Faster Than Falling: The Skylighter Adventures

by Nathan Van Coops

  Atlas doused his lantern immediately and frantically blew out the rest of the lamps on the porch. The nightbeasts might be a terror, but there were worse things in the skies. He raced down the main corridor of the warren, blowing out candles and lamps as he ran. He burst into the kitchen panting and out of breath. Cathy and Amelia were talking together over the sink full of soapsuds, but both turned to look at Atlas when he dashed to a stop in the center of the room.

  “Sakes, Atlas, what is it?” Cathy asked.

  Atlas gulped a breath and spurted out the word. “Raiders!”

  Amelia was on the porch in a flash, scanning the sky. “Where?”

  “Up there! Coming out of the Rift.”

  The ship that Atlas had first spotted had moved out of the cleft between the mountains and was gliding silently into the valley, but more shapes were emerging from the darkness behind it.

  “We need to warn the village,” Cathy said from behind him. “They’ll be completely off guard.”

  “Danson . . .” Amelia muttered, looking up the rocky cliff face toward the watchtower. “He could be hurt.”

  “Someone needs to ring that bell,” Cathy said.

  “I can go,” Atlas said. “I can make it up the path and—”

  “No. You stay here,” Amelia said. “I’ll go.” She raced back into the warren and emerged a moment later with a pair of hand harpoons in a leather quiver and her long knife. She slung the quiver over her shoulder and picked up one of the lanterns. “When I make the top, I’ll ring the bell and light the beacon. Stay indoors and lock down the warren.”

  Cathy stepped off the porch and made a beeline for the woodpile. She plucked the ax from the chopping stump and returned to the porch. “Let’s get going then.”

  “No,” Amelia protested. “You should stay here with Atlas and guard the warren.”

  “Like hell I’m letting you climb into danger on your own,” Cathy replied. “The raiders will have their sights on more than a goat ranch. But the nightbeasts will be happy to find you alone on the cliffs. I’m not letting you do this alone.”

  “I can go, too,” Atlas offered.

  “No!” both women responded at the same time.

  Amelia pointed inside the warren. “You bolt the door and get into the caverns. I don’t think they’ll come here, but if they do you can lose them easily in the caves. You know all the hideaways. God knows you’ve used them enough to get out of chores. Get in there and stay out of sight. We’ll be back as soon as we ring that bell.”

  “But I can help!”

  “Inside. Now.” Amelia shoved him toward the doorway. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.” Amelia let her hand linger on his shoulder for a brief moment, then gave it a squeeze before turning back to Cathy. “Okay, we need to hurry.”

  Atlas watched from the doorway as his aunt led the way up and over the berm of grass that covered the warren, headed toward the footpath up the cliffs.

  He stood in the doorway even after they were gone, staring out at the canyon and the downward slope to the valley. He took a few steps forward to the edge of the porch and scanned the sky. The fog was even denser now, blotting out most of the view. He could no longer see the watchtower or what might be emerging from the Rift. The one bare patch of sky he could see held only darkness and distant pinpricks of stars. The raiders had perfect cover. No one would see them approaching. Womble was a pulsing glow in the mist on the valley floor. The lights of the festival would make everyone nearly blind in the darkness. Enzo would be busy showing off the Express with no idea what was coming.

  Atlas looked back toward the Beacon. He’d made that climb enough times to visit the watchmen. Even at a run, as fast as he could go, the uphill climb still took nearly twenty minutes. His aunt might make it in fifteen at a dead sprint, but what if she couldn’t? What if the nightbeasts came and they had to defend themselves? What if raiders had invaded the Beacon and they had to hide?

  Atlas considered the dark hallway behind him and the safety of the caverns. How could he hide while everyone else was in danger? Enzo needed him.

  He stepped inside and bolted the door, but once indoors he didn’t head into the interior caverns. He made for the front passage instead, following it downhill toward the lower end of the warren. He unbolted the gates that led past the goat pens, but ignored their bleating as he leapt the underground stream. He ran up the path at the far side and through the passage to the next stable. Destro stomped a hoof in the darkness.

