Viral Airwaves

by Claudie Arseneault

  Henry took a sudden deep breath and shook his head. Perhaps he wasn’t. Andeal had made such jumps before, with Maniel. She had told him so. But even if he lived, the recording was gone. All it’d taken was a single zeppelin and their current plan had crumbled like a castle of cards. Henry wasn’t very good with back-up plans.

  “He can’t be dead. We need him.”

  “I’m sorry. The soldiers’ report is flawless. It’s him.” Lungvist paused, giving Henry time to wrestle with his shock. “President Kurtmann insists that you should remain here, in the Great Whale, where you’re safe. We will fly to Reverence.”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  Only Kurtmann’s copy of the recording remained. He’d have to agree with the president’s deal if he wanted to finish what they’d started. Without it, they had no proof against the Clarins and all they’d sacrificed until now would amount to nothing. Henry closed his eyes. His voice shook as he spoke.

  “Tell President Kurtmann that I will stay and…and that I agree to his terms. He will, however, also need to find a functioning transmitter. Say those exact words. He’ll understand.”

  Lungvist nodded, slunk from his chair and to the door. He turned to look at Henry before he left. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mister Schmitt. I’ll do my best to reach your other friend in time, I promise. Keep your mind on the radio.”

  The door clicked behind the soldier and once his footsteps faded away, only the low rumbling of engines remained. Henry fought against his rising panic. This wasn’t supposed to happen. First Maniel and Seraphin, thenTreysh, and now Andeal…all his companions, taken away. He was alone to face Clarin. He tried to imagine an ally out of Lungvist’s pockmarked face, but Vermen’s second-in-command had shoved Treysh into a cell. His aid and the President’s—however conditional—didn’t bring him the warm support he needed.

  Henry leaned back on the soft mattress, unable to tell if the concussion or grief caused his sudden nausea. He should have returned yesterday, his exertion be damned.

  If Andeal lay at the bottom of a ravine, the rebels’ success rested on his shoulders and he might one day need to tell Maniel she would never see her good-hearted husband again, or build a family with him.

  The winds had shifted, pushing the drifting balloon of his life into yet another direction. He was heading straight into the raging storm and there was no one left to guide him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Vermen would feel a lot better about meeting Andeal’s parents if they’d had news of his friend in the last two weeks. One day the almost-nightly broadcasts had stopped. No explanations, nothing but dull static to fill the silence. The first night they’d thought nothing of it. The second Maniel had wondered if they’d landed in a populated area and could not take the risk of another lift-off. When the radio silence stretched into an entire week, Jan made the first mistake. “I hope nothing happened to them,” he’d said, only to receive a silencing glare from Maniel. “Nothing happened to them,” she’d retorted. No one dared to bring up the topic again but they sat around the radio every night, all thinking the same thing, all refusing to voice the obvious.

  Something had happened.

  Perhaps it was just their equipment. They had to trust that was the problem, otherwise their work in the field would amount to nothing. It didn’t matter how many gathered in Reverence if the promised radio show never happened, if the recording was never played. So they traveled on, never acknowledging the heavy silence from their receiver, until they reached the great city of Altaer.

  Home to several universities and technical colleges all priding themselves on their uniqueness, Altaer was a cluster of varying architectures, mixing campuses and large green areas with skyscraper universities that towered over all other buildings. The overall design gave the impression of unruly chaos—which, when Vermen thought about it, described the city’s residents quite well. Altaer’s students were well known to put their studies on hold and flood the streets to protest any injustice.

  Requesting their help in Reverence seemed a perfectly logical endeavor, so Vermen had expected Seraphin to organize a meeting with one of the student leaders.

  When Jan came back to their shoddy hotel room and confirmed he’d managed to contact Andeal’s parents at the university’s courtball game, Vermen’s stomach churned. If the broadcast’s absence brought him a mounting sense of dread, how did they take it? The night promised not to be the happy reunion it ought to be.

