The Sky Is Yours

by Chandler Klang Smith

  “A command console?” Ripple double-takes. “But wait, what does this have to do with the fires?”

  “When I was in the burn ward, there was another man in there too. A herpetologist.”

  “Yuck, I hope you didn’t catch it.”

  “He studied reptiles, Duncan. Before he died, he told me the city had hired him to observe the movements of the dragons. To read the fires they left behind. The city believed any patterns he found might lead them to the tool they lost. And I thought to myself—well, I’ve been following the dragons my entire adult life. If anyone can figure this out, it’s me. So, ever since, I’ve been watching.” Through the viewholes of the Tarnhelm, Trank’s glass eyes take on an uncommonly human sheen. “I’m close now. Very close. I can’t disclose the details yet. But I can say it’s only a matter of time.”

  All along, Ripple felt like Trank was holding back, and now he understands why. If this is legit—and it sounds legit—it changes everything.

  “We’re going to have dragon slaves?”

  “I’ll rule them the way I ran my fire department—with a firm but just hand. The dragons will protect this city. Restore order.”

  Ripple pictures Trank at a high-tech control panel, DJing the movements of the dragons from afar. The thought would make him jealous, except that’s not even the coolest part.

  “Fuck yeah! You steer. I want to ride them!” Ripple can feel the wind in his hair already, hear his own triumphal whoops. Which one is bosser, the yellow or the green? A whole new Toob series is brewing in his imagination, an epic saga of dominance achieved. “Maybe that art pro can redo my portrait.”

  “This will be a huge responsibility, and it’s mine alone to shoulder.”

  “Right, yeah, I totally get that. I just want one ride. Per day.”

  “But I will need a plan for succession. A trusted lieutenant. A second-in-command. Someone to back me up, and to take over when I’m gone.” Trank straightens up, distant and authoritative once more. “If there’s anything I learned from what happened with the fire department, it’s that you can’t let the mob decide what’s right. Stick with me, follow in my footsteps, tell me everything you know, and it’ll pay off for you in the end.”

  The fire chief folds his arms, like he’s striking a hard bargain. But this is a no-brainer. Trank isn’t just telling Ripple about a top-secret mission—he’s letting him in on the ground floor of a monster-powered dynasty. The old pro respects him after all.

  “For serious?” Ripple says. “You’re going to make me a princeling? Because I am on board all the way with that.”

  It’s distorted through the mask, but Trank sounds pleased. Relieved, even. “I thought you would be.”

  * * *

  They get the next dispatch over the radio from the Metropolitan Fire Department. It’s uptown from their location and to the east, which means they have to hup to if they want to reach it in time.

  “MPD needs to spring for a vehicle,” Ripple says, shoving the hot-dog cart. He’s recommitted to their mission, sure, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still complain. A glittering future makes the present even shittier by comparison. “All this marching gives me blisters.”

  “We’re independent extinguishment contractors.” Trank scans the sky, hunting, tracking, detecting thin vital tendrils of new smoke from the constant, lifeless smog. “That means we supply our own equipment.”

  “I don’t get why we even have to fight the fires. We’re reading them for clues, right? So can’t we just observe, like the Herpes Guy did?”

  “The police provide us valuable intel and a stipend.”

  “Beer money can suck it. I’m a dragon prince.”

  “Besides, the more of this city we preserve now, the more it will be worth later on.”

  “I guess.” They turn the corner onto a broad avenue; a broken traffic light lies prone in the intersection, its crunched-up bulbs like piles of emeralds, gold, rubies. “My family owns a bunch of real estate here, you know.”

  “Down the line, this whole city will be owned by whoever controls the dragons.”

  “But that’ll be us. Right?”

  “You have nothing to worry about.”

  It does worry Ripple, though, or bug him anyway. As much as he likes the idea of gliding up to his parents’ roof on the newly tamed Scales O’Drakerson and yelling, “Yo, Dad, guess you’re reporting to me now,” being a Ripple should still mean something. It should still come with a legacy attached. Trank can run this place, no problem—somebody’s gotta do it—but that doesn’t make it his.

  Besides, what if Ripple gets tired of being Trank’s second-in-command? He should be able to change back into Late Capitalism’s Royalty if he doesn’t dig the whole Dragon Prince lifestyle.

