With Eyes Turned Skyward

by Gregory Stravinski

  “It was a brave thing you did Sage. It could have ended much worse. I’ll try to make sure the food redistribution doesn’t draw too much ire from the Bridge. You know how the Admiral likes to make sure his troops get fed first,” she says.

  I nod curtly, watching her as she walks towards the exit of the Cellar without looking back.

  As I turn back to apply more paint, Ja’el’s toothy grin greets me from underneath the fuselage. Finding my eyes, he keeps his overly large smile and raises both his eyebrows into a question.

  “Get back to work,” I say, shaking my head.

  Ja’el closes his lips over his teeth, but maintains his grin. He shrugs as moves back to his side. I guess neither of us are very subtle.

  Dipping my paintbrush again, I realize this is the first time I’ve ever done art as a form of recreation. It’s something entirely different than the world I know. I’m calmer than I can ever remember; actually sensing each one of my muscles releasing their tension.

  Of course, my relaxation is due in large part to Sabine for stepping up into the role of main caretaker for our refugees. They relay any problems or needs to her, and I provide the authority to get most of what they need. It saves me a lot of time, instead of constantly going from cabin to cabin checking on all of them. Cass has also proven invaluable in getting the refugees what they need, including medical care. Some of her fellow nurses, including Captain Dixon’s daughter Fiona, have taken up the cause as well. Thankfully, everyone’s remaining tight lipped about it.

  Most families with whom we’ve quartered refugees are understanding. In many cases, they’ve found themselves in similar situations in the past, and like our quartermasters, agreed to return the favor. The process hasn’t been without issues or conflicts, but somehow we’ve found enough space and food to keep most of the castaways alive and stable until we reach Shipwreck.

  Likewise, the refugees are grateful for the kindness they’ve received. Many do everything they can to reciprocate. The ship’s adoption of these people has made many of the passengers realize that their own lives could, in fact, be worse.

  Despite this, the closer we draw to Shipwreck, the more I can see that passengers are on edge. The rumors about whole cities being leveled are becoming more frequent. The spreading stories all have one thing in common: the sudden appearance of a large, dark ship that blots out the sun. Of course, no one who’s told those stories has actually been a survivor themselves. Regardless, the descriptions match Sabine’s narrative, and it’s enough to get me talking with other pilots and marines.

  What makes the reports even more odd is the indifference the warship and its fleet display towards their targets. Other than engaging and destroying the local militia, it seems that their only function is to harvest the material beneath the chosen cities, then simply fly away. There’s no occupying force, no executions, no chasing or routing of pilots.

  Many passengers dismiss the rumors altogether. In their minds, the house isn’t on fire unless they can see the flames. After all, what could possibly be more important than protecting one’s own wellbeing? Unlike our refugees, resources are too scarce to help the people they cannot see.

  I strain to keep my arm steady while applying a darker edge to the peeled mosaic under my cockpit, hoping that perception is not true.

  The days go by. More reports surface. Among the latest attacks is Winchester City. One of the dead is one of The Artemis’s most prominent munitions dealers, Lemmy O’Phelan. First an export king-pin, next a gun manufacturer, and now a munitions mogul. What’s the connection? None of the men were extorted for money. Though they all had enemies, none have stepped forward to take responsibility. Whatever the motivation, it has our supply lines in flux. The Admiral has to find new trade routes, and quickly. With the logistics issues that have been plaguing Kafi Exports since Amani Ibrhim’s death, and without Vitortov’s guns and O’Phelan’s consistent flow of scarce ammunition, the existence of the Artemis itself is threatened. My talks with the platoon sergeants and wing leaders become more serious.

  To take my mind off it, I wind my plane’s tattoo across its fuselage, focusing on paint rather than global conflicts. I only fly it for training missions and scheduled maintenance, but out in the cockpit, I can view the world in a way I’ve never see it before. I volunteer for extra flight hours, even taking midnight patrol shifts. I watch the sun go down right after dinner; there’s something about the way the sky bleeds red around a perfect orange semi-circle. I love looking up towards the top of my canopy and seeing the red/orange mixture thread its way into the darkness behind me.

