Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller (31 page)

Triumph always leads to a diminishment; just as fire leads to ashes.

Long Before Gone

Jean De Garmac III

I opened my eyes, this time onto an empty room. The lights glowed subdued amber and the whir of machines was thankfully absent. My breathing was slow and even. I felt peaceful. There were a multitude of pillows at my back. I could smell food, something cooking in the next room. My stomach growled a warning to the cook. I used an elbow to prop myself up, then reached out for a glass of water on my bedside table. I took a sip and felt it dissolve the dust that ran rivers through the canyons of my dried and desert throat.

I bent my leg, tested my knee. It was so stiff that I thought it must be splinted or bound tightly in some way, but reaching down, I found no support or gauze, just the sore ache and rigor that inactivity and injury can bring.

The hole in my collarbone was dressed, and only a small brown circle of dried blood seated deep within the pad implied trauma. A welt of bruising similar to the one across my chest had turned from angry to autumnal and the pain felt localised, almost internal and itchy.

Grabbing the handrail I swung my legs off the bed and lowered my feet to the cold floor. The cool tiled surface felt good on the soles of my feet, an affirmation of sensation, of existence. Being vertical was not without its difficulties but I closed my eyes and let the autonomy of my body kick in to find balance. I stayed seated that way for minutes; feet on the cold floor, hand on the rail, eyes closed, feeling pooled blood shift as my pulse quickened and old senses reawakened. I kept my head down low, as if under a barrage of bolts and insults, and then stood slowly. My knee complained but held and I used the edge of the bed for support at the backs of my legs to try and stop from toppling backwards.

I heard the soft smack of my feet drag across the tiles and set off on the hundred mile journey to the other side of the room. The weight of the wings at my back almost pulled me over, made me look up and arch my back involuntarily. I looked like a man searching the ceiling for answers. I fought for balance and tried to keep my chest and head forward.

I made the last three steps for the door at a slight tilt; my lack of balance staggered me forward and I lunged for the door handle to keep me from crashing to the floor. Unfortunately the door was not completely latched and I tumbled through it like bulldozing cattle blustering through the thick reeds of the Swampland Wets.

Doc was seated, just closing his notebook and smiling as I flopped straight down into a chair that had surely been placed so close to the door for my benefit. I saw a glass of some unidentifiable green juice and a plate of hot food on a small lap-table that was resting near his feet. He rose, picked up the tray and came over to where I sat. I was breathless but triumphant. He lowered the tray over my lap and beamed.

‘What kept you?’ he asked.

Uncertainty, unlike certainty, keeps all possibilities open, even the good ones.

In Line and Looking For Trouble

D. Bettes

‘Where on Nimbus’ plinth is he? It is like he has just fallen off the face of the Edgelands.’ Rose stood in the assembly room among a multitude of desks and dead microphones. Her press conference earlier had been casual and light, totally juxtaposed to her current mood.

Rose’s security Chief, Cowlin, shrugged an unhelpful response and looked at Leonora.

‘We have not been able to locate the Doctor or Drake. They have gone to ground and I doubt very much that anyone will be able to find them if they want to stay hidden,’ he said.

‘Have we not heard anything from … ah, our associate?’ The Governor asked.

‘No. Not since the Coyle fiasco,’ Leonora said.

Rose rummaged in her bag and removed a piece of paper.

‘Do you know what this is?’

Leonora looked at Cowlin and back at Rose apologetically. Cowlin looked indifferent.

Rose suppressed an eye roll, ‘This is a time schedule. On it are the exact plans and locations for what needs to happen over the next two weeks. We need Drake. He is the whole reason we have been doing the parachute drills at night. Jumping from a Zeppelin, scared half to death.’

‘Our turrets protected you from the windsharks Governor.’

Rose glared at Cowlin. ‘Our turrets? Our!’

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ Leonra said.

‘I know,’ said Rose, ‘But without him our launch, the flight, will just look like a lame publicity stunt, like vanity. This would have all been for nothing.’ Rose screwed the paper up and threw it across one of the polished desks.

