by J M D Reid
“Did you say black mold, Lieutenant?” Vel asked, his throat dry.
“Yes. It crumbles into a fine, dry powder, like pepper. That’s probably how the disease spreads. You inhale or ingest the powder.”
It struck Vel. Riasruo Above, what did I do? What did Wriavia give me?
“Lieutenant,” another sailor called. “I think Sriechen’s got it. Her throat’s all swollen up and black.”
“Black?” Lieutenant Jhoch asked.
“Aye, Lieutenant.”
“This is bad,” he muttered, then blinked at Ary and Vel. “I Storming gave you pair an order. It’s dangerous down here. You can’t be around her.”
Vel backed away as dizziness beset him. Blood rushed to his mind as he struggled to breathe. I did this . . .
“Why’s it bad?” Ary demanded.
“The choking plague has a few varieties. Black, swollen lymph nodes are symptoms of the worst. I can’t tell on your wife in these lighting conditions, but if it’s the black strangler, then she’s probably going to die. Only one in four or five survives it instead of three in four.” The lieutenant paused. Ary’s face grew pale. “I’m sorry, son, but you need to get topside. Breathing the air down here is bad.”
Wriavia gave me a disease? Why? Vel gripped the railing of the stairs, thoughts whirling. Then everything went still as he thought, Riasruo Above, how many others are going to die?
Vel fled topside.
*
Isamoa 32nd, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Ary’s mind refused to work properly. Chaylene was dying just like Srias had. He was that same, helpless boy again, unable to save her. He’d watched Srias die choking. I can’t watch Chaylene go through the same.
The Bosun’s hand clapped on his shoulder, giving Ary a squeeze. “She’s a fighter, your wife. She’s got spunk. She’ll pull through.”
“Yeah,” Ary nodded without thought.
He was barely aware of his surroundings as dread clawed through his body. He leaned against the wall in the first officer’s room. The captain was recuperating in her stateroom, the usual spot for meetings, so they took the next largest cabin. Chief Fossein, the quartermaster, Lieutenant-Captain Chemy, Lieutenant Ompfeich, the Bosun, and the Zzuk warleader crowded the cramped quarters around the medical officer, gathering for a meeting as dawn neared.
“How bad is it?” Chemy, the acting captain, asked.
“Bad,” Lieutenant Jhoch answered, voice partly muffled by a rag soaked in wood alcohol tied over his mouth and nose. “We already have two crew members in the advanced stages of the choking plague, and I’m positive there are more infected.”
The Bosun coughed, loud and barking. “Theisseg’s scrawny feathers,” she groaned, closing her one good eye. “I got it, don’t I? Storms curse it all.”
Lieutenant-Captain Chemy paled, rubbing at her throat with one hand, the fingers of her other forming the sun, touching thumb and little finger. She muttered, “Riasruo Above, shine your feathery light upon us.”
“First, the ship is now quarantined under Article 16,” the medical officer declared. “We cannot get closer than sight of a skyland. Second, all crew members who show any signs of illness must be confined to the upper hold. Any who are seriously ill must be kept in the lower hold. Sergeant, your marines and the auxiliaries will ensure the quarantine is maintained.”
Warleader Nskuapz flicked his tongue.
“Sergeant?” the medical officer repeated.
“Yes, sir,” Ary whispered, dread twisting his stomach into pain-filled knots.
“We need to keep the healthy crew above deck and away from the sick. The fresh air will help protect them.”
“What about the Windwardens?” asked Chemy. “They have to go into the hold to charge the engine twice a day.”
“They will have to wear masks soaked in wood alcohol.” Jhoch touched the rag over his mouth. “I do not have enough of a supply for more than myself and them.”
Chemy nodded and coughed.
Lieutenant Ompfeich, acting first officer, edged away from Chemy, his Agerzak face somehow growing even paler.
“Last, we need to know who has had the choking plague. They’ll be immune.”
Ary gave a bitter snort. Once again, I’ll live.
“Sergeant, I know you’re under strain fearing for your wife, but you will comport yourself with dignity.”
“I had it as a kid,” Ary answered.
