With Eyes Turned Skyward

by Gregory Stravinski

  “Welcome everyone,” the Admiral’s baritone echoes through the hangar.

  If I look closely, I can see his Adam’s apple bob. This is one of the first times he’s ever seen all the souls on the ship in the same place at once. I’m as awestruck as he is.

  “As we are all painfully aware, we were attacked two weeks ago today,” the Admiral continues, folding his hands behind his back and drawing himself to his full height. “This was no ordinary attack. We were not even the intended target. We were simply an obstacle in the path of a lumbering monster. One that has no remorse, no thought of diplomacy, no mercy.”

  The Admiral’s grey eyes sweep the crowd, taking them all in. “We watched as they tore out the beating heart of our trade. We watched as they turned on us, eager to fill themselves on our resources, our people. With a little luck and an overwhelming amount of bravery on the part of our pilots and crew, we were able to escape the impending death.”

  Several in the crowd shift uneasily. One pilot in particular stands stone still, leaning over a crutch. I realize it’s Yeti. His recovery has come a long way in just two weeks.

  I pick up the Admiral’s words again as he continues, “. . . was averted, I’m here to introduce to you a man that can provide us with a new hope, someone who will help me guide us to greater security and profit.”

  He’s giving me all the rope I need to hang myself.

  “I present to you, Lieutenant ‘Saber’ Basmon.”

  I stand up, my heart pulsing in my ears. My legs pump mechanically. I’m so off balance, I’m afraid I’ll fall over. Walking to the center of the stage, Admiral Khan gestures grandiosely towards the microphone. The expression on his face displays not so much encouragement as victory, like a chess master about to force a checkmate.

  I nod to him silently, closing the distance to the open microphone.

  My mouth cracks open as butterflies flap around in my throat. It’s hard to get anything out, but I know I need to start.

  I take a deep breath “How many of you know who Artemis was?” I ask.

  It’s a question that hasn’t been posed in a long time. Who cares about a ship’s name sake? We’ve been sailing at time-and-half speed to get away from the fallout of Shipwreck, and ancient mythology is the last thing on most passengers’ minds. A few murmurs spread through the crowd, but no one answers.

  “She was the Greek goddess of Protection,” I say, “She watched over the young women, the cattle, the crops in the fields. Everything that a person could hold dear, she was charged with protecting.”

  Silence.

  “When Admiral Khan christened this ship during its first launch 32 years ago, the world was a lot worse than it is now, if you can believe it. People were still being hunted because of the color of their skin . . . their ethnicity. Because their neighbor thought they had more food.” I fold my sweating hands behind my back. “The Admiral built a place where people wouldn’t have to worry about any of that, where any nationality was welcomed, where they could feel protected.”

  It’s bullshit. He did it for profit.

  “How many of you have lost a loved one to shrapnel? To combat? To disease?” I ask. “Maybe they’re still breathing, standing next to you, but you have no idea who they are. Stress and trauma transforming who they once were. They don’t laugh like they used to, or maybe at all. Their eyes always somewhere else.”

  I lick my lips. Pela, Mom, Aoife.

  “These are the symptoms of prey. Telltale signs of the hunted.”

  Discomfort flows around me.

  “But there was another domain that Artemis ruled over. She was the goddess of the Hunt.”

  I look out over the thousand faces. “For so long, we’ve spent our time being protectors. For the last 30 years, we’ve braced our hands over our faces, as blow after blow poured in. We’d fend off our attackers and called it victory.” I pause.

  “Today, we chose our target!” I shout, “they don’t chose us!”

  A cry goes up.

  “Today we become the hunters. It’s our destiny to taste of first blood, rather than the blood of our own wounds!”

  The goose bumps rise. “How many times has the Artemis succumbed to attacks by bandits or privateers? Never! Like many of you, I’ve lived my whole life on this ship, and it’s never surrendered. Not once.”

  “We’ve been given a unique opportunity. We know the location of our enemy, and have received pledges of support from no less than four other zeppelins and their crews. For once, we will be on the offensive. For once, we will dictate the time and place we attack them. It will be on our terms.”

  I think of the crew scattered around the Artemis who had to remain at their designated stations to operate the ship. The sound of my voice pumps through the PA system; I hope they hear every word. “But I know everyone doesn’t come from the same place as me. Some of you are new arrivals, or just traveling a short distance. I understand that. Some of you have been here since the beginning, but you follow a pacifist doctrine. I respect that.”

  A bead of sweat runs down the side of my face.

  “I will only take the willing. If this isn’t your fight, I don’t want you here. We’ll never make it unless everyone onboard truly believes in this mission. We can’t hesitate, not even for a second. It’s our turn to protect others, not just ourselves.”

  A roar rises from below.

  Blood surges through my veins, running on pure electricity. I turn to the Admiral in an effort to relinquish the microphone so he can complete the hardest step. His checkmate smile widens. Instead of coming to take the stage, he subtly motions for me to continue.

  He was never going to do the dirty work himself.

  My anger conquers any remaining resistance in my mind. “We will attack the Cascade at their heart.”

