Falling Sky

by Rajan Khanna

  Its chest is covered with the tattered remnants of what might have been a shirt. It’s little more than shredded cloth now, but it remains bound around its shoulders and neck. That’s one of the weird things about Ferals. Some of them keep their clothes. Or maybe they’re just not very good at getting rid of them.

  I wish Alpha had kept more. He’s naked below the waist, his skin smeared with dirt, his cock hanging there for all the world to see. As I move up to him, he’s playing with himself, falling back on the primitive pleasures of the flesh in a time of stress, perhaps.

  When he sees me, however, his attitude changes. He forgets his erection and changes from his prior lax pose into something tense and coiled. His lips roll back from his teeth and he growls at me. My hand drops to my holster out of reflex and I have to will myself to stop from pulling it out and shooting Alpha through the head.

  He growls, and slaver flies from his mouth. My body is screaming at me to run. Or to shoot the thing. Or both. But Miranda is behind me and I force myself to stand my ground.

  Then I hear Clay’s voice. “Is everything to your satisfaction?” he asks, and I can hear the sneer in his tone.

  You can shoot him, the voice in my head says. One bullet for Alpha, one for Clay, and all your problems will be solved. Which is not true. I still wouldn’t have the Cherub back. And Miranda would hate me. But it’s a delightful thought.

  “I’d still rather put a bullet through his head,” I say.

  “His?” Miranda says softly. And I curse under my breath. When did I start thinking of Alpha as a “he” and not an “it”? Probably around the time you started using his name, I think.

  Alpha starts slamming himself against the cage. I guess he knows a threat when he sees one. The cage holds, though. I note that the places where it’s bolted into the floor don’t move and it seems secured on all sides. I still tug my scarf up higher on my face.

  I intend to turn away, walk back to the gondola, but I don’t. Instead I look into Alpha’s eyes, try to see if there’s any hint in there of humanity. I’ve never spent this much time looking at a Feral, not unless it was through a scope. I try to see anything that I would recognize as a person. But all I see are red-rimmed eyes and large black pupils. Mindless animosity. He slams himself against the cage, again and again, and my hand falls down to my revolver again, but then he slumps back, panting.

  Like an animal.

  I’m still prickly, hackles up, and of course now is the time that Clay chooses to come up alongside me and try to usher me forward. His palm falls on my back and I react. Strung out like taut wire, I snap, and in a moment he’s on the floor and I have his arm bent at an angle that wouldn’t be called normal. He gasps in pain.

  “Ben!” Miranda calls.

  Awareness of what’s happening comes back to me, but I hold the pose a moment longer, meeting Clay’s eyes before releasing him.

  “Fucking psycho!” Clay yells.

  “Touch me again and I’ll break your arm,” I say low and even. Then I walk out of the room sparing one last look for Miranda as I go.

  Back in the gondola I feel my body relaxing, muscles unknotting, tension ebbing into ease.

  Sergei smiles at me. “Do you mind taking the controls for me?” he asks. “I want to discuss what we’re going to do with Alpha with Miranda and Clay.”

  I smile back, like sunshine is leaking out of me. “If it will help.” I remember now why I like Sergei so much. He can be about as fun as a bucket of mud, but he has a good head on his shoulders.

  Also, I remember, buckets of mud can be fun, too. There aren’t many toys in the Sick.

  I’ve only piloted the Pasteur once before, but its controls are standard for a semirigid ship, and I push her in the direction of San Diego.

  Based on the speed of the Pasteur, I’m guessing we can get to San Diego in about three hours. It’s a kind of mental shorthand, calculating speed and wind and fuel. I try not to think about the fact that the Cherub would have gotten us there faster.

  Even then, there’s the radio call to make and I’m not sure what the deal will be there. Will they require me to fly through a few more hoops before they give us the location? Will I have to meet with Diego?