  It feels like home.

  Otherwise, it’s been quiet in our airspace since The Legion attacked. The peace feels like it’s come at the perfect time. Between the warship rumors, recent losses, breaks in our supply lines, and fatigue from the journey, I don’t think the crew could take another assault.

  Then again, that’s what I would’ve said right before the Legion hit us.

  11

  The sun’s rays pierce into my little cave. They’re not the only things hindering my ability to stay asleep.

  “Oi, wake up lad!” Olan says, pushing me.

  I growl something incoherent, hunching myself further into my covers.

  Not to be discouraged, Olan applies more pressure. “Oi, on your feet man!”

  In a last ditch effort, I curl up into a tight ball, lying motionless. My sleep-deprived mind sincerely believes this will make me appear dead, and therefore not worth the trouble.

  The pushing stops.

  I smile at my triumph. It worked . . . Sleep is mine.

  Until the earth turns beneath me. The bed gives way, flipping me into the air. Hitting the side of the wall, I slide back down to my now-exploded linens, unfurled and defenseless.

  “Dammit Olan!” I croak.

  I should’ve chosen to room with a weaker man.

  “Oh shush,” Olan replies. “We’ve caught sight of Shipwreck and I know how much you miss seeing solid land.”

  This is news worth losing sleep for.

  “Really?”, I reply.

  Aoife pops her head around the corner of our door, giggling. “We get to dock soon!” she shouts.

  This will be one of the few times in her life her father has let her set foot off of the ship. Most ports we do business at aren’t places for children, or really anyone for that matter. Aoife runs down the hallway, outfitted in her absolute best: a vibrant red dress that her mother made. She can hardly contain herself.

  Olan gives me a tired look before going off to fetch her. As worried as Olan is, Aoife’s energy is contagious. She can look at the smallest things in life and find a way to make them spectacular. Then again, port landings are special for the whole crew. Even though the harbors we land at are often depressed or dangerous, they still provide a chance for everyone to get off the ship and stretch their legs. It’s a great luxury. . . if you can afford the expense of flight.

  While the merchants haggle and accrue inventory, the rest of the crew can find various diversions portside. Renting out one of the side arms from the armory and striking out to explore the port and surrounding areas is usually enough adventure for me. Not exactly the safest route, but I haven’t had a chance to know anything more than the ship for most of my life. Living vicariously through books and stories is enough for a while, but one day I just had pick up and go see it in person.

  Now that the tides are receding again, people are reclaiming our ancestors’ land plot by plot. It’s arduous, backbreaking work consisting of clearing out the dense thickets of amphibious seaweed, avoiding hidden quicksand, and uncovering the nests of creatures who’ve adapted to the area. Ah, the joys of everyday life at clearing camps.

  Most of the population tends to stay far away from the tree line, so the camps are often inhabited by either the most desperate, or the most intrepid. Usually both. Either way, they’re a goldmine for intel due to a few contacts I’ve made over the years and the general cult
ure of having loose lips. I’m usually a welcomed guest since I’m a crewman. They appreciate any news I can bring them about the rest of the world, and are usually more than happy to trade me dinner and some inside info in exchange for a story about one of my adventures. They also don’t mind counting me as one more weapon if the camp comes under attack.

  There’s something exhilarating about stepping out to the very edge of a sea forest and just peering in. Every once in a while, it’s possible to catch a glimpse of a pillar, or parts of a bridge from the Old World. Most buildings and structures from back then have been decimated by the sea, but sometimes their foundations still remain. There have even been reports of entire sections of cities being found intact, but I’ve never been lucky enough to stumble upon anything like that. That being said, I usually don’t peer into the maw very long before a low growl from inside sends me running back to camp.

  Pulling my coat up around my neck, I step out into the gusts. When I get to the banister, the squall lets up for a few moments before picking up again. Stenia leans over the barrier taking in the view below. She doesn’t say anything as I come up to her side. Her hair’s tied into a tight military braid that runs down her back.

