Viral Airwaves

by Claudie Arseneault

  “I don’t think you understand the situation you’re in,” the smaller one said. “There’s nothing funny about it.”

  “Oh, no, I think I understand a lot better than either of you.” Their frowns deepened into scowls and a sudden thought crossed Andeal’s mind. He held back another fit of laughter and lifted his head to meet Magnus’ eyes. The giant’s large hand still held his throat firm. “You’re so proud to have caught me, but you’ll be the first to pay for it. Especially you.”

  Magnus sneered. “Why?”

  “This blue isn’t natural. It’s from another microbe Clarin created in his secret labs. It creeps into your skin cells, leeches off their resources, and produces the pigment as part of its life cycle. And it’s contagious.” Andeal looked down at Magnus’ arm, raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been touching me a lot.”

  The giant released his grip and stepped back, eyes wide in horror. Andeal dashed to the side. Thirty feet to the edge with a limping leg. Possible, if they didn’t react fast.

  A loud bang extinguished that hope. The bullet landed in the ground right in front of him, sending dirt flying and forcing him to skid to a stop. The second soldier had his weapon pointed straight at his heart. He took a victorious step forward.

  “Nice try, but you’re not going anywhere. You don’t scare me with your lies.”

  “You just think you’re safe because you haven’t touched me. You’re intelligent enough to realize I wasn’t born with blue skin—in fact, you’ve probably seen the picture in the newspaper. You’ll have noticed how much younger I am in it and must’ve wondered why. Strange, isn’t it, that the one rebel without a recent picture is the one with blue skin? So maybe I don’t scare you, but it’s not because I’m lying. And you know it.”

  As he spoke he strode forward once. The soldier’s gun didn’t waver but doubt crept into his expression. Andeal smirked. Then spat in the man’s face. The soldier gave a shriek and reached up to wipe the saliva away.

  Andeal wished he could enjoy the terror he’d provoked longer. Instead he spun on his heels and scrambled for the cliff. Magnus let out a deep, outraged cry that contrasted with his partner’s shrill scream and cocked his gun.

  The shot rang out as Andeal leapt into the gaping ravine. The bullet whizzed past him, inches away from his shoulder, then the rushing wind obliterated all other sounds. It snapped his loose shirt about, plunged into his leg wound and set it on fire, pushed at his muscles as he fought to stretch himself into a long diving position. The tied hands really didn’t help. The water closed in as he gritted his teeth for impact.

  He might die. It’d still be a hundred times better than returning to the labs.

  The cold water enveloped his body from fingertips to toes, compressing his bones and threatening to rip him apart. The outside world vanished above the waves, leaving only a dull buzz as pressure tightened around his skull and obscured his vision.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Meeting the president came pretty high on the long list of things Henry never expected from his life. Then again, almost everything that’d happened in the last months could figure on that extensive list, so perhaps this was the next logical step. As he entered the cozy living room inside the world’s greatest zeppelin, Henry wondered what would be next, and if it would even surprise him. He waved the thought away, convinced that whatever he imagined—even a pool full of instant noodles—life would find a way to spring weirder things on him.

  A tall figure sat in the darkest corner of the living room by a fireplace with a fake fire, leaning forward, broad hands set on his legs. Flickering shadows moved across his flat nose and squared chin, deepening the traits.

  “Mister President?” Lungvist called. “This is Henry Schmitt. I’ll guard the door.”

  He slipped out right away and the door clicked behind him. Henry gave it a wistful glance but instead took a step forward, deeper into the room. The seated man pushed himself off his large chair and approached with long, deliberate strides. His shoulders hunched forward from an invisible weight and a disturbing number of lines criss-crossed his face. President Kurtmann was in his early fifties but looked at least a decade older. He stopped a few feet away from Henry and smiled, stretching his arms out. The expression smoothed half his wrinkles.

  “Your old man would be proud, I think.”