  I lick my lips. I only have one shot to do this right. My eyes flick to the military personnel flanking either side of the crowd. One last breath urges me onward. “If you’re not a hunter, you need to make that decision now.”

  Personnel step in, separating the crowd into two parts. “We will be resupplying at World’s End. If you have family you would like to keep safe, or you yourself choose to turn in your arms, I would recommend that you disembark and schedule alternative transport from there.” I say.

  Angry growls meet the end of my last sentence.

  “We will not be docking at New Boston as our manifest originally states.” I lock eyes with the Admiral once more, confirming my next order. “Being given the option to serve during the assault on the Ark is considered ample repayment for any inconveniences you may encounter due to this executive decision.”

  A lump forms in my throat. The officers lay down thick red tape through the center of the Roost. Military personnel push back the struggling halves until they stand on either side of the forming line.

  I fight to keep my composure. “Those of you standing to my right will remain on the Artemis and fight alongside its crew. Those of you to my left, you will be released from service and contract at World’s End when we set down there. You will be given your dock passes immediately, if this is what you chose.”

  Swallowing down the lump, I manage to continue. “You will have until the red line is established to make this decision.”

  Some in the crowd don’t even wait that long, ducking under the arms of the personnel and running over to the left side. To safety. Parents push their children and spouses over to the safe side of the line. Spouses pause to kiss one another before stepping over. Mothers and fathers choosing to stay, toe the line as their family moves farther away from them.

  I watch the volunteers’ thoughts churn in their minds; they know they’d be safer together. Something keeps them from following the others. These are the men and women we need to fight for us.

  Fuck you Khan. Fuck you for the way you chose to do this.

  I turn around, expecting to find him gloating over his victory, but that’s not what I witness at all.

  Th
e Admiral watches as the community he built from scratch splits in half. His snide grin is nowhere to be found. As much as the separation affects the families below, it’s taking a much greater toll on him. This is everything he has. For once, I truly understand what we’re gambling to win.

  Looking back, the crowd continues surging as it sorts itself. I can’t take my eyes off a particular young man. He can’t be more than twenty. He cautiously toes the line from the left side. In front of him lies the story of a lifetime, if he lives to tell it. Behind him is a sure pass off the ship. That being said, World’s End is exactly as its name implies: a bare mass of rock on the farthest tip of the North American continent. Ships still land there, but it’s miles from the nearest major trade lane. Its climate is cold and unforgiving. I can’t imagine there’s much industry or choice in the way of honest employment. It is however, in the direct flight path between us and the Ark.

  Watching the young man struggling with his decision, I force my feet over to the right side of the line laid out below the podium. No one in front will notice, but I will. I have to believe in it too. If I don’t think we can do it, then I certainly can’t expect everyone else to follow suit.

  Despite my efforts, the left side of the Roost is heavily favored. Safety’s an uncommon common luxury. Anytime risk can be minimized; most people will take the path of least resistance. We’re looking for those who acknowledge that and choose to stay anyway. My bet is they’re less likely to run when the time comes.

  As the movements lessen, I recover enough to deliver the final instructions. “Those who have chosen to disembark, you will now receive your dock passes. Those who have chosen to fly with us and can hold a sword, you will be assigned to a battalion if you are not already. If you have flight experience, or believe you have the aptitude to fly in our ranks, voice it immediately so you may be assigned a squadron if you are not already.”

  I step back from the microphone, watching the yellow passes being distributed to those who won’t help us; the sane ones. Officers patrol the ranks of those on the right, those who will, collecting their names so they can be sorted to where they’re most needed.

  The young man takes a step over to the right side and squares his shoulders.

  What’s done is done.

  The next few days pass in a blur. Captain Dixon takes it upon herself to teach me proper sword play. She does so under the presupposition that if I were to fail in combat because I didn’t know how to properly handle a sword, ‘We would be the laughing stock of the Northern Hemisphere.’ Always such a sweet woman.

  Sleep’s a precious luxury now. There’s no malady; I just won’t let myself do it. Every moment that passes where I’m not preparing for the assault feels like a moment wasted. My nerves begin to fray, holding their position against barrage after barrage of worry.

  It’s all I can do to keep the sword pommel up to block Dixon’s blows. Each time steel clashes against steel, I breathe a “thank you” to whoever’s listening that I still have both my hands. In truth, the Captain could have sliced either one of my arms clean off at least half a dozen times each at this point.

  With each session, her frustration becomes increasingly apparent. She makes us practice with actual weapons at a higher pace than I feel comfortable. Dixon ignores my misgivings, telling me that it will teach me to respect the seriousness of the situation. I’m entirely aware of the consequences, but I could do without being reminded of them at every waking turn. This doesn’t stop her from applying enough force to break the skin if she can sense I’m not paying attention.

  Her latest reminder catches me between the thumb and forefinger.

  Crying out, I nurse the blossoming cut, sucking on the ragged opening.

  “Won’t do you much good Lieutenant. Best to leave it alone and let the air do the healing for you,” Captain Dixon growls.

  She’s losing her patience again. I feel the opening of the cut pull apart as I grip the pommel of the saber again. The feeling of open flesh expanding makes me so uncomfortable that, I unconsciously switch the sword to my other hand and start sucking on the wound again.