  They slunk through the backyard of a triplex, keeping to the shadows. Jan, the youngest and most anonymous of them, had been charged with hitting the most popular bars and pubs to gauge the city’s mood about their broadcasts. He ought to mingle with the students his age easily enough and he would be spared this most awkward conversation. Unlike Maniel, who had grown increasingly nervous as the fateful moment approached. When Seraphin knocked on the back door’s window, she took a deep breath. Her black leather boot tapped the cement, filling the silence with an unnerving rhythm until a tall man opened the door and welcomed them in.

  Andeal’s father—and who else could it be, with that exact same shade of straw-blond hair?—hurried the group inside and closed the door behind. He led them toward the kitchen and started talking right away.

  “Sofia will be here in a moment. She may have broken the radio receiver throwing it against the wall yesterday, so she’s in the basement, fixing it in her atelier. I’m Adrian.”

  Vermen’s eyebrows shot up at the explanation. He slid into a chair without a word while Maniel tried to suppress an uneasy chuckle. Seraphin extended a hand to shake Adrian’s.

  “Seraphin Holt. This is Captain Hans Vermen and—”

  “Just Hans Vermen, please. I’m not really a captain anymore.”

  He used to love the sound of the title before his name, but somehow when it came out of Seraphin’s mouth it sounded all kinds of wrong. Vermen no longer belonged to the army. He could not claim to be one of them and despite a lifetime as a soldier, he did not want to anymore.

  Seraphin studied him a brief moment, nodded. “And this is Maniel. She’s…”

  He didn’t finish, instead turning to Maniel. She’d set her palms on the table and stared straight at Andeal’s father with a proud and determined expression. “I’m his wife. We were both arrested in the same protest and met in Galen’s labs.”

  Adrian studied her for what seemed the longest time, then his face split into an easy grin. The resemblance with Andeal’s was striking: exact same smile, extra wrinkles. He strode to her and wrapped her in a tight hug. Maniel’s eyes widened a moment. She laughed.

  “I should’ve known Andeal’s family would be big on displays of affection.”

  His father stepped back with a chuckle of his own. “That might be mostly me. Anyone want muffins? I’ve been baking. A lot.” He ran a hand through his hair, then grabbed a plate with several muffins and cookies and set it on the table. “Stress does that to me.”

  No one moved. They had traveled miles to get here, to speak with Andeal’s parents, yet none of them expected the warm hospitality and Adrian’s half-shy nervousness. It was too normal. As if Andeal was here with them, sitting in silent apprehension, waiting to see if the two chunks of his family could become one. Except he wasn’t. Worse, his voice was not here either, drifting out of the receiver, a reminder that he still lived, somewhere. Vermen couldn’t take a muffin. It would be a lie.

  Andeal’s father cleared his throat, dispelling the uneasy immobility. “Go ahead,” he insisted, and Seraphin extended his hand with a guilty look, grabbing one of the small muffins. He’d started removing the paper cup when they heard running footsteps climbing a flight of stairs.

  Sofia burst into the room with a repaired radio receiver in hand. A lot smaller than her husband, she had rich, tawny brown skin, Andeal’s bright blue eyes, and a black braid so long it brushed against her ankles. She slammed the radio on the table, rattling the plate of muffins, and offered her hand to
Maniel first, before she even looked at Seraphin.

  “You have to be his wife.”

  Maniel frowned a little. “Have to?”

  “Why, yes, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Our son is part of a rebellion and its leader sits right there, about to eat one of my husband’s prized muffins, yet Adrian keeps looking back at you instead of studying the White Renegade’s reaction to his food.”

  A light blush reddened Adrian’s cheeks and he averted his gaze with a smile.

  “I can eat one if it helps focus your attention on a single person.”

  Maniel picked up a muffin. She seemed so at ease, like she’d known them for years. They both laughed and while neither agreed to her proposal, Maniel started peeling her muffin cup. Sofia turned to Seraphin, her mirth vanishing. She squared her shoulders, an attitude Vermen had often seen in soldiers gathering the courage to begin a hard task.

  “We are grateful you chose to visit us.” She pressed her lips together and her tone hardened. “Although to be honest, we would have loved to receive news six years earlier.”

