Falling Sky (29 page)

To my surprise, I only see one guard on the airfield. Then again, what do they need to guard against? The plant is well hidden, the location protected. All they're really worried about, I suppose, is some boffin getting antsy and trying to make a break for it. But they're already broken, and so one man with a rifle seems to be all that they need. And if he fires, I'm sure others will start running.

Knowing Claudia, she would take the stealthy approach. Approach the guard from a distance. Maybe just shoot an arrow through his throat and walk past him as the body was still twitching.

I walk up to the man calmly. Confidently. The fact that I can see the
Cherub
gives me some of that confidence. The rest I fake.

“What are you doing here?” the guard says. He's unshaven, fair-skinned, wearing a wool cap down low on his head. He unslings the rifle that's strapped to his back. His eyes narrow.

“I got a report that one of the scientists saw something in the utility tunnels.”

“What kind of something?” he says.

“He thinks it's a Feral.”

The guard's eyes widen, and I can see his expression shift as a number of questions flit through his mind. But the one thing that must be at the forefront is the possibility of a Feral being there.

“Look, just help me check it out,” I say. “It's probably just a rat or something, but, well, you know protocol.”

He looks at me questioningly. “Look,” I say. “I'm working inside with Kressel. You know, the skinny bomb guy? And he stopped working when he heard it and I just want to at least show that it's fine. That we're airtight.”

The man relaxes a slight bit. “Did you tell Boggs?”

I sigh. “You, too? Look, come with me and we'll tell Boggs together.”

He looks back at the field. “But . . .”

“Two minutes. In the access corridor. This way I can say you were there.”

He starts moving with me back to the compound, and then I grab him around the throat to take him down.

Only he's holding his rifle in a strange way, up high near his neck, and it blocks my arm. He elbows me in the chest and spins away.

“Fuck,” I gasp as he starts to raise the rifle. I bat it to one side, but he recovers quickly, chopping at my face. He catches my neck instead and I can't help reaching up to grab it.

Then I see a blur racing toward us and I recognize it as Rosie.

I kick at the man's legs, but he skirts back away from me.

But a few steps closer to Rosie.

He raises the rifle.

Rosie tackles him with all the force of her momentum, and the two of them go flying to the ground. The rifle spins away on the ground.

It seems that they're both on their feet in an instant. The man clearly knows how to fight, even without a weapon.

But so, apparently, does Rosie.

The guard aims a kick at her head, but she blocks and kicks him in the groin. Hard, from the look on the man's face. Then they're attacking each other so quickly I can't track their movements. Throwing arms and legs, fists and feet, against each other.

I scurry to the rifle and grab it, getting to my feet.

It's not a time for gunshots, though.

I move closer. Wait for Rosie to aim a vicious kick at the man's midsection. He pulls back. And I slam the butt of the rifle hard into the back of his head.

He crumples to the ground. I smack him again with the rifle butt, then I give him another kick just to make sure he's down.

“Thanks,” I say, massaging my neck.

Rosie smiles. “Wouldn't want to lose my ride out of here.”

Together we drag the guard back to the access tunnel and drop him inside to keep him out of the way.

Then I run off toward the
Cherub
.

They keep the
Cherub
in the air, opting to use the ladder rather than bring it to the ground. I climb that ladder up to my airship, and it's like coming home. Each rung on the thing is familiar to me. I wonder how many times my fingers have curled around them, how many times my boots have pressed against them.

I push through the hatch and up into the gondola. The smell of it fills my nostrils. A lived-in smell that probably wouldn't appeal to many other people, but it's like the smell of your father. Even down to the undercurrent of sweat.

I'm smiling, enjoying being back home, when I realize I'm not alone.

Music is playing on the phonograph. My music. And I catch a whiff of something smoking. People have found a lot to smoke in the Sick, but cannabis is the most common. This, though, smells like tobacco smoke. I find that smell even worse.

Someone else is in my fucking ship. Like that story, Goldilocks. Sleeping in my fucking bed.

My joy turns to anger. I pull the knife from my belt.

He's standing at my console. Moving slightly to the music. Smoke curls around his head.

He doesn't hear me with all the noise.

I think about sneaking up behind him, knifing him in the kidney, or cutting his throat. And I want to do this. I want to punish this man who's had the nerve to invade my home. He might even be the one who stole it. But . . .

But I hear Miranda's voice in my head. She's telling me to think. And I do. Instead, I stride up to him, grab his arm with one hand, his head with the other, and swing him down, as hard as I can, into the console's edge, far enough away from the instrumentation.

He's off-balance, from his dancing or what he's smoking or both, and he goes down. Hard.

I feel the impact move back into me as he crashes against a bank of the
Cherub
's controls. Then, just to be sure, I do it again.

He collapses to the ground.

The
Cherub
is mine again.

I give her a once-over, checking the controls, checking the rooms. Checking my things.

The controls are all in order. Everything else is a fucking mess. A lot of my gear is missing. The food, the water, all my supplies are gone. My sleeping mat looks used—I'll probably have to burn it. But like I said before, the Sick has taught me that possessions are temporary. The
Cherub
is okay, though, and that's all I care about.

I find some rope in my utility closet. At least my collection of junk is still there. I bind the man up tightly and stuff some rags into his mouth.

Now that I'm there, I don't want to leave. I want to fly away. And as soon as Rosie climbs aboard I will.

Where is she?

