Falling Sky (19 page)

So I don't have the revolver out as I go down. Which makes me even more nervous. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

This isn't going to be a stealth mission. At the height it was forced to hover to lower us, the
Osprey
is making quite a racket, and that will alert any Ferals around us. So the plan is to hit the top window, get myself as stable as possible, take out the revolver, and see what's inside.

I get to the bottom of the ladder. With Miranda and Diego above me it doesn't whip around as much as it might, but it still jerks left and right. I curl an arm around the ladder, tuck my boot under a rung, and pull out the revolver.

The windows at my level and below are all broken, which figures. A Feral never met some glass it didn't want to break. Especially windows. But the frames are still studded with shards, which makes it hard to peer in, especially backlit as I am. If I only had a flare. A while back I'd come upon someone bartering them and I'd traded him a good deal of my best stuff for a few. But they were all on the
Cherub
.

“Miranda,” I call. I tuck the revolver back into its holster, and she hands me down the torch, already lit. I toss it through the window.

The light from the torch isn't great, but it shows a little of what lay inside the place. I don't see any movement, which is good. I do see rows of tables arranged neatly. Crap and refuse. Crumbling ceiling tiles.

I remove the revolver again and knock out most of the remaining glass from the window. Then, taking a deep breath, I climb through the window. Then I'm down into a crouch, the gun out, my ears strained to hear, my eyes constantly scanning.

Nothing. I pull back the hammer, half-cocking the gun. Then I wave to Miranda to let her know to come in.

She is mostly noiseless as she drops to the ground and, like I taught her, she stays low. I look out to see Diego taking up position, his rifle in his hands. Metal clips anchor him to the ladder, though that means he can't easily come in to support us if we need it.

I turn to Miranda and whisper. “Anything in here?”

She looks around, still staying low. “These are benches,” she says. “For experiments. Chemistry, probably.” She checks for storage beneath, pulls out drawers. I try not to pay too much attention. Then I can't check for Ferals.

She moves over to a set of cabinets against one wall, starts picking through them.

The smell in the place is bad Feral stench. Piss, shit, the usual. But not strong enough to indicate that it's often-used. I'm starting to think this might be okay after all. I doubt we'll score anything large, but we can pass up smaller things.

“Here,” she says.

I resist looking over to where she's rifling through some cabinets. “What?” I say.

“Instruments. Microscopes. The optics could be useful. There are some old scalpels. I'll load up the tarp.”

I nod and look back to the door. A noise creaks through the old structure. I can't tell if it's from the
Osprey
or from somewhere down below or just the wind. I tighten my grip on the revolver.

“Load up what you can,” I say. “Then let's get the hell out of here.” The hair on my arms prickles and my underarms slick with sweat. That voice in my head is telling me to get out of there.

“Almost there,” Miranda says.

I breathe in. Breathe out. Keep myself calm. So many people learn the hard way what happens when you lose your head . . .

“Okay,” Miranda says, after what seems like an eternity. “That should do it.” She tugs on the line to let Diego know, and he'll signal to Rosie to pull the load up. I watch as it begins to slide across the floor and wince at the terrible scraping noise it sets up. But we'll be out soon.

I keep my eyes on the door.

I keep my eyes on the door.

I keep—

Something, glass or something like it, breaks, and for a moment I turn to see what it is.

Then the moment becomes a whirl of chaos and sensations. A heavy weight knocks me to the ground. I try to move, but I'm pinned. I look up into the bloodshot eyes of a Feral. My gun arm is pinned beneath me. I can smell his rancid breath, can feel the warmth coming off of him. Wild, tangled hair tickles my face.

My breath is fast and ragged.

Slaver drips from his open mouth. I want to scream, but even that is restrained, the Feral's heavy weight pushing the air from my lungs.

I try to signal to Miranda, try to see her, but I can't and I can't move my head and the Feral is on me and oh God he's going to Infect me and—

The world cracks in two. Or at least that's what it sounds like. What it
feels
like. Then the Feral's weight slides off of me.

I piece together what happened in the moments afterward. The Feral's head exploding, being swept away in a bloody pulp, as if flicked by the Hand of God.

I turn my head to see Miranda crouching low, the pistol still out, still aiming. She stands like that for a moment. I stare at her, both of us frozen. Then I remember where we are and I scramble out from under the Feral and get to my knees.

My movement breaks Miranda from her pose and she stumbles over to me.

“Am I—” I say. “Did it get me?”

Some of the glaze disappears from her eyes and she comes over, checking my face where it's not covered, paying special attention to my eyes, one of the most vulnerable places on the body. Running her fingers over my lips. Looking into my nostrils.

It's when she says, “You look clean” that I remember to breathe. I spare a brief glance at the Feral. It was a good shot. Blew everything out the side of the head. Away from me. No splatter toward me.

Miranda saved my life.