  Seraphin was about to eat a bite of muffin but stopped and set it down. “The risks—”

  “I don’t care about the risks.” She leaned forward and set her palms on the table. “He’s our son. He vanished. Those who say ignorance is bliss have never stood in my shoes.”

  “I cared about the risks. We took as few as possible to keep our headquarters secret.”

  “That sure worked out,” Sofia mumbled.

  Adrian put a hand on hers and squeezed. Vermen could see his own struggle to remain calm in the tensed shoulders and grim smile. Hans had fought with his stress in the last two weeks, anger and worry growing with every new day of static. How horrible would it be to endure this for so many years? And Andeal was a friend, not his son.

  “Sofia…” Maniel’s voice was subdued, devoid of her usual firmness. Vermen frowned and studied her expression. He did not remember such discreet vulnerability from her. “I have said nothing to my father, either. I am sure he and my siblings are worried to death, that hearing I lived for a time but might’ve died under Mount Kairn is killing them every day, but nothing—nothing—is worth the risk of returning to those labs. Andeal and I have talked about it and we both agreed: if we could not put Galen behind bars, if we could not ensure that we and those we love were safe, we would keep to ourselves.” She rubbed the muffin’s paper cup between her fingers but held Sofia’s gaze, unflinching. “I wish he was here today.”

  “So do I.” Sofia’s hand went to the receiver. She licked her lips, shook her head. “Do you know what happened? Why he stopped?”

  The three of them shook their heads at once. Seraphin leaned back in his chair. “We know little more than you do, in truth. We know how he travels and we know he is with Henry Schmitt, but that covers it. We don’t know where he is or why there are no more broadcasts.”

  “His equipment might be broken,” Vermen said.

  Sofia scoffed at the thought. “Andeal could repair it in a snap.” She did snap her fingers, close to his nose. “He learned from the best.”

  “Is that supposed to be you?” Adrian asked. “He never did take any of your classes.”

  “The best classes are not those with an official university stamp on them.” Sofia set a hand on her hip and poked her husband’s nose with her finger. “You know that, Mister Self-Taught Professional.”

  Before Adrian could come up with a retort, the radio gave a short screech, far lower in pitch than usual. They all turned to the table and stared at the tiny machine, breathless. Vermen’s hands tightened on his armchair and he leaned forward. Someone cleared his throat on the other side, then they heard a hesitant “Hello?”

  Henry Schmitt.

  Vermen felt like a hot iron had been shoved through his stomach. He didn’t want to hear Schmitt. Why would Henry be the one talking? Hans’ gaze flitted to the others. Maniel had crushed the muffin in her hand and Seraphin managed to maintain a neutral expression, but Sofia didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. She tapped on the table with her index finger as Adrian moved closer and wrapped an arm around her back.

  “Good evening, and hum…welcome back to The Noodle Show.”

  He sounded so nervous and pathetic, barely audible above the immense amount of static this broadcast had. Vermen hoped he had an explanation for this, that he might tell them what had happened. He also feared Schmitt would do just that.

  “First, well, I apologize for the literal radio silence. And I’m sorry we are changing radio hosts for the next month or so. Andeal was much better but, well, I’m afraid he can’t anymore. So it’ll be me.”

  “Can’t?” Sofia repeated and as Henry started talking about the initial plan for Union’s Day, she grabbed the radio. “Tell me why, damn it! I need to know what happened to him.”

  She slammed the receiver on the table and let out a cry of rage as Henry continued. Schmitt’s voice didn’t have the captivating rhythm Andeal had developed and he brought up nothing new, reminding them about Union’s Day and how despite the host change, they should still be there. Vermen stopped listening. Henry’s unwillingness to explain Andeal’s absence was more alarming than anything he could’ve said. Did Schmitt even know? Perhaps they’d been separated.

  “He won’t tell or he can’t tell,” Vermen said. “Turn it off.”

  Sofia obeyed, in her own way. She shoved the radio off the table and the broadcast fizzled out as it crashed to the ground. An uneasy silence stretched on after her outburst, until she sighed and slumped into a chair.