  I push that all out of my mind. It doesn’t make sense to worry about it now. I know where I’m going, for at least a few hours, and the rest can be dealt with when we get there. For now I’m back in the air, with a ship beneath me, and I’m at the controls. Life could be a lot worse.

  I relax into the rhythm of piloting a ship. Checking weather patterns, keeping an eye on engine readouts. Adjusting course. The Pasteur’s instruments, from back in the Clean, are largely intact and Sergei’s rigged them to now run solar. Again, she’s not the Cherub, but she’s a decent ship.

  Sergei told me once that the Pasteur was always a science ship. That she was originally used to follow animal migratory paths. And, if he’s to be believed, it was used to track the spread of the Bug when it first hit. Like Miranda, Sergei comes from a scientist family and they passed it down the same way my grandfather passed down the Cherub.

  Whatever she was used for, she handles just fine and she’s enough to restore some part of myself to me. The part that belongs at the controls of an airship, cutting the sky.

  Slightly less than three hours later, we arrive, flying over the ruins of San Diego. I tune the radio to the correct frequency and call out, identifying myself as Ben and calling for Diego.

  There’s no response, so I do it again. And again. And again.

  When I turn to look at the others, Clay is shaking his head. “Don’t start,” I say.

  “It’s probably—”

  “Not now, Clay,” Miranda says. She looks at me. “What next, Ben?”

  “We wait for a bit. Try again,” I say. “The settlement is probably not here; he wouldn’t have given that away, so that means he must come in and out.”

  “What if he doesn’t come at all?” Clay asks, his arms crossed against his chest.

  “Then we leave.”

  “And go where?” Clay asks.

  I stand up. “I don’t fucking know yet. Why don’t you—”

  “Boys,” Miranda says. “This isn’t the time. Ben’s right. We can wait for a little while, see if anything happens, and if nothing does, we’ll figure out a Plan B.”

  Sergei clears his throat. “We should keep an eye out for other ships.”

  He’s right. If we hover here for too long, we’ll be a target. And San Diego, like most cities, is still popular among intrepid foragers.

  “We’ll take turns,” I say. “Broadcast at regular intervals. And I’ll take us down into the shadow of some of those buildings. That should buy us some cover.”

  Everyone agrees.

  As we all separate, Miranda pauses, places a hand on my arm. “How long do we wait?”

  I shake my head. “Let’s see what happens first.”

  Then I move the Pasteur out of the light.

  A few hours pass with nothing. I broadcast a few times, then take my turn on lookout. Waiting for a ship to appear. Tense, ready to fly the ship away. The Pasteur’s not armed, and she’s not as fast as the Cherub, so we’re vulnerable, especially stationary as we are.

  I wonder if maybe I should go foraging down in the city while we’re here. I have the stash I took from Viktor’s, but we’re going to need food and supplies pretty soon, what with four of us. Five, I suppose, counting Alpha. Fuck, I think, we’re going to have to give some of our food to that creature.

  Frustrated, I slide back into the seat by the radio and broadcast once again.

  Then the radio cuts in. “Ben?”

  “Yes,” I say, smiling. “Diego? Thank God.”

  “You made it,” he says. “Did you get to your friends in time?”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the problem.” I lean against the console. “The place I was working for. It . . . it got hit by those raiders. The whole settlement was wiped out.”

  A pause on th
e line. “Man, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I spare a glance for Miranda, but she’s looking away. “Diego, I’m with three others. We’re all that’s left. We need to find a place to put down and lick our wounds. I know the people you’re hooked up with are doing their best to keep things quiet, but if you have any ideas, I’d appreciate hearing about them.”

  There’s silence on the other side of the line. I wonder if Rosie is there. If he’s discussing it with her. Then, after a few minutes have passed, I wonder if he’s signed off. I wouldn’t blame him. He doesn’t know us. He doesn’t owe us anything. And what I’m feeding him could be a load of shit meant to take advantage of him.

  I get back on the line. “I’m not expecting full access. I just . . . if someone could escort us somewhere. You can even come onboard. It’s just the one ship. We . . .”