Srias’s face rose in his mind, drenched in sweat as she coughed out her life. Her features morphed into Chaylene’s ebony face. Ary clenched his fists, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to batter the image away.
“That’s good,” the lieutenant said. “Those who are immune can move through the quarantine without fear. I’ll need their help in the hold.”
“How many will get sick?” Chemy asked.
“I don’t know. But I don’t expect more than a quarter who do to survive.”
The Bosun doubled over, coughing her lungs out. “Theisseg dammit,” she muttered when she straightened. “Let’s get to it. I’ll keep them in line down in the hold for as long as I can.”
Chemy nodded. “Let’s—”
An urgent knock rapped on the door. “There’s something wrong with Lieutenant Xoaren,” a scared woman cried. “He’s real ill. I think he’s got it . . .”
Everyone went still in the room. One Windwarden was sick. If they both died, the Dauntless’s engine would lose power and fall out of the sky.
“Sergeant, come with me since you’re immune,” the medical officer said. “Lieutenant-Captain, I’ll leave the quarantine in your hands.”
A strange sense of gratitude swelled in Ary as he followed the medical officer. He needed to do something. They found Lieutenant Tharele, the other Windwarden, clutching herself in the hallway.
“Wait out on the stern deck,” Lieutenant Jhoch ordered.
“Sir,” she breathed and darted away, her body hunched beneath her dark-blue coat.
Ary opened the door across the hall that the two Windwardens shared. Lieutenant Xoaren wheezed, his face flushed and coated in a sheen of sweat. A rank must filled the room. Ary stood remote while the medical officer performed the same examination on Xoaren as he had on Chaylene.
Ary squeezed his eyes shut.
Please don’t let her die, Riasruo. I know I’ve been touched by Theisseg, but don’t punish her.
“Sergeant, get over here.”
Ary lurched to the bed. He tried not to look at Xoaren’s swollen, bruised-black throat. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Grab his blankets. We’ll use them as an improvised stretcher to carry him down the hold.”
“He’s going to die,” Ary stated.
“Probably.” Lieutenant Jhoch glanced at Ary. “This will only get worse before we see the end of it, son.”
Ary grabbed fistfuls of the blankets by the dying man’s feet.
*
“Most strains of the choking plague only result in one in four or two in five dying,” Estan said as he crowded with the other marines, along with most of the crew, on the Dauntless’s deck. The dawn’s air buzzed and quivered with nervous excitement. He could feel something akin to his Lightning charge crackling among the crew.
Estan’s attention was only half on the other marines. He couldn’t help but study the social dynamic of the Dauntless’s scared crew. He wondered why different sailors grouped together to form cliques. Some bounced from group to group, pausing to talk, while others looked isolated and alone despite the dozens around them. He cataloged a dozen different reactions to stress even as he realized his preoccupation with it was his own coping mechanism to keep the growing squall of dread at bay. It crackled along the horizon of his awareness, threatening to swamp him.
“Riasruo defend us all,” Guts said. He adjusted his leather nose. “Shelter your children in your feathery rays.”
Zeirie nodded her head, the half-Agerzak forming the sun with her thumb touched to little finger.
&nbs
p; Is Nzuuvsk sze Vviry’s assertion correct that the sign of the sun has its origins in the hand signals primitive hunters would employ while stalking their prey in that great antiquity when we lived upon the ground? pondered Estan.
“It can’t be the choking plague,” muttered Messiench. “On a ship? Who ever heard of it breaking out on a ship?”
“Private Bthoovzigk?” Corporal Huson asked. Everyone’s eyes fell on him.
“There have been at least a dozen documented cases of it happening aboard a ship,” Estan said. “But it could be some other ailment. Close quarters breed diseases, and while Lieutenant Jhoch does his best to maintain hygiene aboard the ship, outbreaks can happen. Either way, we’ll fly within sight of Onhur and hold station there until the medical officer lifts the quarantine.”
“So we’re stuck on the ship with the choking plague?” Zeirie’s face twisted. “Rusted iron! We’ll be lucky if we don’t all die.”
“Breathing the fresh air should help,” Estan said. “Feel that wind blowing across our faces; that shall help to carry away any spores of the mold believed to have caused the sickness. And if it is another disease, then we are kept clear of foul vapors.”