  “We need to hurry,” Atlas whispered to the horse. “Enzo’s in danger.” He snatched up a bridle and reins from the peg outside Destro’s stall, but didn’t bother with a saddle. Every moment counted. Destro balked once at the sight of the fog when Atlas led him outside through the livestock gate, but he soothed him with a few gentle strokes of his hand before leaping onto the horse’s back. The horse charged forward into the night without further resistance, and Atlas urged him faster as they flew down the hill.

  Shapes threatened and lunged from the fog, only to be revealed as tree limbs and boulders. Atlas would’ve known this path blindfolded and didn’t flinch. He did listen, however, trying to hear past the thudding of the horse’s hooves for any sign of impending danger—wings on the wind, or scratching of claws on the rocks. The horse’s ears pivoted on occasion as well, but he kept up the pace, increasing steadily once the road began to level out into the valley.

  He was making good time. The raider ships had been moving slowly and being cautious. Destro flew along the main road now, hooves kicking sod and dirt into the air behind him.

  Atlas only needed to make it to the mayor’s fields. Thankfully it was this side of the village. He could already hear the band. Drumbeats pounded out a festive rhythm and the flutes and fiddles kept pace. Someone was singing. The glow through the fog grew brighter and he could make out the first shapes of globes overhead. The Skylighters and villagers were cheery with conversation. The steady hum of voices reached him over the music and the pounding of Destro’s hooves.

  The horse leapt the fence at the side of the mayor’s pasture as soon as it appeared. Atlas groaned on the landing but righted himself and kept from slipping off. A frightened couple in the weeds relinquished their romantic embrace as Destro sped past. He was almost there. Lines of tables appeared in the haze, populated with feasters. Lanterns overhead bathed the festival in light. He was going to make it. He readied himself to shout.

  An ear-splitting scream stopped the music.

  Something dark plummeted from the night and crashed into one of the tables at the far end of the feast, overturning the head table and scattering the diners. Destro reared up and snorted, causing Atlas to clench the horse’s mane to stay seated. Once the horse was back on four hooves, Atlas recognized the appendages protruding from the ruined table as human legs.

  The black shape in the center of the wreckage twitched once, then went still.

  A Skylighter swooped low over the head table and landed in the grass just before the stage. The winged warrior held a sort of hooked sword made of bone in one hand and a harpoon in the other. He spread his wings wide and shouted to the crowd. “We’re under attack! Rally to the globes!”

  Mayor Fillmore was white with fear. He rose from his chair and spun in place but could only stammer a few odd sounds.

  “What’s happening?” An elderly woman to Atlas’s right shrieked up at him from her seat at her table.

  “Raiders!” Atlas shouted. “Get out of here!”

  The feast erupted in panic, with diners toppling chairs and knocking over glassware. Overhead, the fog echoed with shouting and the clash of weapons. Somewhere amid all this chaos, Atlas had to find Enzo. He scanned the fleeing crowd but saw no sign of his grandfather. Where was The Sunshine Express? Where would his grandfather hide? He spurred Destro and the horse leapt the table in front of him. Atlas urged him forward into the glowing fog and chaos.

  Off in the distance, the Beacon Bell began to toll.

  10


  KIPLING

  “Hey, Gardener. How’s it feel to be friends with a crazy girl?” Darian Wessel was smirking near the side of the stage when Kipling found his way back to the feast. His older brother’s friend was accompanied by Tolmer Grange, the oldest and meanest boy in Kaleb’s year. Tolmer stepped forward and confronted Kip and Rufus as they approached.

  “Kaleb went easy on your little girlfriend. You better keep her away from the rest of us or she’d better have more than a kitchen knife next time.”

  “She didn’t cut anyone,” Kipling replied, straining to make himself heard over the noise of the band, which chose that moment to start back up again. “I saw what happened. She just bit him.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She pulled a knife on your brother in front of everybody. She won’t be seeing the light of day after this. They’ll probably maroon her on her own kelp patch somewhere. Not like they’ll let her aboard the new colony now.”