  An angry flush rushed to Henry’s cheeks. Why would Lenz be proud? No matter how hard he tried, Henry made one wrong decision after another. First he’d been too afraid to accept the task, then he’d led Lungvist straight to Treysh and finally, he’d crashed their balloon and been caught before they could fix the radio. His current record of failures was nothing to be proud of. And besides, what did Kurtmann know about his father? Henry crossed his arms. He’d had enough of confusing banter for the night.

  “You wanted to see me,” he said. “What for?”

  His straightforwardness seemed to surprise the president, but the wide-eyed expression vanished as fast as it’d appeared.

  “I can help you. I want to.”

  “Help?” Their attacks might be focused on Galen, but they were also destroying Kurtmann’s claim to power. With their version of events, it was easy to question how much he knew and whether he should be President at all.

  “You should take a seat.”

  “I feel like standing.” That was a big fat lie. Between the balloon crash, the concussion, and the long walk here, his entire body shivered at the thought of more effort.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Kurtmann crossed the distance between them in a single stride, then grabbed Henry’s bloodied shirt and pulled the sleeve up. Henry winced and avoided looking at the red line running up his forearm, surrounded by a sick bluish contusion. “I’m willing to bet you’ve got other such wounds, some perhaps more dangerous than others. Did you not crash into the forest? Sit.”

  He released Henry’s arm and returned to his own chair, where he waited for his guest to take the other one. After a short struggle with his pride, Henry decided to obey. He dragged his feet to the second chair and collapsed into it. The cushion molded to his battered body and tempted him to close his eyes and sleep. He resisted the allure and straightened up. The president leaned forward and clasped his hands together, like a man about to tell a legend by the fireside.

  “Your father was an old friend—the kind you always remember but don’t see for years at a time. When I last saw him, however, it wasn’t a happy reunion. He’d come to give me this.” He searched the inside pocket of his tailor-made suit and drew out a small disc case. “I think it should be yours, now.”

  Henry frowned and reached for the disc, but Kurtmann withdrew it.

  “There are conditions. The Clarins must never know how you came by it. And when you present it, you must linger on how they talk about me. This virus was not my idea. I never asked for it, or to be their puppet. I just…” He passed a hand over his face. “I’m getting ahead of myself. You ought to listen to it first.”

  He placed the disc in the reader on a side table. The name Jacob was written on top, with his father’s handwriting. Same as Henry’s recording.

  Henry had never expected to find another disc like his. It made a lot of sense that his father would make several copies of such a precious recording, however. If the president really was an old friend…what else could this disc be?

  “Don’t bother. I know what’s on it.”

  “You…” Kurtmann trailed off, his gaze fell and his shoulders slumped.

  “Did you expect my father to give you the only disc in existence? What you hold is a copy. The entire radio show is a ploy to broadcast the original on Union’s Day! We’ve had this information from the beginning, Mister President.” Henry’s anger built as the full ramifications of this settled in. He sprang to his feet, unable to remain seated and paced around the chair and away from the artificial fire. “There’s one thing I do wonder about, however. If you’ve had the recording for so long, how come you never did anything
about it? We sure haven’t heard you denounce the Clarins in the last years.”

  “I wasn’t inactive!” Kurtmann twisted in his chair to watch Henry pace. “I threatened Galen to reveal it if he didn’t step down but he laughed, said I needed him and that if he went down, so did I. He was right, too: I couldn’t have navigated through the Union’s rough early years without the twins. I thought I’d learn to command him. I was the President,after all. I gave orders. But a man with a gun to his head never controls anything, and with the Threstle Plague, I was as good as dead if I said a word. You have to understand, Henry. He’d have me killed!”

  “You mean like he killed my father? Like he would kill me, or Seraphin, or any other rebels if he put his hands on us? Like he will Treysh, because of that lieutenant you sent after me?”