“So we get to enjoy spending the nights above deck?” Guts asked. “Bad enough to endure it on watch, but sleeping out here?”
“Would you rather descend into the hold where the disease is trapped and the vapors unable to escape, Private Tlarene?” demanded Corporal Huson.
Guts grunted. “No, Corporal.”
A ripple of movement attracted Estan and the other marines’ attention. The door to the officer quarters beneath the stern deck opened. The medical officer, sunlight glinting off his balding pate, and Ary carried out a form wrapped in blankets. Estan squinted his eyes as he peered across the length of the Dauntless’s deck, but the distance did not allow him a close proximity to examine the person.
“Who’s that?” Messiench asked.
“I think that’s Lieutenant Xoaren,” Guts said.
“Great, one of the Windwarden’s dyin’,” Zeirie muttered. “Now we can add falling into the Storm while choking to death.”
“I don’t want any drafts gusting from your mouth, Private,” snapped Corporal Huson, her eyes hard as moss agates. She gave Zeirie a look that made the half-Agerzak marine swallow and snap to attention. “The last thing the ship needs is morale plummeting. No more complaining. No more griping. We need to be examples. We’re Autonomy Marines. We won’t let the sergeant down. We won’t have a lax in discipline when the ship needs our strength, understand?”
“Yes, Corporal.”
The flint-faced woman flashed her eyes across the other marines; Estan’s back straightened when he felt the weight of her gaze settling on him. His hand itched to snap a salute.
“Good.” She nodded. “We need to be prepared to keep order. We’ll do our duties for the Dauntless and the Autonomy.”
Estan’s hand squeezed at his coat pocket, feeling the garter through them. Esty’s face swam through his vision. He wished he could fly, that he had Major Wind or had been born a Luastria so he could wing to her, to leave this place behind. But Ary . . .
He couldn’t leave Ary. Estan needed to know about the Stormtouched. The man represented knowledge vital to the skies, and . . .
Esty . . . Pale skin . . . Flashing eyes . . . Joyful smile . . . Sharp insight . . . Perceptive intellect . . . He swallowed as the squall ventured ever closer. If he grew sick . . .
I’ll be fine. I’ll stay above deck. Without access to a rag soaked in wood alcohol or camphor to breathe through, fresh air is the best defense against bad vapors. I’ll see her again. I’ll be fine. I am young and fit.
So was Chaylene.
I’ll be fine. I’ll see Esty again. I survived Offnrieth.
*
The Dauntless creaked around Ary. The ship shifted beneath his feet. He moved with it as he stared down at the slight sway it imparted to his wife. Her ebony face possessed an oily gleam, her features wan, faded to sickly gray. His eyes arrested on her throat, swollen larger than an ostrich egg. A wheezing inhalation rattled from her followed by a groaning, almost coughing exhalation.
“Hey, Lena,” Ary said, his stomach twisting inside of him. The medical officer’s words rattled in his mind. Only a quarter who get it will survive.
“Ary,” she said, his name almost sounding like a prayer coming from her lips. “It’s . . . not good . . . is it . . .?”
“Not good,” he said. Dark, grimy water rose in him, the effluent of a brackish swamp. He rubbed clammy palms on his woolen trousers. “It’s . . . the choking plague, Lena.”
“I . . . figured . . .” She gave a weak smile and then her body shuddered. The coughs assaulted her, barking out of her mouth. Her hammock swayed as her face constricted. Her eyes squeezed shut.
Ary’s throat tightened. He remembered those hacking, hoarse, throat-tearing coughs. He could feel the disease strangling him once again while he lay in his ma’s bed, his younger sister Srias beside him. She made those same sounds before she died.
His breathing quickened. The tears pooled in his eyes. He was that same helpless ten-year-old boy again, lying there beside his sister while the fever burned through his body. He’d never felt so hot in his life. He wanted to move, to grab her hand and save her life.
He’d failed.
She’d died beside him.
His head shook from side to side. A small, childish whimper escaped his voice. “Not this, Riasruo,” he whispered. “Please, please, don’t do this to me again.”
“Again?” Chaylene asked, her eyes opening. Her voice was hoarse. “What . . . again . . . Ary . . .?”