  Whatever. Ripple will cross that bridge when he can fly over it.

  Ripple nicknames the next burning building the Witch Church the minute he sees it. It’s a weird conglomeration of gargoyles and stained glass, with a pointed, twisty spire that pierces skyward and a congregation of hell demons licking the walls inside. He and Trank don’t have to bust in doors this time. This entrance is open, and the long tongue of a red carpet lolls out through it, down the cold stone outside stairs.

  Spray bags loaded, Ripple and Trank enter the sanctuary. The place yawns before them, cavernous, bigger than it looks from the outside. Filled with fire, like the belly of a dragon. Then Trank points to the back, farthest from the altar. Another Survivor.

  “You take care of her,” says Trank. “I’m going up into the choir loft.”

  The lady’s an old, old fem, old enough to be Pippi Dahlberg’s grandma, wearing this white lacy outfit that looks like a spiderweb dropped down on her from the ceiling and stuck her to the pew. As Ripple approaches, he sees she has a book open on her lap and she runs her fingers over its pages, petting it like it’s something alive, while she stares right at him. Only he can tell she can’t see anything. Her milky blind eyes make her look like her soul’s been erased.

  “Ma’am, is there anyone else in the building?” Ripple asks her through his gas mask. The tapestry behind the old lady is burning, the carpet runner leading to the old lady is burning, but somehow the old lady herself isn’t burning. She’s just sitting there like she’s posing for a picture. A formal one, since she isn’t smiling.

  “You will go into the fire,” she says.

  “Duh, I already did.” Ripple sprays out the flames in front of him and takes another step toward her. “I’m here as a representative of Metropolitan Emergency Services.”

  “You will go into the fire, but you will not find the way out.”

  “Ma’am, I’m gonna help you now so you don’t get cremated alive.”

  “You will never reach them.” Her voice quavers with cruel intensity: “Thus the fire speaks!”

  Oookay. According to Trank, cults used to be huge in the city, but this is the last one with staying power: the Say-Somethings. Apparently these people worship the dragons, offer themselves up as sacrifices in hopes that, at the last moment, the dragons will speak through them, using earthling brains and vocal cords to communicate their otherworldly demands. A different take on reading the fires, kind of—except it’s the dragons’ minds they’re trying to read. Bonkers.

  “You are not the one,” she tells him.

  Wow. Like he was thinking earlier: rude. He stares at the old lady, then grabs her around the waist and throws her over his shoulder. It’s not procedure, but who cares.

  “Prophecy disproved,” he announces, striding toward the doors.

  She feels impossibly light in his arms. He expects her to resist, like the other Survivor he tried this on once—that bedentured harpy chomped him on the ear, and not in a sexy way either—but she doesn’t.

  Instead, she laughs, and her laughter is a curse.

  Outside, in the light of day, the old lady looks mummified: too dry and brittle to move without cracking into pieces. Behind them, a patch of church roof falls in on
itself. Sparks dazzle up to the clouds. Ripple tries to set the old lady down, but she clings to him. Her hands clamp onto his slicker, his gloves, his utility belt.

  “Hey!” A holster rips and his hatchet thunks to the pavement, narrowly missing his foot. “Wench, look what you did!”

  “You will fight,” she whispers. “And you will lose—everything.”

  She scuttles away down the street, cackling. In all of that ragged white lace, she’s a scrap of doomsday scripture, crumpled up and discarded but impossible to ignore.

  Talk about a thankless job.

  “You’re welcome!” Ripple yells after her.

  “Duncan.”

  Ripple turns. Trank stands framed in the doorway of the Witch Church. The fire behind him is gone, just gone, a blown-out candle. Trank points to the ax.

  “Pick that up. You’re going to need it.”

  * * *

  They’ve never gone to the park before. Here, what were once lawns and gardens and meadows form a charcoal vista as bleak as the surface of the moon. Evaporated stream beds meander near carbonized swing sets and picnic tables. Every so often, a branchless rampike juts out of the lifeless earth, spent and blackened like the head of a match.

  “Not to be a gutless wonder, but aren’t we totally exposed out here?” asks Ripple.

  “Dragons don’t torch the park anymore, Duncan. There’s nothing left for it.”

  “There’s…us.”