  Henry hadn’t launched a hot air balloon through free fall, snuck in Reverence through the catacombs, stolen a transmitter from the National Radio Tower, and dodged Union troops flying across Ferrys’ territory to get ‘they’d have me killed’ as an answer. He could’ve died dozens of times since he’d accepted to go against the Clarin twins, and so had all the rebels. They’d taken the risks for perfect strangers to whom they owned nothing. But here was a man sworn to protect them, too scared of death to step up in their name.

  Henry’s pacing came to an abrupt stop. His hands balled into shaking fists and an angry flush rushed to his cheeks. He spun to face President Kurtmann and advanced on him, one deliberate step at a time.

  “You are a coward,” he said. “Your citizens believed in you. You appeared when they needed a hero and they gave you their absolute trust, and this is how you repay them?” He stopped beside the president’s chair and leaned upon him. “Puppet or no, you deserve to go down.”

  Kurtmann stood, forcing Henry to back away, and straightened. He was a full head taller, with an imposing presence absent from the figure slumped in his chair.

  “I did what I could and it is not your place to judge me. You cannot imagine how difficult the last years have been. I called you here to help your cause, not to be berated by a stranger, Lenz’s son or not.”

  Henry stepped away. The desperate inflection underlying every sentence Kurtmann said gave him shivers. He’d always sounded strong and confident on the radio but tonight, in the privacy of his zeppelin living room, Henry heard a man hollowed out by his mistakes. How could someone so respected and revered turn out to be so pitiful? He fought not to grimace: they could gain something here. Kurtmann’s voice mattered.

  “Will you not speak up now?” Henry asked.

  “It is too late for that.”

  “Never is.”

  “I said no.”

  Henry clenched his fists. Kurtmann had given up before he ever tried to fight. But he could still help them, even if he refused to act in public. “Then give me tools, a new antenna, and food supplies. Our radio transmitter is broken.”

  “I’ll have Lungvist get them. Anything else?”

  His stomach grumbled in response and the weight of today’s events crashed on Henry’s shoulders. He rubbed his temple and tried to think of something despite the pulsing headache and growing fatigue, but no idea surfaced through the mist in his mind.

  “I…no. A meal, perhaps, and painkillers.”

  A concerned expression passed over Kurtmann’s face. “How hard did you crash?”

  “It’s a miracle no one broke a limb. I smacked my head something bad.”

  The president moved forward, grabbed Henry’s arm, and pulled him back to the large chair. A new energy animated him and he acted with the swiftness of a man who’d found his purpose. Henry sat, too surprised to protest, and Kurtmann—Doctor Kurtmann—crouched before him.

  “Headaches?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any nausea since you crashed?”

  “Yes…”

  The president clacked his tongue and straightened up, his worried frown deepening.

  “You ought to sleep here. Chances are you have a concussion and whether or not your condition worsens remains to be seen. If something happens, I could help.”

  Henry felt fine, if he excluded exhaustion and headaches. He’d heard about people falling asleep and never waking up, however, and accepting meant a warm and soft bed for the night. Andeal would worry at the camp, but he’d probably agree staying was the best decision.

  “All right. If you keep watch, I’ll wait for tomorrow to return. Better late than dead, after all.”

  “Then I shall ask Lieutenant Lungvist to see to your comfort.”

  The president went to the door and pushed it open a crack. He had a quick, whispered discussion with the tall soldier, just loud enough for Henry to understand they were making arrangements for a meal and his rooms. He rubbed his stomach, absentminded, until Kurtmann gestured for him to leave. As he went past the president, the man touched his forearm.

  “Your father never let anyone talk down to him or get in his way. It’s good to see you’ve inherited that temper.”

  Henry quirked his eyebrows and studied Kurtmann’s expression for a clue indicating he was joking. He found nothing but serious green eyes and lips sealed into a grim line. Here he stood, in the belly of the world’s largest zeppelin after a rough and unpredictable day, and their jelly-spined president had just conveyed gladness at his temper. Henry couldn’t remember hearing anything as ridiculous. Uncontrollable, shaking laughter took over his belly, and his companions stared, dumbstruck, until he wiped tears out of his eyes and asked, out of breath, to go to his rooms.