Leonora knew that worrying about the schedule was secondary, that Rose was in fear for her own personal success and safety. Rose had doubled security, been terse and ill humoured with anyone, or thing, she had come into contact with, even kicking over an occasional table she had barked a shin on earlier. Leonora knew the Governor had not slept well since Drake’s disappearance; and that meant, by default, that Leonora and a large section of her staff would not sleep well either.

‘Look, we will find him. Everything he has done so far, up to this point, though not always planned, has served our purpose. He has never failed to show up then give us more ammunition than we could ever need.’

‘I do not like it,’ Rose said.

‘Meaning?’

‘I want to cancel the launch.’

Leonora knew that to reason with Rose when she was in this mood would lead to more tension and less resolution.

‘Whatever you think is best, Governor.’

Rose dropped her shoulders in defeat at Leonora’s deference then sighed. It was a deep shush of a sound that managed to fill every corner of the room, as if the plush carpets and dark wood were soaking it up then sighing it back.

‘Let us return to our inner chamber,’ said Leonora, ‘there’s a bottle with our name on it.’

Cowlin watched as they left the room. He stooped on his way out to retrieve the discarded schedule so he could return it to the Governor, and keep it out of the press’ attention.

He shook his head ruefully.

‘Women,’ he said and as his low voice amplified in the speaker box of the assembly room, he flinched, then scurried out, hoping they had not heard him.

There is not one thing better for us than to improve another’s situation.

Lies Told to Self

Jules Denslatter

I dropped my fork, happy with the half plate of food I had eaten.

‘Best to not overdo it,’ said Doc.

‘I feel full.’

‘It’s good that you feel anything at all.’

‘Start at the beginning, Doc, tell me everything.’

‘Let me get my notes.’ He reached over to a small drawer and took out a small green notebook. There were dark brown stains on the cover.

‘Your blood,’ Doc said, tapping the mottled book cover with his finger.

I closed my eyes and tried to keep my dinner down.

‘I administered the anaesthetic at …’

‘No, I mean right from the beginning, what happened at your house. The garden.’

‘Oh.’ Doc scratched his head then got another book from his drawer and opened it, running through the pages until he found the reference he was looking for.

‘I was still awake because I had forgotten to water my plants upstairs.’

‘What?’

‘My pot plants. They needed water. You said I would be leaving for a few days and to...’ he flicked back through his book,
 
‘...be ready. So that’s how I get ready.’

‘Are you telling me I need to thank your plant for helping to save my life?’

‘No. I am telling you what happened.’

I smiled.

The Doctor read his notes out loud:

Watering plants.

Heard noise in back garden.

Looked outside.

Went outside.

Found upended plant pot.

Drake cornered by giant.

Drake shot.

Hit giant on parietal part of skull with plant pot.

Broke plant pot.

Helped Drake off wall.

Stabilised bolt.

Tied giant up.

Got bag from car.

Injected giant with 200mg of Isidium-14.

Helped Drake to car.

Scratched ‘WOOF’ in subcutaneous layer (to scar) on forehead.

Tied giant and chain with bowline to post.

Placed bowl of water just out of reach on lawn.

Took bag to car.

Drove to Drake’s directions (see map page 37).

Administered pain relief (patient refused until now).

Got Drake into safe house.

Drake lost consciousness.

Secured vehicle as briefed.

Monitored Drake.

Checked vitals.

Patient consent.

Doc paused, ‘The rest is in the medical book and charts.’

‘Thank you, Doc. For everything.

‘No Drake, thank you. I haven’t felt this alive in years.’

‘How are the plants?’

Doc laughed, ‘Damnedest thing, I don’t know if I got around to watering them all.’

Despite the heavy additions at my back, I felt lighter than I had in months. I struggled for the words to sum it up, to tell Doc that his care, his friendship, was the difference to change things for me; had changed things for me. Something moved, a paradigm shift, simple but of great importance. No longer was I staring into the abyss, floundering for hope or direction alone; now I was whole again, I had hope, I had a friend. I was in the abyss still, yes, but now I was looking up at daylight.

And thinking of flying.

I leaned forward and took hold of Doc’s hands and looked him in the eyes, ‘Thank you,’ I said again, ‘for helping a self-centred pig like me.’ I felt something well up, choking off oxygen, narrowing my throat and ability to speak or breathe.

I could not find the words.