  “What’s on your mind?” I ask quietly.

  She doesn’t take her eyes away from the fields below. “You know I don’t like landing, Baz.”

  I make a play to try catching her eyes. “Brings back bad memories?”

  She keeps them fixed below, nodding silently. So much for taking her mind off of it. I take the bait, staring down at the encroaching earth. It’s uncanny. I’m so used to being fifteen thousand feet in the air that seeing individual details on the surface is disconcerting.

  A sprawling patchwork threads underneath us, dotted with tiny obelisks next to each small hamlet. Upon closer inspection, the shiny pieces of metal become upturned anti-aircraft guns. Constructed by local merchants and manned by the local militia. Shipwreck’s governor stumbled upon the brilliant idea that a person would go to great lengths to fight for him, if it was to literally defend their own home. Smart man.

  Another presence joins us. Sabine approaches; she’s wearing a blue cloth dress with her eyes cast towards the earth.

  “Anything interesting?” she asks.

  Stenia maintains her silence. I pick up the slack. “Just getting ourselves prepared to walk on land again.”

  Sabine looks up with a coy smile. “Is that usually a difficult task to accomplish?”

  I lean out over the railing. “The first time I got off of the Artemis, my first visit was to a local bathhouse. Once I finally got in the shower, I made the mistake of closing my eyes.” I say, slapping my hands together. “Immediately lost my balance and landed face first on the tiling.”

  Sabine exhales in what could be a laugh as she reaches up for her studded arm. Her discomfort is becoming palpable.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Sabine shakes out her left hand, using her thumb to flatten out her palm. “It’s nothing.”

  I give her a prodding glance.

  She gives a little more. “I don’t know, my stones are acting up. They hurt more than usual.” She gingerly touches her studded arm again. “I haven’t felt like this since right after Raltz and I escaped.” She lets out an uncharacteristic sigh. “I’m not sure what it means.”

  “It probably means you’ve got the jitters.”

  Stenia’s voice cuts through the air.

  Sabine looks up. “Yes . . . perhaps.”

  Stenia’s already pledged to assist us if and when the time comes to go after Garon, so I’m comfortable talking with Sabine around her. Although Sabine has her allegiance, Stenia’s done nothing to foster a friendship between the two of them. Truth be told, I think Stenia only pledged herself because of our relationship; she doesn’t seem to like Sabine as a person, as much as she likes Sabine as an idea.

  The moment’s interrupted by the giggle of a child.

  “Uncle Sage! Have you seen it yet?” Aoife shouts, running through the crowd.

  “Seen what hon?” I ask, picking her up.

  She uses her new height advantage to scan the horizon. “The balloon!” she says, “Daddy says we’ll know we’re there once we can see the big balloon.”

  I shake my head. “Nope, haven’t seen it yet. But I’ll be sure to yell once I do.”

  Aoife nods, rocking back and forth with her whole body. Abandoning her search, she turns to Sabine. “You’re pretty,” she says, hiding into my arm.

  Caught off guard, Sabine furrow’s her brow. “Thank you. And what’s your name my dear?”

  “My name’s Aoife,” the child responds. “Are you a princess?” she asks, getting back down to business.

  Sabine’s jaw tightens before relaxing. “You know? I suppose I am. Are you?” she asks.

  “No,” Aoife says, “I don’t think so anyways.” Her eyes fall to Sabine’s damaged arm. “How did you get hurt?” she asks.

  Sabine looks down, placing a finger on a stone. “There was an accident.”

  “And we don’t ask strangers about their injuries. Remember?” Olan says, finally finding us.

  “I was just curious,” Aoife offers as I hand her over to her father.

  “Well, be curious with different questions, Love,” Olan states.

  Sabine looks up. “It’s ok. The child has an enquiring mind. That’s the sign of a good father.”

  Olan nods his thanks before moving to bring Aoife back to our cabin for final preparations.

  “I hope you feel better!” Aoife yells as she disappears into the crowd.