  “They don’t aim for humans. We’re nothing to them. At most, they see us as ants.”

  “My uncle used to death-ray ants with his quizzing glass before he stopped going outside.”

  They crest a knoll. In the valley below, a dragon-seared carousel stands amid a makeshift open-air market. Two dozen sellers display their wares on worn rugs and blankets and stained bath towels; buyers move from booth to booth, bartering and haggling with the merchants.

  “You can have anything shipped in,” says Trank, “but I like to support local commerce when I’m buying my gear. Let’s find you a new holster.”

  As they start down the hill, Ripple takes a closer look at the vendors. The Survivors Ripple has met so far are mostly frail and elderly, wispy-skinned and wet-eyed, like pickled babies in a jar. But these pros and wenches are leathery as fuck, an armpit convention in smell-tastic 4-D. Looking around, he notices almost every single one has a disfiguring burn someplace visible.

  “What’s the deal with the, uh, sales force?” he mutters to Trank.

  “These folks lost everything and had nowhere to go—or just didn’t like the thought of retreating. So now they get by on trade, living here in the park. Under the bridges, mostly.”

  “Like trolls? Why don’t they just grab some abandoned apartments? There isn’t exactly a shortage.”

  “Once burned.” Trank doesn’t complete the thought.

  One booth is selling canned goods. One is selling fire blankets. One is renting out a portable generator by the minute, allowing customers to charge their batteries. Ripple isn’t sure how lucrative any of this could be, but other shoppers are picking among the stalls, some spending currency, some bartering wares of their own.

  “This is real chicken-thigh meat, it’s got to be worth something,” one woman says, haggling with a merchant who specializes in secondhand medications, pills arranged in piles by color, half-empty bottles of cough syrup priced by vol. The merchant shoots back, “Take your secondhand Torchtown poultry and go. I’d rather eat bird-lady pigeon than one of those mean, stringy fuckers.”

  “Harsh,” Ripple observes. But it’s nice to see some of the citydwellers aren’t spending the remainder of their lives holed up inside. Most of the patrons here are pyropreneur types: Ripple spots the pizza-delivery pro with a satchel full of jelly beans and tuna fish—tomorrow’s toppings?—and gives him a thumbs-up. A loam-monger indiscreetly swaps drug packets for a box of extra-strength delousing powder. Apparently the park is another district the MPD isn’t obligated to police.

  Trank and Ripple approach a blanket covered with leather sheaths in a variety of ominous shapes. “What can I suit you for?” asks the proprietor, a guy wrapped in graying bandages that look to conceal more than heal.

  As Trank and Holster Hal talk prices, Ripple, bored, wanders away into the crowd—not much of a crowd, really, no more than forty or fifty people tops, but more faces than he’s seen together in one place since crawling out of that manhole. Maybe this is a sneak preview to the future, when the dragons follow orders and the city fills back up again. If so, it could be a pretty friendly place to live.

  There’s a food truck parked at the edge of the market, and Ripple goes over to check it out. The menu looks decent: carbonated gazpacho, anti-griddled frozen “waffles,” spherical egg salad. Local, schmocal—whoever’s cooking here has an out-of-town ingredients supplier. It’s the sort of thing Ripple used to eat back at home all the time, that he never really appreciated. After weeks of total junk, though, he’s starting to get the appeal. He thinks of Swanny, savoring every morsel of their rehearsal dinner, and wonders if she’s OK. He shouldn’t have let her slip away like that. Did she actually go to Torchtown? Or did she find her way back to his parents so she could enjoy the finer things again? It’s a toss-up: that fem loves her crème fraîche, but there’s also a heaping dose of murder rage squeezed into those ruffly plus-sized outfits.

  “Duncan?”

  For a second, Ripple doesn’t recognize his old molecular gastronomist sans toque. The guy behind the window of the truck is scruffier than he’s ever seen him, with a new half-grown beard and his usually immaculate chef’s whites splattered and unwashed. But he gapes at Ripple for so long, with such intensity, that Ripple finally puts it together.

  “Hey pro, it’s good to see you too. What’s up with the new business? Did you finally get sick of truffling my dad’s frittata?”

  “I thought you were dead. I thought you all were dead.” The cuisinier is, inexplicably, tearing up. “I thought I was the only one who survived.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “After the invasion—the fire?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your mansion. It burned to the ground. Don’t you know that?”

