Galaxy's Edge Magazine

by Orson Scott Card

  “Three or four! Now get back! I’ll call when I need you.”

  Gunfire erupted above them. The L 75 had two other machine guns mounted on either side of the forward gondola. Someone was anxious.

  She grit her teeth and bowed her head. If she could see, she could redirect the wind to blow evading fighters back in line of sight of their guns, and she wouldn’t need Dressler to act as her eyes.

  “Ke-feng! Facing southwest, knock them south!”

  She reached out and grasped the shaking threads of the sky. The natural state of the wind was not strong tonight, but the fighters themselves shook the air, giving her currents to work with. She closed her hands and swung the currents hard. The sudden change in airflow would startle the pilots, and push them right where the L 75 wanted them.

  The machine gun beneath her came to life.

  “Good work!” said Dressler.

  Ke-feng sighed and hugged herself tight.

  “We’re turning around!” said Walther. “The other ships are almost done.”

  The night fighters would harry them out of the city, but would be unlikely to pursue them all the way to the coast, not with the Silesia’s own fighters covering their retreat.

  Dressler continued to call for directions to disrupt enemy fighters even after she felt the hum of the engines and the turning of the ship’s body for the journey home. Bullets sprayed from both inside and out, and she knew as much as any of the crew there would be scores of holes in their envelope. Their flight would not be fast, and she could do little to help that, but she pushed and pulled the wind until she felt the sweat bead on her face.

  The British were stubborn tonight. She wondered if they feared that losing would cause the Germans to carve up their country the way the British had claimed chunks of her own.

  She heard a curse from Dressler that she did not know how to translate and realized that there was now a contrast in the air that even she could see.

  “They’ve got a searchlight trained on us!” said Walther. “Run the engines at full. We need to get out of sight.”

  Ke-feng felt more planes. They were converging on the L 75. She couldn’t swipe at them all.

  “Can you do anything to speed us?” asked Dressler. “There aren’t many rounds left in the bottom gun.”

  It was a foolish request and she clenched her hands in frustration. “You know I can’t!” she shouted. If the wind speed was not already there she couldn’t make it appear.

  A new group of airplanes arrived, ducking in and out of her reach, and because they did not approach the L 75 too closely she knew they were probably German, trying to chase off the British. It wasn’t working.

  They hadn’t lost much altitude yet, but she could feel the shift in the buoyancy of the airship. The L 75 had dropped ballast, to better keep itself high in the air. They were being scored, and there were so many fighters that she did not wait for Dressler to call before she pitched what she could.

  The ship lurched and shuddered, and she bumped her head against the wooden bench of the farviewer. She felt heat on the wind, currents flaring up from the rear of the airship.

  No.

  Dressler immediately clambered up the ladder and she heard him settle on the bench, planting feet widely on either side of her so he would not have to dislodge her from her hiding place.

  “We’re on fire, aren’t we?” she asked. She could hear the tension and fear above her, Walther calling for more information on damages.

  “Yes,” said Dressler. “I’m going to find a place for us to land.”

  “Ke-feng! Try to keep the fire away from the other gasbags!” said Walther. “We may have to let out more hydrogen to get us down in time.”

  They were going to vent while they were on fire? She supposed it was better than waiting until all the hydrogen burned up and they simply fell...

  She tried. She ignored the planes, even though she could feel them circling, like birds in search of a meal. The hydrogen was thinner than the rest of the air, but the fire consuming it was wild and moved with a will of its own. She struggled to keep the currents flowing aft, so they could vent from the front. At first the fire was only on the top of the ship, feeding off the three rearmost gasbags, but it was spreading, worrying at the ship’s envelope like a hound.

  “There’s an open field about eight kilometers northeast! Big enough for the L 75!” said Dressler. “Do you think the ship will hold?”

  Walther did not immediately respond. Then he said, “Maybe. If Ke-feng can keep the fire under control...”