  As smile twitches over Sabine’s face as she leans over the railing. Raltz and Sabine stand to either side of us, creating natural barriers against the flow of traffic. To anyone else, we look like two lovers trying to control our palpable tension as we enjoy the scenery. It’s a perfect guise; chances are we’ll be left alone.

  “How many do we have in a pinch?” she whispers quietly.

  I keep my voice low. “We have 14 pilots pledged out of 33. None of the Red Swans have taken us up on our offer. They’re the ones I’m most worried about. Nothing’s keeping their mouths shut but gold. I also can’t imagine Lieutenant Baltier buying into the idea of having his mercenary core diverted for a task that wasn’t in their contract. Either way, they’re excellent fighters and well equipped, so we have to try to get them to help, at the very least. Lastly, three platoon leaders out of eight believe they could rally their soldiers when the time comes.”

  Sabine nods silently. Although she’s playing at being aloof, I can tell Stenia’s also leaning in to hear our conversation.

  Exhaling, I give any built-up stress a chance to dissipate. “It’s hardly an army, but it’ll have to do for now.”

  Sabine eyes are lost in strategy, as she mentally places the available pieces where they need to go.

  “I appreciate your help. You know that, right?” she whispers.

  I manage a stretched grin. “I do. But we have to realize this isn’t going to stay a secret for very long.” I glance around at the passengers surrounding us. “We’re getting the word out to far too many people for there not be loose lips.”

  Sabine inclines her head. “I know. That’s part of the tactic. However, once word does get out, the hope is that we’ve built a strong enough base of soldiers who already understand the situation.”

  I bite my lip, considering it.

  The land rolls closer, and with it the telltale blimp of Shipwreck pops up over the horizon. The settlement got its name years ago from a downed merchant zeppelin. An accident occurred when the ship’s magazine pierced several of the compartments of its balloon, and the rest of the settlement was built on the carcass of the once airborne vessel.

  The survivors of the crash realized they were too far from any trade lanes or settlements to be saved before their supplies ran out, so they foraged for food. Once they knew foraging wouldn’t be enough to sustain them in the long run, they scraped
out a meager existence in the land. Over time, their crash site was discovered, and eventually it became a regular trade post along the Spine.

  Shipwreck’s once white balloon has acquired a green hue over the years, and its hull has been hollowed out and fashioned into a town hall of sorts. Despite its dilapidated appearance, Shipwreck has endured as an example of the power of the human spirit. If this is what the pinnacle of humanity looks like, then I’d hate to see the alternatives.

  I say my goodbyes to Sabine and Stenia before making my way to the Cellar. I need to make sure my plane’s properly secured before landing. Wouldn’t want someone taking off with it for some extra scrap. As I enter the Cellar, Yeti catches up to me from his corner of the hangar. “Hey Baz, you still headed out to the Treeline with Cass?”

  Ettero arrives as he always is: gregarious and eager. Luckily for me, he’s also proven he’s the kind of pilot who’s willing to lay down his life to keep his wing safe.

  Waving, I keep on walking. “Hey Yeti. That is in fact, the plan.”

  Yeti matches my gait as we cruise past the Red Swan section of the hangar. About a fourth of the Swans are making preparations to move their fighters out entirely. It’s not uncommon for this to happen once we hit major ports. Landings tend to mark the end of many mercenary contracts. Maybe they’ve had enough of a pilot’s life, maybe they’re transferring to a more profitable ship, maybe they’re just going to squirrel away everything they’ve made so far and carve out a new beginning. It must be nice to have options.

  Yeti doesn’t pay much attention to them. “Well hey. I just realized you and Cass probably want your space, huh?”

  I rub the back of my head without realizing it. I don’t want to keep Ettero out, but sometimes things are a little bit more peaceful without him.

  “Aw Yeti, you know it’s not like that. We’d love to have you come along with us.”

  I’m not a very good liar.

  For having such a buoyant personality, Ettero’s very keen on reading people. He claps a hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

  “Baz, you don’t have to worry about me, man. Hey, I hear the Treeline’s got more than a couple places to hide if you don’t want to be found, huh?” he prods.