  “No. The MPD went and checked it out. Everything was fine. Everybody was OK. Except Mrs. Dahlberg, but hey, win some lose some.” Ripple knows what he’s saying is true, but the gastronomist has a look on his face like Ripple is falling and falling and the world is rushing up to meet him. “Seriously, I know what I’m talking about, pro.”

  “You should look at this.” The molecular gastronomist reaches through the window and hands Ripple a LookyGlass.

  As the video fitfully streams, the images come to Ripple in starts and stutters. The Ripple mansion, gouged and smoldering, filmed through the locked gates; a lone searcher with a BeanReader, plodding through the wreckage; old Toob clips of Ripple’s mom and dad, labeled with dates and RIP; a picture of Ripple’s own face, then Swanny’s, each with a question mark superimposed; a tweaked logo for Late Capitalism’s Royalty, bling wreathed in mourning black. Ripple can’t process it. It looks like reality. But it can’t be.

  25

  NO-MAN’S-LAND

  When does all of this begin?

  It begins in the bullet shop.

  It begins in Torchtown, where Swanny frets on a street corner, gazing remorsefully at the sign she’s seen on her limo rides so many times before: BULLET RETRIEVAL, REFURBISHMENT & RESALE.

  It begins in the wee hours of the morning when Swanny lies in bed in the Chaw Shop attic, thinking of her mother, and of Sharkey. Swanny once inhabited Pippi in the form of phantom pains; poltergeist disruptions of the bladder, stomach, and intestine; toxemia; and gestational diabetes. In lightless secrecy, Swanny’s embryo feasted, fiendish, on the Old Mom’s tired blood. What could inspire greater loyalty than that? But it’s Sharkey’s body that nurtures her these days: the hot, dark hair that sprouts from his shoulders, the muscles of his jaw as they
work his morning chew. The smell of the calming poisons, leaking through his skin. She hates herself for the attraction, and yet, even now, some small, dangerous part of her wants to fall on his chest and offer her forgiveness like a confession. She wonders if he’d kill her—if he’d ever trust her again. But of course the point is moot. She knows what she must do.

  It begins two weeks and four days ago, with a young man whose freshly scabbed back wound will never have the chance to heal. A name written there in pain that will never be erased.

  It begins nineteen years before that, during the Siege of Wonland County, when Eisenhower Sharkey, separated from the rest of his raiding party, finds himself in a dark wood, far from the world he knows. Somewhere in the distance, land mines explode in the backyard of a house. He freezes beneath the crooked trees and feels himself disappear into the silence. He learns for the first time that he is edible, marooned, a creature of the indoors. This is no-man’s-land. The sky is full of stars. The night is full of eyes.

  It begins with Pippi Dahlberg filling out the Voluntary Retirement form in longhand, triplicate, checking the box marked “Medically Inadvisable Pregnancy” under “Reasons Why.”

  It begins on a Wednesday, forty-three years ago, with an unwanted Torchtown rape baby squalling in the gutter, premature but viciously alive, ripping a plastic trash bag off his sticky red face like a caul. Unnamed: Eisenhower Sharkey will name himself.

  It begins with the installation of the barbed wire, of the machine-gun turrets, atop Torchtown’s concrete walls, with the first irredeemables lowered down into its streets in shark cages, to find their fortune there.

  It begins with the dragons.

  It begins, as all endings do, in the beginning, in the code that underwrites the whole of our experience, that first microscopic enchantment that brought the world to life. But for our purposes here, it begins in the bullet shop.

  The bullet shop is semi-underground, the only floor remaining of a decimated brownstone. Uneven brickwork, leftover from the annihilated ground-floor walls, rings its ceiling like the battlements of a castle half-swallowed by the earth. Swanny regards it miserably from across a cobblestoned alleyway pale with morning dew, then steps off the curb, directly into the shadow of a dragon. She pauses in midstep as its killer darkness ripples over her. She shuts her eyes. It’s the green one—she can tell without looking up, from its frilled silhouette, the shape of the frisson it leaves behind. Amazing that such a brief eclipse can so chill the air. A few seconds later, she hears the screams a block away and the crackling whoosh, quite familiar now, that can only mean the end of one thing, the beginning of another.