  His wild fit of laughter left him lightheaded and relieved as he followed Lungvist down the Great Whale’s corridors.

  * * *

  A loud metallic banging woke Henry with a start. He sat up, groaning as blades of pain stabbed through his skull, and glared at his door. Whoever smashed his fists against it had never learned manners.

  “A moment, please!”

  The previous evening he’d slipped out of his muddied clothes and into a hot shower, washing away weeks of dirt, sweat and weariness. His quarters consisted of a minuscule room with a bunk bed, a chair and a dresser, but the adjacent bathroom turned them into the best living space he’d enjoyed since Reverence. The president had arranged for a pair of clean pajama pants and another set of clothes to be readied for him, too, and he put on the clean shirt before trudging to the door. Every piece of clothing was two sizes larger than necessary and floated around Henry, making him feel goofy and inadequate. He fought against the shame, pulled the doorknob, and met his visitor’s solemn gaze. The door-banging miscreant turned out to be Lungvist.

  “No need to wake up the whole Great Whale!”

  “No? Then why didn’t you come when I knocked and called your name?”

  “I—” Henry’s cheeks burned and he stepped aside to let the soldier in. “Never mind.”

  Two long strides carried Lungvist to the middle of the room and he waited for the door to close before speaking again. He moved with precise movements and a grace unexpected from someone with such long legs.

  “President Kurtmann said you’d have headaches for a week or two but no other complications, but I’d begun to believe you’d died in your sleep. I am pleased to see that is not the case.”

  “You’ve changed moods since yesterday.”

  Henry couldn’t tell if Lungvist’s sudden politeness relieved or disturbed him. The soldier had exchanged drunken bluster for a calm and calculating attitude. He seemed to pause and consider Henry’s comment..

  “Alcohol blurs my mind.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if fighting a headache of his own. “I’ve had my fair share of rethinking to do, both this morning and in the past month. What you told me about Hans yesterday… it helped a lot. I only wish I could’ve talked with this Andeal.”

  Lungvist slipped his toes behind the chair’s legs and turned it with his feet so it’d face the bed. He sat at ease and as his shoulders slumped, it seemed to Henry he’d lost an inch or two in he
ight. Strange how one night had transformed Lungvist. The pensive pock-faced soldier sitting before him now seemed a lot more sympathetic than the arrogant drunk who’d bragged about capturing his friend.

  “You will free Treysh, won’t you?” Henry asked.

  Despite his exhaustion, guilt had kept Henry awake through part of the night. His carelessness had shoved Treysh into a dark prison and he imagined the enclosed space—away from her chemicals and unable to concoct another devious plan—must be driving her mad. She’d be happily preparing a firework fest if not for Henry and the man stretching out on a chair in front of him.

  “I already told you I would,” Lungvist answered.

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Henry forced a smile to his lips and nodded. When pitted against the rebels, Lungvist’s best had brought great results. Perhaps he’d manage something for Treysh before it was too late.

  “Then maybe I can do something about seeing Andeal? Escort me back to our camp. I could use the help. All the supplies ought to be heavy.”

  He remembered his last never-ending trek back to the hot air balloon, carrying a backpack as heavy as he was, and he had no desire to repeat the experience. If Lungvist came along, he’d be relieved from part of the weight and the soldier would receive more answers. A perfect solution. Except the lieutenant frowned and leaned forward, tense.

  “That is…no longer possible,” he said. “A report came this morning. Union soldiers tracked down your camp and pursued your friend. He jumped into a ravine. The drop is over a hundred feet. Even with the river at the end…”

  Henry’s head rang so loudly it drowned out the rest of what Lungvist told him. He half-sat, half-collapsed on the bed, staring straight ahead as he tried to absorb what he heard.

  Gone.

  Andeal was gone.

  He’d chosen to dive into a canyon and crash into the riverbed rather than be captured. And with him was his father’s recording, crushed to pieces or destroyed by water.