‘You are welcome, Drake.’ Then he turned to write something in his book.

As I sat back I flinched, forgetting my appendages.

‘Ugh.’ A thick grunt escaped me, the pain liberating my trapped breath and voice.

Doc’s eyes widened in anticipation. ‘What? What is it?’

‘Nnngh.’ I shifted in my seat. ‘Nothing to get too excited about, just some pain at my wing bases. It’s throbbing and itching like hell.’

‘Don’t you understand what this means?’

Doc read my lack of expression correctly and continued.

‘Where there is feeling there is life, Drake. Where there is feeling, there is always life.’

How strange that I could not find the words to sum up how I felt a moment ago, and that Doc, without any books or inside knowledge, could nail it, just like that.

Seems to me that a friend’s most valuable contribution is also an entirely unseen one: that of reminding us who we are.

Governor S. Hillery

Parting Address

Doc read aloud from a military tome as I went about the torture and rigor of my daily exercises.

‘Unruly youths gravitate to the armed forces; it can give them what they cannot claim in civilian life themselves: order, purpose, discipline and relationships. And though these relationships are loveless, they are permanent with clear boundaries and expectations. It is not love. It is better.’ Doc closed his book, placed his drink down and encouraged me to continue with my exercises.

He held the tips of my wings and splayed them out, avoiding rotation yet, just seeking a continuation in lateral movement; stretching the tendons and muscles. Small cracking sounds were coming from my complaining back and I struggled to support them beyond halfway extended.

‘Time for a rest,’ Doc said.

‘A few more,’ I said.

‘Rest is as important for your rehabilitation as is exercise, Drake. There is a time when physical effort can turn from therapeutic to punitive, and we passed that point about two rotations ago.’

I huffed and made my way over to the parallel bars. Well, they were not bars as such, they consisted of a kitchen worktop and sturdy table. I supported myself between them, let my arms take the weight then tried a few dips. The muscles at my shoulders and neck screamed with effort and Doc’s expression was a mask of sick fascination and minor disgust. My face contorted into snarls and quiet grimaces. Beads of sweat were prominent along my brow and ran down my nose to spatter on the clean tiled floor. I saw drops of blood there too.

‘It is time to stop,’ Doc said in a way that left no more room for discussion or denial.

I could not have continued anyway. The pain was intense, though subdued by a creative yet not debilitating cocktail the Doc was giving me, his green milk shakes. I succumbed to my body; listened to it and rested. I wiped my face with a towel and took my sweaty corpse to bed. I would be up in five hours to start again.

I needed to train, to get ready, to take the fight to them. I was certain that dropping off the radar as we had, caused someone concern, though I did not know who. Having my brother’s wings at my back helped me feel more prepared; more ready for the Blackwings and whatever else was coming. I struggled to think beyond what would happen afterwards, the pain and my situation sought to keep me in the present. Maybe life with wings could be different. Maybe I would feel more whole. Maybe it was my job to keep that part of my brother alive, not just to avenge his death, but to live. Or maybe I would never get used to them, dwell in the past and disappear up my own thermal draft. The fact that I was even considering a future seemed frivolous to me, right then, frivolous and alien.

The drugs kicked in and as I drifted off to sleep I thought of what the Doc had said, how my military career had given me those things he read out loud: order, purpose and discipline. But relationships? The one with my brother had been the only real significant relationship I had ever had. And I had always had that, through competition and the shared adversities of training and combat. And even after, in the times we made no contact or effort to keep in touch, I knew he was there. A familiar background hum through the soundtrack of my life, someone whom I knew would be there for me if I needed him and more than that, someone who I wanted to be there for too.

I had regrets about Bethscape, I had caused deaths, the child, Doc’s injury, my ruined life thereafter. Had we not all died in some way that day?

There was something else now though, something more: perspective. My brother’s wings now obscured the names, tattoos on my back. Though each one would be indelible, forever smeared across my skin with loss and regret, would always cut deep furrows into my person, plough valleys of ink and a thousand unwritten words into the physiology of me; now they felt lighter somehow. Meant more but weighed less.

It was not love. It was better. It was the freedom to love oneself.

And how rare a love is that?

These drugs are good, I thought.