  I put down the transmitter. Then pick it up again. “We’re desperate.”

  Still nothing. I turn to the others and shrug. Clay gives me another of those annoying looks that makes me want to hit him. Only I don’t have the energy anymore. I feel deflated. I’ve got no more lift.

  The line crackles to life. “Let’s meet,” Diego says.

  We meet at the top of another tall building. This time it’s just Diego and me, a suitable distance between us. The wind whips around us, carrying the smell of green things. That’s one of the few problems with the sky—it doesn’t smell that interesting.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say.

  “I still owe you,” he says. “You never even took your barter for the medical supplies.”

  “I was in a hurry,” I say.

  “Seems so.” His hands are in the pockets of his big black coat, and I wonder if he has a weapon concealed there. Or maybe I’m just jumpy.

  “What are you asking, Ben?”

  “Like I said, I have three others with me. Scientists. Idealists. They’re good people.” Well, and Clay, but I don’t tell him that. “Their home got wiped out. Their friends scattered or got killed. They need a new place to stay.”

  Diego nods. He’s traded in his ski mask for just a gray woolen cap, and his green scarf is low around his neck. He has rich, brown skin and a black beard. He has a good face. A trustworthy face. I know that counts for very little, but I hope he feels the same way about me.

  “I understand,” he says. “Sounds like a shit situation. Only . . . we don’t know your friends. Hell, we don’t even know you. You know what it’s like. We can’t just let anyone in.”

  “I know. I do. But the boffins, my friends, they’re useful. Sergei is a magician when it comes to fuel. Clay and Miranda are top biologists. They’re studying the Bug.” And here’s the part where I put on my master barterer face and fake some enthusiasm. “Diego, they’re working on a cure.”

  He doesn’t laugh at this, which is a good sign.

  “They’re close to a breakthrough. Something they were working on when the raiders hit. This could be huge. But they can’t do it in the air. They can’t do it running from raiders and foraging for food and fuel. They need a place.”

  “We do have some scientists back at . . . our place,” Diego says.

  “Great!” I say. “Show them Miranda’s data. I’m sure they’d be impressed.

  He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “You think they have a shot?” he asks.

  I consider my next words carefully. “I think that if anyone does, it’s Miranda. She won’t rest until she finds a cure or she dies.” Or gets infected, I silently amend. But that’s not worth getting into.

  Diego grimaces as he tosses things over in his head. “What makes you think you’ll be happy there?” he asks. “You know nothing about our settlement.”

  I nod. “It’s true. I thought about that. But like I said, we’re desperate. And a place that sends people like you out to scout for them can’t be that bad.” I shrug. “Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.” And if things go pear-shaped, then we’ll just have to deal with it then.

  He rubs his beard. “If we take you, you won’t be able to leave. Not for a while at least. You’ll be grounded.” I try not to wince at the word, but I’m not sure how successful I am.

  I nod. “That seems fair.” What else can I say? I no longer have a ship. The Pasteur isn’t mine. Maybe this way I can work my way back into the air.

  He nods again. This time deeper. “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay? You’ll take us?”

  “Yes.” He smiles at me. He has a good smile, the kind that puts you at ease. The kind that seems genuine. The kind that still seems to know what happiness is. “Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.”

  The trick to any settlement in the Sick is to secure it against a Feral incursion. All you need is to have a penned-up group of people exposed to the Bug. All it takes is one person to Fade, and the infection spreads. That’s how the world got fucked, after all.

  So in the case of Valhalla and Gastown they built the cities in the sky. No chance of Ferals getting up there. And with dirigibles being the preferred mode of transport for a large portion of the remaining population, it made a lot of sense. Until the germ warfare introduced by Valhalla.

  But there are other places to hole up. I heard tell once of a converted prison. Seems to make sense, right? Defensible walls, watchtowers, plenty of places to sleep, plenty of storage. Kitchens, probably generators. The whole deal.