  That’s the last straw.

  “Goddamit Lieutenant! Are you a fucking child? Do you realize that within the next few weeks I’m going to be a real Cascade grunt trying my damnedest to slit your throat?”

  I pull my hand away from my mouth. “I know! I know! Can’t you tell that’s all I’ve been thinking about?” I yell.

  The Captain grits her teeth, hitting the flat of her blade against my calf. “Yes!”

  Recoiling, I instinctively put my sword back up between us.

  She lowers hers, putting her face up to mine. “Try commanding a battalion. That’s all I’ve thought about for the last nine years.”

  I sheath my saber. “Well now I’m the acting commander of a strike-group whose success is the keystone of the entire assault. Doesn’t that count?”

  The Captain’s eye burns. “You get that sword back out immediately!” she growls.

  Dixon’s blade whistles down at my forehead. Adrenaline fueled by self-preservation is the only thing granting me the speed to react. I barely force the blade out of the hilt before it deflects the Captain’s attack.

  My back hits the floor. I twist around, scrambling back to my feet.

  “Do you have any mercy at all?” I ask.

  The Captain’s mouth sets, watching me get back to my base. “No,” she says quietly. Her eye flashes up to meet mine. “Because our enemies sure as hell won’t.”

  Shaken, I try catching my breath. “Well, you had a first time commanding that many people. What do you suggest I do?” I ask.

  “I suggest that you stop being such a pussy about it,” she scolds.

  Anger seeps back in, nullifying damaged muscle fibers.

  “Just lead. You wouldn’t be in this position if you couldn’t do that,” she spits out.

  She doesn’t realize the big picture.

  “You’ve done it before Lieutenant Basmon. You can do it again,” she says, gritting her teeth. “Now come at me, you fucking coward.”

  The adrenaline hits my heart. I rush at her, goosebumps bristling. I throw all my weight into slashes and parries, cutting wildly. It’s what she wants, but I keep feeding into it.

  Sprawling into a lunge, I know I’ve overextended. The fear in my gut collides with a physical component as the side of the Captain’s blade catches me in the stomach.

  The impact knocks me skidding to my knees.

  “Dead,” Captain Dixon says dismissively, walking away with her sword on her shoulder.

  A bead of sweat drips from my hair onto the floor. “I know, I know!” I shout, equally impatient. “It’s all about balance.”

  The Captain twists around, approaching with her saber outstretched. “No Lieutenant, you don’t know.”

  My feet fly back underneath me, preparing for another attack.

  The Captain takes no notice. “It’s about momentum, not balance. You could have the best balance in the whole world, but I bet I can still drive this sword through you.”

  I try rearranging myself, confused about how I should be positioned.

  The Captain’s eye fixes on me. “If you’re perfectly balanced right now, that means you’re a stationary target. What happens to stationary targets in battle?”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “They die.”

  Her eye widens. “Good! They die.” She grips her blade, bringing it up. “Now you have to figure out how to flow through your enemies’ attacks,” she says, cutting her edge delicately through the air. “Most won’t be trained like you and me. They’ll be fighting for their lives. They’ll act and react like it too.”

  My sweat chills at the thought of the melee.

  Dixon pantomimes the maneuvers. “We either use our momentum to cut into a target, or let them use theirs to guide themselves onto our swords. What are we never doing?” she asks.

  I bring my eyes up, meeting hers for the first time. “
Standing still.”

  Her gaze softens just enough to make me believe I’ve made progress. “Good,” she says. “Now get some rest.”

  The weight seeps back into my body again, no longer kept at bay by adrenal chemicals.

  The hardness comes back into her eye. “Lieutenant?” she says.

  I stop walking. “Yes Captain?” I ask, carefully turning around.

  She sticks her point into the floor. “Never let anyone under your command ever know that you’re worried.”

  I stay silent.

  “And I mean never,” she repeats.

  My weight shifts backwards, absorbing her words.

  “Not just on the battlefield either,” she continues. “Most of the men and women under your command will be watching you wherever you go. They’ll use you as a monitor for how frightened they should be feeling. For how certain you are of an order. For whether or not they’re doing the right thing. You are always on stage.”

  The permanence of her advice sinks in.

  “Do you understand me?” she asks firmly.

  “Yes Captain,” I exhale.

  Just one more stage on which to be someone else’s player.

  18

  Chill fogs the edges of our portholes as World’s End slips into view. It truly is the edge of civilization. Black soot covers the smoky rooftops and dots the landscape as dark, frothy waves crash into the base of the mountain below. The sight of the grey foam curling back under the waves makes me shiver.

  World’s End is too far north to be the first accessible trading post between the American and the European Archipelagos, and not big enough to support any major trade that might find it by dumb luck. World’s End exists through the sheer brute desire to survive.

  As we coast over the town center, I glimpse the tops of blimps looming over the buildings below. The three allied zeppelins that have arrived before us take up nearly all of the port space in the small trading post. There will be barely enough room to fit both The Artemis and the Iranian merchant carrier Sohrab. The Persian vessel lumbers behind us, awaiting docking clearance.