Falling Sky (36 page)

“It's the only thing I can think of to stop them. And we need to stop them.”

“But your ship.”

“Miranda. I need your help. I can't fly and get this done. I need you to take the explosives and place them around the
Cherub
. And bring me one of the detonators.”

She just stares at me like her heart's breaking.

“Please, Miranda,” I say softly. “We don't have much time.”

“Okay,” she says and runs off.

Bullets continue to strafe us as I bring us closer to the hookships. These are smaller, more delicate vessels. Not soft-shelled, but not nearly as well defended as the support ships.

Then they start moving in different directions. I curse but realize I'm dealing with experienced pilots. They're getting out of our way. For the first time ever, I chide myself for not mounting weapons on the
Cherub
. Sure, it would slow her down, but why not just a simple gun emplacement?

I turn the ship toward the nearest hookship and accelerate, as fast as I can, at its underside.

Miranda yells back to me from the cargo area. “What are you doing?” Panic in her voice.

“If this doesn't work, then I want to make sure the Ferals are taken out. They could do more damage than these ships.”

My hands get sweaty as I carefully grip the steering yoke. It's a tricky thing, coming this close and not colliding with the other ship. But getting up close to it will also protect us from some of the fire we're getting.

Bullets rip into our underside and I revise my opinion.

We're barreling at the enemy hookship and I'm holding the
Cherub
steady. In a moment we'll either scrape ourselves against her underside or . . .

The top of our hull hits the cage with a clang that we can hear inside, and at the speed we're going, the metal box crumples and the Feral inside is smeared all over the
Cherub
's envelope. I try not to think about all that Bugged-up blood on my baby, but I don't have time to worry about that because there's a ship above us and two others shooting at us.

For a moment I think about raising us and slamming into the other ship, but though the
Cherub
's hull is rigid, she's not impervious.

Instead, I bring her up alongside the other ship, trying to use it as a shield. But while it protects us from one of the gunships, the other is coming in on an angle and bullets rake the
Cherub
like buckshot. Windows explode in a shower of glass and some of it cuts my face. The temperature in the gondola drops significantly, and I shiver even as I pull at the controls. The dial showing the pressure in the ballonets is showing several leaks.

My baby can't take much more of this.

The ship alongside us scrapes against the
Cherub
and she may as well be scraping against my skin.

One of the other hookships comes up on the other side, penning us in. I race for the opening, but another ship pulls down to block our way.

My father used to use the expression “like shooting fish in a barrel.” I never understood what that meant. Until now.

More bullets rip into us, and I slow the
Cherub
down, matching the speed of the ships to either side.

I slam the switch for autopilot and then I run to Miranda in the cargo hold.

“Done?” I ask.

“Pretty much,” she says. “I just scattered them about where I thought they would have the most effect.” She holds up a detonator. “How are we getting out, though?”

I move to my yellow raft and inflate it. Finally getting some use, I think. Then I head for the spare hydrogen tanks in the cargo bay. Sometimes the
Cherub
needs a little topping up. Then I wave Miranda over. “Quick, help me fill some of these ballonets.” She helps me attach then fill the large, thick balloons. “They should help slow our descent.”

All around us we can hear the whine and impact of the bullets from the enemy ships. I register hits on the engines as the noise of my baby changes from smooth to tortured.

Together we tie the ballonets securely to the raft. Then I hit the release for the cargo bay door. With a smile I can't feel, I wave my hand over the raft. “Your chariot,” I say.

Miranda moves closer and wraps her arms around me. “Ben, I'm sorry. I know—”

I silence her then by kissing her. Her lips are warm and dry on mine and then wet, and I'm pulling her to me and I feel somehow liquid, and she's liquid, too. It's everything I've imagined it would be. And more. And my body starts to run away in excitement, but instead I pull her down on top of me, down into the raft, where I coil my boot and arm into the rope threaded around its side, and with my good arm I clutch Miranda to me.

Then I tip us out into the air.

Below, the sea waits to swallow us.

We fall. Miranda screams and I want to, but I have no breath. No air. Everything is cold and loud and we spin around and around. One ballonet bursts almost immediately, but the others seem to hold. Above me I see the lights of the enemy ships. But not the
Cherub
. She's too dark.

Until she explodes into a fireball of light. It feels like the world ending. And maybe it is. The loudest sound I have ever heard blasts into us and fiery warmth, and then my breath really is gone and it's all I can do to hold onto the raft and then—

We smack hard into the water. I'm flung clear of the raft and Miranda slips from my fingers and—

COLD.