  Only word got out of the place. And people flocked to it. And why not, right? They were going to start a new settlement. Get civilization working again. Only one of those people had the Bug. Somehow they got through all the precautions. Someone got sloppy or stupid and let them in and that person Faded. And suddenly those walls that were once great at keeping the Ferals out ended up keeping people trapped inside. And as the Bug spread, it overtook the whole place. Now there’s a place on forager maps that says “Here there be dragons” where a city once lived.

  The Bug just pisses on civilization.

  As we wait for Diego and his ship, the Osprey, to lead us to the settlement, the atmosphere on the Pasteur is light. Sergei’s humming some jaunty tune. Clay is out of my hair. And Miranda is . . .

  Where is Miranda?

  I find her looking at Alpha in his cage.

  “I still think we should dump him somewhere over the ocean.”

  Miranda sighs. She’s used to this argument. She turns to me and takes off her glasses. Pinches the bridge of her nose. I notice the glasses have left a red mark. “He’s all we have,” she says.

  “He’s really that important?” I ask.

  She nods. “He’s different. The virus he carried reacts differently to the formulas we’ve devised. So far we’ve been testing on the standard virus, but this gives us another way to zero in on the problem. Kind of like triangulating the position of your radio signal.”

  “You managed to save some of your treatments?”

  She nods again. “Some. In the field kit. But others shouldn’t be hard to simulate. And if this new settlement has scientists, it might be easier.”

  “How long do you think you can keep him?”

  “As long as he lasts,” she says. “As long as he can give us blood.” She puts her glasses back on. “I’m not an idiot. We have to be careful. And the more we tranq him, the less he’s going to last. But . . .” She turns back to him. “Maybe we can rig something. That lets us draw samples when we need to. I don’t know. But he’s the closest we’ve come to a cure in some time. I think that’s worth holding on to.”

  I don’t say anything. I just rub a hand on her back. For a moment she leans against me. Then she’s back to her notebook and I return to the controls.

  “Thanks for this. Again,” I say over the transmitter to Diego.

  “Like I said, I owed you for the medical supplies.”

  He’s joking, of course. It’s worth far more than medical supplies. What he’s given me in return is trust. That doesn’t come easily in the Sick. This Diego is not your
average man.

  “So, where are we going?” I ask. Right now we’re headed out over the ocean.

  “You’ll see,” he says with a laugh.

  And later we do. Sergei is the first to spot it outside the port window. An island. Well enough off the coast to be off the routes of most airships, but close enough that it’s within easy reach. The island is not that large. Larger than Alcatraz, but smaller than some of the other islands up north, the ones that pirates often use as bases and to stash their take. A few, much smaller, satellite islands trail off to the west like ellipses.

  Much of the outside of the main island is ringed with jagged rocks, while inside the land has been leveled and buildings stand, places for people to live and work. It’s well fortified, from the water at least. But it’s vulnerable from the air, which is the reason for all the secrecy. True, there’s no real reason for ships to come out this far, there’s nothing to find out here. But if some did, the city would be vulnerable. To a few well-placed firebombs. Or Ferals. Which is why I understand their strict practices.

  “You have some fancy secrets,” I say to Diego.

  “Don’t I just?” he transmits back.

  “Now what?”

  “Head for the docking platform. We like to keep our ships close to the ground so they can’t be spotted from other ships. They want me to stay up to cover you. But I radioed ahead. Told them that you were coming and who you were. They’ll let you down, but you’ll have to be inspected.”

  “Inspected?”

  “To make sure you’re not carrying secret troops or anything that could be used against the settlement.”

  It seems fair enough, but then I think about Alpha back there in his cage. If anything could be dangerous to the settlement, it’s him. But we’re here, and we have nowhere else to go. So we’re just going to have to talk to the people.

  “So what’s the name of this fancy new settlement of yours?” I ask.

  “You know people,” he says. “They like old names. Its name is Tamoanchan.”

  “Never heard of it,” I say.

  “It’s Aztec,” he says.