I look down at the airfield but don't see her. What the hell happened?

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I return to Goldilocks and take his red scarf and red gloves. I trade mine for his, then descend down the ladder back down to the airfield.

She seems to have disappeared.

I stand there for a moment with my hand on the handle of the revolver, scanning for some sign of her. Should I go back to look?

Then she appears from the direction of the access tunnel and trots over to me. “What happened?” I ask.

“I thought I heard something,” she says. “I wanted to check out the tunnel.”

“Clear?”

“Except for the guy we dumped in it.”

“Okay, let's go then.”

I push her in front of me and she climbs up the ladder. I stay down, the revolver out, making sure I keep her covered. All of me wants to get back into the
Cherub
now that I'm here, but we're still in the open and someone has to keep an eye out. I see her boots near the gondola door and then she's in. I'm about to follow her, my hand on a rung, when I hear the gunshot.

Before I know what's happening, I'm hitting the ground, and my face rasps against the asphalt. Pain sears through my chest and I shudder on the ground. I can't move. I can't think. It takes a moment for things to make sense.

Gunshot.

I've been shot before. Several times, in fact. But this time it keeps me down. I try to roll over and push myself up, but my body refuses to obey.

And I know the shooter is coming toward me.

And I know he's going to finish the job.

And I know the
Cherub
is hanging just over me. So close. But far enough away. I still can't move.

That changes as the shooter rolls me over with his boot. I can see the
Cherub
for a minute above me, and then I'm staring up at his face. Or rather her face, I correct. The woman wears a black military cap and has a large pistol aimed at me. She wants me to see her shooting me. A smile crosses her face.

I look at the
Cherub
. If I'm going to die, I want to die looking at her.

But I can't help thinking about Miranda. I never . . .

A gunshot echoes across the space, but it sounds so much smaller than I'm expecting. So much farther.

The woman and her gun disappear. I look back to the
Cherub
and see Rosie on the rope ladder firing down at the woman.

But Black Cap isn't hit and she fires back up at the
Cherub
. At Rosie. Sending her scrambling for cover.

I tell myself to grab the revolver. Shoot her now. But my hand doesn't work.

Black Cap is good. She snaps off a barrage of shots and then smoothly draws a second weapon, bringing it to bear.

A shot catches Rosie, and I hear her scream and fall back.

Grab your gun, I yell at myself. Shoot her.

Black Cap smiles again and looks at me, and I know this time the bullet's coming.

I swear I see her arm tensing.

Then something long and sharp punches through her throat. It takes me a moment to place the shape with it covered in blood.

An arrow.

A second thuds into her shoulder. A third punches right through her midsection.

Claudia.

Then she's there, running, her hair streaming, the bow in her hand.

“Get up,” she says, throwing her free arm around me and helping me to my feet.

“Can you climb?” she asks.

“I don't think so,” I say. My arm still doesn't want to obey and I definitely need both of those for the ladder.

“Damn it.” I know that tone, I think. It's the one she uses when she's really worried. When was the last time I heard that? She slaps my face gently. “Ben. Stay with me. I'm going up to the
Cherub
. I'm going to bring her down. We'll get you on that way.”

“Good idea,” I mumble.

She pulls my revolver from its holster and places it in the hand that I can actually feel. “If anyone else appears, try to shoot them.”

Then she's scrambling up the ladder, the bow now strapped to her back.

The airfield starts spinning around me and I think it might be a good idea to lower myself to the ground.

It feels like half of my body has been switched off. Everything's off-kilter. Out of balance.

Any moment now, I think, an alarm is going to go off. Or the guard is going to be found.

I feel as good as done.

I hear the
Cherub
's engines above me and I look up to see her descending. Claudia bringing my baby to me.

She touches down and I begin crawling toward her, dragging my body over the ground. It's the first time I see the blood. On my arm and then on the ground. Rosie lowers the cargo bay door and comes to get me, helping me up to my feet. She's bloody, too. The movement sends pain screaming through my body. I grunt and black out for a few seconds. But I fight my way back.

“C'mon,” Rosie says. “Those gunshots probably roused someone. We need to get out of here before the whole place is on alert.”

We move toward the ramp and I'm almost crushed beneath the pain. The world spins around me. I try to focus on Rosie, my arm around her shoulder, my weight leaning against her. Did I come so far, find my way to the
Cherub
only to die in her cargo bay? I can feel myself withering with every step.

I close my eyes, and my fingers find the hard shape of the Star of David underneath my shirt. I think about saying something to God but then see that for the bullshit it is. I stopped believing in God a long time ago. I think of my father, though, and all he did for me. All he did to the
Cherub
. His ship.

My ship, I think, as I grip the Star. My foot hits the ramp and I make my way into the cargo bay. The
Cherub
is mine again.

The
Cherub
's scent is all around me, the machine smell of the bay. Rosie practically drags me inside and closes the ramp behind us.

She lowers me to the ground. She bends over me, checking the gunshot. I can't even tell where it hurts. The pain is everywhere. Her face swims in my vision. My eyes roll and come to rest on my old inflatable yellow raft. The one I found and decided to keep for emergencies. Somehow that being there makes me feel better.

She moves me some more. I think she might be talking, but the words are all slippery and I can't hold on to them. But then we're in the gondola and Claudia's there.

“How is he?”

Words with shapes but no meaning.

“I'm worried about him losing too much blood.”