I can't breathe again, but this time it's because I'm sinking and my limbs are frozen and I know I'm going to die and I think it's okay because the
Cherub
is gone and what do I have to go back to.

And I think of Miranda. That's what I have to go back to. I need to help her. To protect her. And I need her. To help me. To protect me. Mostly from myself.

I thrash and kick and push my way back toward the air.

Always toward the air.

And at last I break the surface and suck in breath and I am so cold, but I need to stay awake. Alive. I need to find Miranda.

Light dances in the sky. Angels falling. The flaming fragments of their wings. Fires light the water, too. The burning wrecks of airships, once lighter than air, now just more flotsam and jetsam. I can't count the fires. There's an awful lot of wreckage, though. And I can't see any lights in the sky. Six ships, ripped apart and set alight.

Strangely, it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

I thrash in the water, trying to stay above the waves, looking frantically for Miranda.

Then I see it not too far away. The raft. The bright yellow of the rubber reflects the light of the fires and I swim for it, pulling myself into it.

Miranda is in it, her arms wrapped in the rope, and I smile and cough and laugh and cry and take her in my arms. She's cold and wet. We both are. But though I can't hear her breathe—my ears are shot—I can see it. And I huddle next to her and draw her toward me.

“Thank God,” I say, in little more than a croak. “Thank God you're okay.”

She gives me a weak smile and places her palm on my face, and for a moment we just lie next to each other, wet and shivering but together and alive.

Alive.

I think of the
Cherub
. I start to think of all the moments on that ship. All she did. All she gave me. But I push it all away. I can think of that later. Not now.

Now we need to stay alive.

I keep one hand on the revolver. I don't know if it will fire after being submerged, but I'll damn sure try if any of the Gastown people survived and come for us.

We might die yet, I think. If no one finds us. But right now, we're alive. And Miranda is next to me. And we'll figure out the next move. Together.

“Ben,” Miranda says. “Are you okay?”

I pull her to me and kiss her as the lights dance around us.

It's easy to think of this novel as an airship, since it took so many people to get it off the ground. The world of
Falling Sky
was conceived at Clarion West in 2008, growing out of a short story I wrote there, and Paul Park was the first person to help me crystallize the idea. Mary Rosenblum helped to critique it and offered some insightful suggestions, one of which being that I should expand the then short story into a novel. Cory Doctorow also suggested some changes that helped solidify the themes of what would become the novel. I am indebted also to all my Clarion West classmates who helped refine this idea. Theresa DeLucci, Shane Hoversten, Eden Robins, Kira Walsh, Carol Ryles, Kristin Janz, Pritpaul Bains, Maggie Croft, Chris Reynaga, Caren Gussoff Sumption, Pam Rentz, Owen Salisbury, Douglas Lucas, Jim Stewart, Carlton Mellick III, Tracy Harford, and An Owomoyela—you aren't just my peers; you're my family.

Thanks are also due to my writing group, Altered Fluid, who helped to improve my writing over the last handful of years and offered support during the writing of this novel. Paul Berger, Matthew Kressel, Alaya Dawn Johnson, Devin Poore, K. Tempest Bradford, Kris Dikeman, Mercurio D. Rivera, E. C. Myers, Lilah Wild, Sam J. Miller, Greer Woodward, Danielle Friedman, Tom Crosshill, Rick Bowes and N. K. Jemisin—thank you for your example and your friendship and your honesty. I am so proud and grateful to be part of your group.

To Allyson Kohlmann and Nina Lourie—your encouragement, support, and love gave me lift and kept me aloft during much of this process. Thank you.

Very special thanks to my former agent and mechanic, Joe Monti, for giving me wonderful editorial feedback and ultimately for making this happen. Also to Barry Goldblatt, who helped see this through to the end.

Thanks, also, to Lou Anders, my editor, and all the hardworking people at Pyr (my air traffic control) who helped make this book what it is.

To Elisabeth Jamison—you have kept me sane throughout the process of launching this book. I have so much to thank you for but especially for climbing aboard and helping me steer. I can't imagine doing this without your love and support.

Finally, I'd like to thank my family for their support, especially my brother, Dev, my earliest comrade in the world of science fiction and fantasy. But most of all to my mother, Christine Khanna, who unfortunately didn't live to see this book published. My mother read me stories from a young age and encouraged me to read and to write all throughout my life, regardless of genre or medium or category. And when even I doubted that this day would ever come, when I couldn't believe it would happen, she always did. She was unwavering in her support and I miss her terribly. This is most of all for you, Mum.

Photo by Ellen B. Wright