  “We only need a few minutes.”

  “We’ll try. Better a controlled crash than anything else. Ackermann says the flames are bad, but the girl’s holding them back.”

  A few minutes might as well be an eternity.

  Ke-feng felt a hand on her shoulder. “Keep it together,” said Dressler. “We’re all counting on you. You’re the only one who can keep this ship in the sky.”

  She couldn’t even draw the breath to respond. Whether she lived or died, once they landed the war would be over for her. Even if she survived the crash, she would be trapped in enemy territory, with no way back to Germany, let alone China, and most likely a prisoner of war. The British would not keep her with the rest of the crew, on account of being a woman, and they would surely interrogate her for being the ship’s kite dancer.

  “I know you’re working hard,” said Dressler, “but there’s something I want to tell you, in case we don’t have a chance later.”

  She shook her head. He was being distracting.

  “The army has been working on a smaller version of the Fernhaube for the war injured, one you can wear,” said Dressler. “There have been lots of soldiers who have lost their eyes this war.”

  “This isn’t the time!” she said, angry that she could not see well enough to glare at him, upset that she was huddled in a ball at his feet because she was too valuable to lose.

  “Ke-feng! It is! You have to know, just in case.... The Oberleutnant requested one for you, and the rest of the crew agrees.”

  “That’s foolish,” she snarled. “Your government would never give one to a soldier who isn’t even part of your military!”

  As far as they were concerned she was a damaged piece of equipment they only needed because it was better than going without. They constantly treated her like a child, even though she was old enough to marry.

  “I know, but we pushed for it!” said Dressler. “We wanted to surprise you. That’s why we were going to take you to the doctor once we got back to Germany. It’s for a fitting. There is a portable Fernhaube waiting for you, so after we land.... You have to escape. The British will probably not have soldiers ready where we come down. It will take time for them to arrive, and you have to slip away before they do.”

  “The field’s in sight!” said Walther. “Dressler, you and Ke-feng better come up here. The pod’s going to hit ground first.”

  Ke-feng grunted and stood on cramped knees, banging her head against the hood of the farviewer and she swayed in a haze of pain. Hands caught her and Dressler uttered an apology as he hefted her over his shoulder. She could feel the steps he took as he climbed the ladder to the bridge.

  “I can’t move the wind anymore,” she said, both mind and hands numb.

  “It’s all right,” said Walther, his voice even. “We’re almost there.”

  “I’m bringing her down!” said Bauer.

  “Brace for impact!”

  Ke-feng felt her body swing down and an arm wrap protectively around her. Dressler.

  “Keep your head down,” he said. She could feel him reach for something to grab, then the world pitched over.

  * * *

  Voices shouted around her, mostly Walther, ordering everyone to evacuate, and then she was lifted off her feet. “Time to go,” said Dressler.


  The floor was not even. She could tell by how he lurched, trying to keep his balance. Forty-five kilos might not be much to an active soldier, but she had no doubt it would be easier if he wasn’t trying to carry her. She wanted to tell him to put her down, but at the same time she knew that left on her own she would likely not make it out of the ship. The world was dark, rimmed with tendrils of light.

  Then he jumped and landed on something soft that sounded like dirt. Others landed on either side of them. The air was a mix of heat and a chilly spring night. They ran a short distance away, Walther calling for a head count. Dressler set her down, only letting go once certain she was steady on her feet.

  “I see,” Walther said, after listening to the men who had been stationed in the aft gondola, “then we’re down two.” He paused. “Listen, the British will be sending a force out here to capture us. There’s no way the L 75 went down without notice. So we need to destroy as much of the airship as we can before they get a hold of it, especially the Fernhaube.”

  “And the kite dancer?” asked one of the men.

  “Not your concern. Now hurry up and get that ship on fire before all our remaining hydrogen is gone!”