  “Would they do that?” Rufus looked to Kipling with wide eyes. “What will happen to her?”

  “They won’t maroon her,” Kipling said, though he didn’t have much conviction. What would happen to Samra? It was rare that anyone acted with violence aboard the patch. When it did happen, separation from the Globe Mother was usually the punishment. But they wouldn’t do that to a patchling . . . would they?

  Kipling pushed past the two older boys and rounded the front of the stage. The grown-ups were conferring near the head table. Samra’s parents were there. Her father had taken off his ceremonial headdress and was wringing it in his hands. Kip’s mother looked concerned and was listening to Mr. Coley apologize, while his father inspected Kaleb’s wound. Kip could tell even from this distance that it wasn’t serious, just an oval bite mark, but Samra had managed to break the skin. It would certainly leave a nasty bruise. He kept his distance, but his father spotted him and waved him over. He moved hesitantly toward the group under the condemning glare of his brother.

  “Kip, I need your assistance,” his father said. “I spoke to Mayor Fillmore and he’s going to cancel the Grounder’s lantern launch. Head up to the lower pods and tell them to keep the globe sons secured in the bundle. We were going to release them with the Grounder’s lanterns, but we’ll wait. No use trying to launch them in this fog anyway.”

  Kipling was relieved that the conversation had nothing to do with Samra, but couldn’t help but ask anyway. “What’s going to happen to Sam?”

  His father shook his head. “We’ll have to deal with her later. Right now we have an obligation to our hosts to repair the damage as much as possible. Luckily, none of the Grounders were hurt.”

  “She wouldn’t hurt anyone, really. She was just scared.”

  His dad narrowed his eyes. “I think Dasha and her parents might disagree with you.”

  “Dasha is always mean to her and—”

  “Dasha didn’t pull a knife on anyone,” Kaleb interjected. “And she didn’t bite me either. It’s your defective friend that’s the problem.”

  “She’s not defective! You haven’t even heard Sam’s side of the story. Maybe if you and your friends didn’t always make fun of her, then this wouldn’t—”

  “Kipling.” His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “Go to the pods and do what I’ve asked. There will be plenty of time to talk with Samra later.”

  He choked back the rest of his objections and nodded. Giving Samra’s parents a wide berth, he headed toward the center of the festival grounds, Rufus still on his heels.

  “Do you think she’s in big trouble? Will they let her out to see us anymore? Do you think she might stay living on the Globe Mother now?”

  The last question stirred a small amount of hope in Kipling. Maybe she would get to stay on Corra Mara. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  A scream sliced through the ambient noise and he swung around to see what had happened. The head table was broken in half, fractured by a body sprawled across the wreckage.

  The band stopped.

  Kipling looked up.

  The air came alive with the whoosh of wings. Bronks descended into the crowd and alighted near Kipling’s parents.

  “We’re under attack! Rally to the globes!” Bronks shouted. The guardian sprang into the air and ascended back into the fog. The feast erupted into screaming and chaos. Kipling scanned the crowd for signs of danger, but saw only fleeing Grounders and one Grounder boy astride a spotted horse. The horse reared once, then leapt a table and galloped off into the mist, taking the boy with it.

  “What do we do?” Rufus exclaimed, grasping at Kipling’s arm.

  Kip turned and shoved his friend in the direction of the closest globe. “We need to get back aboard the patch!”

  All around him Skylighters were dumping their buoyancy belts on the ground and leaping into the air. In every direction, glowing figures blazed into the fog before being swallowed up by obscurity.

  Kipling kept a hand to his belt but didn’t release it. He raced over the ground with Rufus panting behind, searching the luminous fog overhead for the right section of patch. He knew the emergency procedures. If he ended up aboard the wrong globe, he might not be able to connect with the Globe Mother. Everyone was meant to rally at his or her own globe, but the success of that procedure depended largely on not panicking, and that depended on what was attacking the patch.

  Finally he reached the lowest tendrils of the Mother that had been tied to the ground to anchor the patch. Members of the landing crew were not bothering to untie the landing roots. They were simply hacking them loose with their long knives and hatchets. The roots groaned and then snapped loose, sending shudders up through the heart of the patch.

