s thick enough to allow me to get a good grip as I maneuver myself down. The wind laps lightly against my face, providing another blessing against the heat. In between my efforts t
o lower myself, I take tentative glimpses down, tracking the dark figures below. They don’t look friendly.
My hands could care less about all of my good fortune. They crack and bleed as I grip the cable. The blood makes the twisted steel rope slick, forcing me to take momentary breaks to wipe off my palms on my flight suit. It’s not very effective, but every little bit helps. I make it half way down the cable when I notice the guns cradled in the figures’ arms. They’re still too far away to make out their uniforms. For once, I wish the Admiral had made our uniforms bright pink: anything to help distinguish friend from foe.
I have to play it safe. The plan is to touch down on the hull as fast as I can and sprint to a door. I can’t stay out in the open. With this requirement in mind, I dash down last length of cable before stretching a boot onto the deck of the zeppelin.
I stop.
Mangled bodies lie everywhere. Flecks of gold peek out from the mess, but black and white uniforms dominate the carnage. My stealth plan falters as I catch sight of the nearest dead pirate.
I creep over to him. His eyes gaze out into the cloud bank. War paint covers his face. A grotesque, oversized, black-and-white mouth is super-imposed over his own. Sharp, pointed teeth extend past his lips, reaching almost to his ears. The ghoulish effect is unnerving.
Footsteps clack from behind the nearest through-way.
Flinching, I dive towards the nearest pile of bodies.
I gamble that my black flight suit will blend sufficiently into the pile of my own fallen marines. There’s enough blood on my back to make it appear as though I’ve been stabbed. For once, I breathe a prayer of thanks for my many injuries. I take a deep, quiet breath and lie motionless. The footsteps on the other side of the pile march closer. I splay my arms and legs out in an unnatural position for added effect.
The wind carries the sound of occasional pops of gunfire. Shutting my eyes, I listen to the soldiers’ conversation.
“Well, the Sergeant said we drove their line all the way back to the bow. I don’t know what we’re still doing here,” one says.
Another heavily accented voice answers, “We’re here because the boss thinks there’s gonna be a counter attack. We don’t know what their full strength is.”
Damn it, they need to mention something specific. I still can’t tell if they’re friend or foe.
“Hey Cliff! I coulda sworn this guy wasn’t here the last time we came through,” the first voice mentions.
I freeze.
Exhaling, the accented voice replies, “Well, maybe somebody killed him in between then and now.”
The first voice draws closer. It says more slowly this time, “Fuck off, the fighting’s down on the bow. Nobody’s been shot here for a while.”
His weapon snaps up.
I can’t help tensing. Did I give myself away?
“Hey! We know you weren’t here before. You best get up nice and slow if you don’t feel like getting shot in the back of the head,” the first voice commands.
I place my wager on feigning death.
The deck presses down underneath me as his boots draw up to my side. Phantom bullets drill into my skull. All I can do is hope.
The barrel of his rifle jams into my back.
A cry of pain betrays me as I reach back instinctively, putting pressure on my wound.
The second gun snaps up.
The soldier closest to me jumps back. “I fucking told you he was alive!” he yells.
The accented voice stops joking. “Alright Rex, I got your back. If he tries anything, I’ll paint the deck with ‘im.”
Time to make my move.
“That won’t be necessary,” I grunt through clenched teeth.
Slowly, I press my front up against the pile, raising my hands to the sky. Failure seeps into my chest. It’s not even the prospect of torture, I just never thought I’d surrender.
The soldier behind me pipes up, “Turn around, now! Slowly.”
Swallowing, I carefully turn to face them.
Their guns aren’t the first thing I notice. Both men sport gold bows over their hearts. Exhaling, I let myself relax for the first time, and hooking my index finger into my collar, I reveal my own brooch.
“Well, fancy that,” I breathe.
Their tension eases, and they drop the barrels of their guns.
“Are you trying to scare the shit out of us?” the marine closest to me shouts.
“Me? Scare you guys? Who’s the one with the gun?” I answer back.
The one with the heavy Southern U.S. accent moves his gun to the side. “Well hell, we didn’t know what you were packing. You’re lucky we didn’t drill you a new one,” he offers.
As the latest surge of adrenaline ebbs, exhaustion threatens to take my consciousness.
The marine called Cliff must’ve noticed I’ve gone pale. “Damn son, you need a medic bad,” he says.
I nod, trying to stop the shaking in my hands. “I think you’re right. What’s the quickest route to the Artemis?” I ask.
The southern man points at the passageway they just strolled through. “That pass, right there.”