  The soldiers ran back to the ship, boots stomping on the soil and the wet vegetation. Ke-feng felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “You should go now,” said Dressler. “You’re not in a German uniform. If you can find your way back to Germany, the naval office should still honor our request for your personal Fernhaube.”

  “Agreed,” said Walther. “You’re free to go. There’s no need for you to get captured along with us.”

  Ke-feng stood there, stunned, uncertain how she could possibly navigate through a foreign land when she did not speak any English. If she was resourceful she might be able do it—there were probably some Chinese here from Hong Kong, but still...

  Dressler gave her a little push, and she realized that since they landed he had not held her hand. They really did mean to send her off.

  But she could feel the heat dying on the wind. She turned to where she had last heard Walther and asked, “Are the men having trouble with the fire?”

  “They are,” said Walther. “We lost a lot of hydrogen on our way down.”

  “Let me help. I’ve had enough time that I can coax the air currents again.” She held out her hand. “Lead me back.”

  “No! Don’t you realize you’re going to be taken from us the moment we’re captured?” said Dressler.

  “I know,” said Ke-feng, “but I am a full member of this crew, aren’t I?”

  “You always have been,” said Walther.

  She closed her eyes, afraid of what might fall, and chided herself for having never asked. Perhaps there had been one more fool on board than she had thought.

  “Then I won’t abandon my duty,” she said. “We have to destroy what remains of the ship.”

  “Are you sure?” said Dressler.

  “Yes.”

  He took her smaller hand in his. “I can’t see the ground very well either, so watch your step. The shadows are bad.”

  They were always bad, but this time she wouldn’t face them alone.

  Copyright © 2018 by Laurie Tom

  Joe Haldeman is a multiple Hugo and Nebula Award winner, the author of an acknowledged classic (The Forever War), and a former Worldcon guest of honor. We’re proud to welcome him to the pages of Galaxy’s Edge. We should also mention that “Graves” is a Hugo winner.

  GRAVES

  by Joe Haldeman

  I have this persistent sleep disorder that makes life difficult for me, but still I want to keep it. Boy, do I want to keep it. It goes back twenty years, to Vietnam. To Graves.

  Dead bodies turn from bad to worse real fast in the jungle. You’ve got a few hours before rigor mortis makes them hard to handle, hard to stuff in a bag. By that time, they start to turn greenish, if they started out white or yellow, where you can see the skin. It’s mostly bugs by then, usually ants. Then they go to black and start to smell.

  They swell up and burst.

  You’d think the ants and roaches and beetles and millipedes would make short work of them after that, but they don’t. Just when they get to looking and smelling the worst, the bugs sort of lose interest, get fastidious, send out for pizza. Except for the flies. Laying eggs.

  The funny thing is, unless some big animal got to it and tore it up, even after a week or so, you’ve still got something more than a skeleton, even a sort of a face. No eyes, though. Every now and then, we’d get one like that. Not too often, since soldiers usually don’t die alone and sit there for that long, but sometimes. We called them “dry ones.” Still damp underneath, of course, and inside, but kind of like a sunburned mummy otherwise.

  You tell people what you do at Graves Registration, “Graves,” and it sounds like about the worst job the army has to offer. It isn’t. You just stand there all day and open body bags, figure out which parts maybe belong to which dog tag—not that it’s usually that important—sew them up more or less with a big needle, account for all the wallets and jewelry, steal the dope out of their pockets, box them up, seal the casket, do the paperwork. When you have enough boxes, you truck them out to the airfield. The first week maybe is pretty bad. But after a hundred or so, after you get used to the smell and the godawful feel of them, you get to thinking that opening a body bag is a lot better than ending up inside one. They put Graves in safe places.

  Since I’d had a couple of years of college, pre-med, I got some of the more interesting jobs. Captain French, who was the pathologist actually in charge of the outfit, always took me with him out into the field when he had to examine a corpse in situ, which happened only maybe once a month. I got to wear a .45 in a shoulder holster, tough guy. Never fired it, never got shot at, except the one time.