  “I apologize. The last two weeks have worn my patience down.” She pulled her braid up and settled it on her legs to keep it off the floor, then turned to Seraphin. “Reverence is a long way from here, but we will be there. You should contact the local student leaders. They are already hard at work mobilizing everyone and will make essential allies if you intend to have an organized protest in the city.”

  “We’ve tried,” Seraphin said. “No luck finding who to contact so far but trust me, I am not leaving Altaer without speaking to them. We’ll need folks who know their business on the ground on Union’s Day.”

  A large grin spread on Sofia’s face. “Oh, I have names for you, my friend. Lots of them.” She slid out of her chair, walked to the fridge and stretched up, barely reaching the notepad and pen on top of it. She scribbled the names without hesitation, tore the paper off, and handed it to the Regarian. “These are the usual suspects in Altaer’s protests. They’ll be thrilled to hear from you.”

  Seraphin gave the list a glance and answered with his unique, tight-lipped smile. He folded it, stored the paper in a pocket, and stood. “Thank you, madam. You’re a lifesaver.”

  “If you could be the same to my son, that would be fantastic.”

  Maniel took a deep breath and straightened up, too. She walked around the table without a word, her dark fingers trailing on the pale wooden table, then stopped in front of Sofia and put a hand on the smaller woman’s shoulder. “He’ll be okay. He’s never careful, but he always makes it out.” She pulled Sofia into a tight embrace and they held each other for a long moment.

  Vermen stood as Maniel stepped back. Something in Maniel’s determined refusal to accept his death made him crave human contact. His hand brushed against Seraphin’s and he withdrew it right away, clenching his teeth. The rebel leader cast him a glance but did not comment, to Vermen’s relief. He cleared his throat.

  “We should go,” he said. “Because we never found them does not mean there are no Union soldiers surveying this house. We shouldn’t stay longer than necessary.”

  Adrian nodded but picked up a plate of muffins and shoved several in a small box. He handed it to Maniel with a proud smile. “A little help on your travel. We look forward to meeting you again.”

  Maniel accepted the gift and as they exchanged pleasantries, Vermen stalked to the back door. He glanced out and opened it in a deliberate push, half-convinced he wo
uld catch a glimpse of movement, hear a bang and feel a bullet bite his skin. Nothing happened. He took a deep breath, slipped out. He wished they’d had enough spare guns to give him one. Hans felt naked, useless. He searched the perimeter and when he returned to the door, the others were ready to leave.

  “All clear,” he said. “Let’s see if Jan has heard of any of those names.”

  Vermen hoped he did. Having a mass of confused and directionless people concentrated in Reverence would cause nothing but useless chaos. With a few experienced leaders they could channel the righteous fury somewhere useful, even if it only meant a big show of popular anger. With Andeal gone, Vermen revised his hopes for Union’s Day. He didn’t trust Schmitt to see things through, not to the same extent.

  The Noodle Man was all they had left, however. Hans Vermen hoped he would be up to the task.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  After a month, the constant buzzing of the Great Whale’s engines no longer bothered Henry. He’d grown used to the new flying experience: hanging thousands of feet above ground without ever seeing the sky or feeling the wind on your cheeks, trapped in a floating tin can. A huge, village-like one, but a tin can nonetheless. The president’s zeppelin had its own bakery, general store, and tavern, all catering to the soldiers and engineers aboard. They could spend months without touching ground and be none the worse for it. Henry wished he was allowed to visit and take his mind off Andeal’s absence, but a stranger would be spotted right away and might stir trouble. Instead he paced around his minuscule room and concentrated on the broadcasts.

  He hated broadcasting. The voice they had come to trust was gone forever and all they had left was his pathetic attempts at reassurance. How did you convince thousands not to worry when your insides squirmed with fear? He knew he was bad, knew he was losing them with every passing evening, but what else could he do? He had to try to get them to Reverence on Union’s Day or they had lost. Henry rubbed his temples and grabbed the microphone, ready to go again.