  “Now! Jump now!” Kipling shouted.

  Rufus struggled out of his buoyancy belt but forgot to leap. Instead he drifted free of the ground and began floating slowly upward. “Kip! Kip! Help!”

  Kipling took a deep breath, released his belt, and leapt, flying into the mist and snatching hold of his friend on the way by. Rufus flailed behind him but they were aloft now, racing upward through the fog as their rapid breaths made them more and more buoyant.

  He could hardly see anything. Vines and leaves whipped past but he merely kicked off the stalks he could reach, using them to propel himself higher and faster though the mist. He lit himself up slightly, but it didn’t help. The fog was too thick. Even noises were muffled: shouts from Skylighters to meet at globes, screams for missing family members from frantic mothers, and above all that, the rumble and chuffing of mechanical engines and the blasting pops of pneumatic harpoon guns. This attack was no pack of nightbeasts. This was something different.

  “Cut tethers and make for the Heights!” Someone shouted through the haze.

  Figures illuminated themselves in the fog, glowing their warnings. Water gushed from above as someone released a ballast pod. The passing globe tendrils were slick in his hands.

  Another whoosh overhead signaled a passing guardian. This was followed by a thud and an outcry of pain. But who were they fighting?

  Another hundred feet and the fog began to clear. The globes were blazing brightly from the commotion and some were already detached from the Mother, rising swiftly into the night and dumping their water reserves. Protocol was being followed. When in danger, make for the sky, rise above the threat and back to the thin, cold air of the Heights where ground-based predators couldn’t follow. Kipling finally arrested his ascent, grabbing hold of a stalk of the Mother and clinging tightly to its bark. Rufus scrambled for a handhold as well.

  The sky was swarming with activity. In every direction globes were detaching from the Mother, which was rising rapidly herself. But amid the glow of the globes and the Skylighters aboard them, dark shapes were moving. Big shapes. Kipling stared into the vacant sky where the western arm of the patch used to be and found himself focusing on a moving form. Scales shimmered on the sides of the twin tails, but this was no animal. It was an airship, two cylindrical bodies with dorsal fins, linked to
gether by a central hull. It was from this center of the craft that long, thin lines extended—harpoon lines—with sharp, shiny spines already buried in many of the globes.

  The guardians were working at high speed, whipping around the globes to cut the lines and free them from the ship’s grasp. But there were more ships. They hovered in multiple directions and the guardians weren’t working fast enough to free every globe. One in particular was already lashed to the side of the twin-tailed ship and the Grounder crew was working hard to secure a second bundle into the recesses of one of the cylinders. Kipling recognized the cluster of globe sons that had been ripped from the central pods.

  “What do we do?” Rufus stammered. He pointed a shaky finger toward the ship. “That’s Cirra Sola.”

  “What?” Kipling had to look again to see what Rufus was talking about, but when he looked closer he did recognize the partially deflated globe attached to the side of the ship as the lately ripened globe daughter. “No! Samra!” He nearly came off the stalk to fly toward it but Rufus gripped his arm.

  “Kip, they’re Grounder pirates! We have to get away!”

  The Globe Mother was rising fast now, though not quite as fast as the smaller globes around it, and the shape of the Grounder ship was diminishing into the fog below. Bronks would have rescued Samra from the globe before it was taken. He must have gotten to her. He knew where she was and wouldn’t have let any harm come to her.

  “Come on!” he shouted to Rufus. “We’ve gotta find Bronks!”

  “What about our parents?” Rufus replied.

  Kipling paused in his ascent of the vines. What had become of his parents? And Kaleb. Had they made it aboard the Mother yet?

  Corra Mara was soaring upward, free of the weight of the water reserves and the bulk of globe sons at her base, and now unencumbered by many of her younger globes. In every direction more of the smaller globes were making their way out into the night sky. The citizens of the patch had wasted no time in cutting ties and making a break for the safety of the upper altitudes. Some were clear of the mountains already, but the sharp fangs of the ridge still loomed higher than the heart of the patch.