  That was a hell of a time. It’s funny what gets to you, stays with you.

  Usually when we had an in situ, it was a forensic matter, like an officer they suspected had been fragged or otherwise terminated by his own men. We’d take pictures and interview some people, and then Frenchy would bring the stiff back for autopsy, see whether the bullets were American or Vietnamese. (Not that that would be conclusive either way. The Vietcong stole our weapons, and our guys used the North Vietnamese AK-47s, when we could get our hands on them. More reliable than the M-16, and a better cartridge for killing. Both sides proved that over and over.) Usually Frenchy would send a report up to Division, and that would be it. Once he had to testify at a court-martial. The kid was guilty, but just got life. The officer was a real prick.

  Anyhow, we got the call to come look at this in situ corpse about five in the afternoon. Frenchy tried to put it off until the next day, since if it got dark we’d have to spend the night. The guy he was talking to was a major, though, and obviously proud of it, so it was no use arguing. I threw some Cs and beer and a couple canteens into two rucksacks that already had blankets and air mattresses tied on the bottom. Box of .45 ammo and a couple hand grenades. Went and got a jeep while Frenchy got his stuff together and made sure Doc Carter was sober enough to count the stiffs as they came in. (Doc Carter was the one supposed to be in charge, but he didn’t much care for the work.)

  Drove us out to the pad and, lo and behold, there was a chopper waiting, blades idling. Should’ve started to smell a rat then. We don’t get real high priority, and it’s not easy to get a chopper to go anywhere so close to sundown. They even helped us stow our gear. Up, up, and away.

  I never flew enough in helicopters to make it routine. Kontum looked almost pretty in the low sun, golden red. I had to sit between two flamethrowers, though, which didn’t make me feel too secure. The door gunner was smoking. The flamethrower tanks were stenciled NO SMOKING.

  We went fast and low out toward the mountains to the west. I was hoping we’d wind up at one of the big fire bases up there, figuring I�
��d sleep better with a few hundred men around. But no such luck. When the chopper started to slow down, the blades’ whir deepening to a whuck-whuck-whuck, there was no clearing as far as the eye could see. Thick jungle canopy everywhere. Then a wisp of purple smoke showed us a helicopter-sized hole in the leaves. The pilot brought us down an inch at a time, nicking twigs. I was very much aware of the flamethrowers. If he clipped a large branch, we’d be so much pot roast.

  When we touched down, four guys in a big hurry unloaded our gear and the flamethrowers and a couple cases of ammo. They put two wounded guys and one client on board and shooed the helicopter away. Yeah, it would sort of broadcast your position. One of them told us to wait; he’d go get the major.

  “I don’t like this at all,” Frenchy said.

  “Me neither,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

  “Any outfit that’s got a major and two flamethrowers is planning to fight a real war.” He pulled his .45 out and looked at it as if he’d never seen one before. “Which end of this do you think the bullets come out of?”

  “Shit,” I advised, and rummaged through the rucksack for a beer. I gave Frenchy one, and he put it in his side pocket.

  A machine gun opened up off to our right. Frenchy and I grabbed the dirt. Three grenade blasts. Somebody yelled for them to cut that out. Guy yelled back he thought he saw something. Machine gun started up again. We tried to get a little lower.

  Up walks this old guy, thirties, looking annoyed. The major.

  “You men get up. What’s wrong with you?” He was playin’ games.

  Frenchy got up, dusting himself off. We had the only clean fatigues in twenty miles. “Captain French, Graves Registration.”

  “Oh,” he said, not visibly impressed. “Secure your gear and follow me.” He drifted off like a mighty ship of the jungle. Frenchy rolled his eyes, and we hoisted our rucksacks and followed him. I wasn’t sure whether “secure your gear” meant bring your stuff or leave it behind, but Budweiser could get to be a real collector’s item in the boonies, and there were a lot of collectors out here.