I begin stumbling toward it, but the man blocks my way.
“Now, I wouldn’t try that just yet. We ain’t shot the green flare yet, far as I’ve seen, and our deck guards tend to have itchy trigger fingers.”
Right. Green flares also signal a successful boarding action. “Alright, what’s our next best option?” I ask.
Cliff breaks into a grin. “The frontlines, baby. We need every hand we can get. The faster we clear ‘em, the faster you can get out of here.”
A lump forms in my throat. I’ve never been in a boarding action before. “Ok . . . Take me where I can get patched up,” I say.
Cliff’s grin widens. “You got it Corporal.” He turns to his companion. “You got it from here Rex?”
Wondering how Cliff knows my rank, I remember the two chevrons pressing against my throat. Rex nods, turning over a body as he searches for loot.
I grimace. It’s a disgusting habit.
Cliff notices my unease. “You’re gonna to have to do it too. You better grab yourself a gun,” he says.
He’s right. Shaking out the tension in my hands, I kneel down to remove a rifle from one of our soldiers. She fights for it. I recoil before realizing it’s just rigor mortis setting in. I peel her white fingers away, one by one. She doesn’t need this gun any more. Her sidearm also makes a nice home in my empty clip.
Cliff appears disinterested, turning away to protect his newly lit cigarette from the wind.
Moving down the hull, I cock my new rifle, letting the barrel fall to my leg. Cliff keeps his eyes ahead, looking for any signs of trouble. As we make our way down the concourse, our soldiers’ ranks become thicker and the shots grow louder. One group of marines clusters around one of the ship’s bulkheads. It’s a dangerous ambush point for us, and a possible exit for the pirates. One marine holds a large shotgun up to her shoulder, covering the demo team placing charges along the outside of the door. I quicken my pace a bit to catch up with Cliff. I don’t want to be anywhere near that door when they decide to blow it.
I fall back in step with my southern guide as he gestures over with the cherry of his cigarette. “So Corporal, you’re one of the Admiral’s pilots, right?” he asks.
I keep scanning the upper levels of the ship. “That’s right,” I reply
Cliff pulls the sides of his lips down before taking another puff of his cigarette. “There were two flight officers attached to our battalion before we boarded this ship. One got dinged before he even made it off the Artemis. The other was some tough son-of-a-bitch who was the first one into the fray” he recalls.
I take a second to smile before asking, “Was this son-of-a-bitch a man or a woman?”
Cliff kicks aside a fallen pirate’s leg. “I reckon she was a woman, but you’d never know, the way she was barkin’ orders. She seemed a little higher ranked than what we’re used to gettin’
”, he says. “Didn’t seem to care much for us grunt types.”
My smile broadens. “Did she happen to have only one eye?” I ask.
Cliff raises his eyebrows, nodding. “You know . . . she did. She was a damn good shot too, although I suppose she doesn’t have to shut the other eye for every target she lines up. Could be real a time saver,” he laughs.
He lets his cigarette drop to his side. “What I’m saying Corporal, is where the hell’d you come from? ‘Cause you sure ain’t made it over since the blockade went up, and you didn’t jump with us.”
I carefully step over another one of our fallen marines. “I fell,” I say.
Cliff furrows his brow. “Whaddya mean ‘you fell’?”
I let out a sigh. “Well, I dropped with the rest of Gold Squadron and got tangled up. Long story short, I got my tail blown off and had to bail out onto this zeppelin,” I say.
He stops walking. “You landed on this ship?” he asks.
I gesture to my mangled face. “It didn’t exactly work out how I wanted it to.”
Cliff keeps his eyes on me. “Well, how in the world did you get down from there?”
I look up at the balloon. “I climbed, I guess.”
Cliff squints at me, pointing. “With those hands?”
After looking down at my cracked palms, I look back up at Cliff. “Yup.”
Cliff lets out a low whistle, flicking away the remnants of his cigarette. “And I thought that Flight Captain was a tough son-of-a-bitch.”
I start walking again. “She is. She taught me everything I know about flying,” I add.
Cliff stays rooted to his position. “Wait a minute, what’d you say your name was again?” he asks.
“I didn’t,” I answer, flexing the back of my jaw.
Cliff holds both his palms out in exasperation. “Well, what is it?”
I turn towards him, unable to stop myself from drawing up to my full height. “Corporal Sage Basmon,” I say.
Recognition flickers in Cliff’s eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with that Helios crash a little while back, now would you?” he asks.
With Eyes Turned Skyward Page 7