“Nothing,” he said. He forced smile. “You’re going to be fine, Lena. Just fine. That’s what Lieutenant Jhoch said. You just need to get your rest. Okay?”
She nodded her head. She unburied her right hand from beneath the blankets, holding out her fingers to him, beckoning.
He remembered the touch of Srias’s cooling hand. He gripped his sister with a mad despair, wanting to save her, but he was too late. Instead, he’d felt the life bleed out of her, all the vitalizing energy that had filled her fading into cold ash. He shook his head.
Not again.
The brackish water drowned his soul. He thrashed beneath the terror of its musky depths. “I . . . I have to go . . . help the others, Chaylene. I’m immune, you know.”
“Right . . .” she croaked, her hand still held out before her. “I . . . understand.”
He took a step back, his shoulders shaking. He should stay. She was his wife, but . . . but . . .
How could Riasruo do this to him again? How could she force him to feel his wife’s life bleeding out of her? She would die choking. Like Srias had.
Never had Ary felt so frightened, so helpless. Not even when the Cyclone had howled around the ruined watchtower. Not when he’d screamed out to Riasruo to defend the Intrepid and his home. Not when fever had gripped him as Srias died beside him.
He wasn’t strong enough to escape the dread. He drowned in the foul water as he retreated from his wife to help strangers die.
*
Chaylene’s hand fell, her body too weak to hold her arm out any longer. Her husband’s back retreated across the swimming darkness of the Dauntless’s hold, shoulders hunched.
“Ary . . .” she croaked, her words rasping like she’d swallowed a mouthful of grit. Every word, every breath, every swallow abraded her throat raw. Her body shivered despite the fever ravishing her flesh. “Ary . . .”
She closed her eyes, lethargy pulling at her. A fleeting flutter twinged her heart, like the bite of an annoying insect. A nuisance compared to the plague wracking her body with shaking chills and delirious heat. She swayed in her hammock, alone on a ship carrying scores of others. She could hear coughing around her, piteous moans, voices pleading for water. She licked chapped lips.
Swallowed.
Her body convulsed as she forced the saliva down
her raw throat. It rasped worse than swallowing sand. She sucked in another wheezing breath. Why didn’t he stay?
He has to help the others, a rational voice whispered in her mind. The entire ship’s getting sick. Remember.
But I’m his wife! the sting in her heart retorted. He swore vows to me. To tend my flame in sickness! Why is he abandoning me?
You know why . . . a bitter voice whispered.
No, no, he just has to help the others. He’ll come back! He will!
The sickness pulled at her body. It dragged her down deeper and deeper. The agony in her throat dulled as she sank into the hot embrace of fever dreams. The hammock creaked and swung back and forth.
“There you are,” Vel said, strolling down the path to her, passing bright fields of barley, the sun’s fiery hues lighting up the horizon behind him. “And how was your day, my pretty wife?”
“Wife?” Chaylene shook her head. “No, no, I’m not your wife. I’m Ary’s wife.”
“Are you?” He took her hand, giving her a squeeze. A shiver ran through her body. “Can a woman who sneaks out at night to bed another man truly say that?”
“I never bedded you!” She glared at him. “You just tell people that.”
“Then why are we married?” His arm slipped effortlessly around her shoulders, pulling her tight. Her skin crawled. She tried to pull away, but his grip felt sticky, slathered in tar. “Ary knew what we did.”
“He knows I was faithful!” Chaylene’s voice screeched. “Right?”
“Then why did he abandon you?”
“No, no, Ary! I was faithful!” she shouted, looking around for her husband. “Please, please, I need you.”
“I’m here, Chaylene,” Vel whispered. He touched her forehead with a damp cloth, dabbing at the sweat. “You’re going to be fine. You’ll get better. I promise. You have to. I’m so sorry.”
“Where’s . . . Ary . . .?” croaked Chaylene. Vel’s blurry face stared down at her. He wrung out the cloth, icy drops of water spilling across her sizzling face.
“Helping others,” Vel answered.
“I’m not . . . your wife . . .” Chaylene said, blinking, struggling to separate the dream from reality as unconsciousness pulled at her thoughts.