“C'mon,” I say. “We need to get out of here.” Already I can hear movement from the halls below. Scrabbling. Gibbers. Whether real or imagined they are enough to get me moving.

I push her ahead of me, keeping my eyes on the doorway, keeping my pistol out. Then she's on the ladder and climbing and I'm right below her, as usual. And something about this calms me, allows my hammering heart to slow.

Diego brings the
Osprey
in to Gastown with his flags flying the sign for barter. All of us are conscious of the weapons they have mounted on the flying platform. Its evidence of the divide between Valhalla and the original Gastown. While the Gastowners were working on helium manufacturing, Valhalla was busy hunting down heavy weapons.

It's a sad admission that Valhalla ended up making the better choice.

Moments pass as we await their answer—either a colorful dance of flags or the staccato burst of gunfire. Miranda grips my arm, her fingers tightening with each minute. I don't think anyone is breathing right now. Time stretches, torturously.

The guns move to cover us. Then the flags move as well. They direct us to a mooring dock and, sweating, Diego follows their directions.

We are all armed. All prepared if they rush us when we open the doors. Diego's face is bundled up. Odds are no one who's seen him is on Gastown, but we can't be sure. One nice thing about the Sick is that it's easy to be hidden. No, it's ships that stick out, and that's the one thing I'm worried about. But we covered up the
Osprey
's colors and her name and really it shouldn't be that recognizable.

I stand near the gondola door as Diego opens it, my hand very near my revolver. Funny thing is, as dangerous as this is, I'm a lot calmer than I would be on the ground. Psychopath blood is nothing compared to a Feral's.

Two rough-looking men push their way in, large, all swagger and scowls. “Barter?” one of them says.

Diego nods. I'm impressed that he looks so calm. I have to give it to him, the man seems to be a professional. “Got a recent score. Thought we'd come here and see if we could sell it.”

“There's a tax.”

“Of course,” Diego says, nodding again. “What is it?”

“Fuel now. A cut of the barter later.”

This surprises me. In a world where barter is hard to quantify, taking a percentage is often a difficult proposition. “How does that work?” I ask, unable to keep my silence.

He looks at me and frowns. “The person you barter with will work that in to their negotiations. Clear?”

I nod. I guess that makes a kind of sense, even if it is draconian.

Diego passes over the fuel. There are a few formalities and then we are out in Gastown.

Gastown bears some explanation these days, I suppose. It was the first city in the air, built from large platforms lashed together and held aloft by ballonets. As the city established itself, more people came to it, bringing their own ships, their own construction materials, and the city grew. It brought in more barter, and that brought in more raw materials. Ships are kept on the edges to help adjust its position and keep it in place, but it keeps swelling. Or at least it did.

It was, in many ways, a marvelous thing. As much as I had issues with the way the city in the sky was run, I appreciated it for what it was, a symbol of humanity fighting back against the decline of civilization. An attempt of reclaiming something we'd lost.

Of course it wasn't to last.

From the outside, Gastown looks much the same as it did. Aside from the addition of the ugly mounted guns and the brute constructions that house them. Inside, however, it's much different. It used to be—I don't know—almost cheery. At least as much as something in the Sick can be. It was almost irritating before. Now, the place is bleak, raw, stripped down to the essentials. This is no strike back for civilization. This is a sham. A place for greedy people to take all they can before sinking the ship.

We walk down alleys of reinforced planking, among “shops” that have seen better days. Armed people, rough people, sit in chairs or glare out from behind makeshift counters. Many of them are decked out in Valhalla's favored gear: animal skins, furs, bones, and teeth. They practically drip with weapons, from knives and swords to pistols and rifles. I think if they didn't have to worry about the Bug they would wear Feral skins. Maybe even human ones. All of this means that Gastown is much less hospitable these days—a shame, because that will keep the people away. And reduce the barter trade. But some will always come for the helium.

Miranda walks beside me. She's distracted. Bothered. She's no longer wearing her gun in its holster. We'd had a talk back on the
Osprey
that went about as well as most of our recent talks. It went something like this:

She stands in the back room of the
Osprey
, head bowed, shoulders hunched. “What's the matter?” I say.

She turns to me, a fingernail between her teeth. Her eyes are wide.

“Miranda,” I say again.

“I killed him,” she says.

“You saved my life.” I place my hands on her arms. “And you did it perfectly. I am so proud of you.”

“Proud?” Her face distorts in disgust. “I killed a person.”

“You killed a Feral,” I say. “Not a person. Not anymore.”

“How can you say that so easily? How is it so easy to forget their humanity?”

“Not easy,” I say. “It took me a long time to get to this point. Seeing my father Fade helped to convince me.”

She stares up at me, her expression unreadable.

“Would you rather it had killed me?” I ask. “Or infected me?”

“Of course not,” she snaps. Her eyes flash anger. “But I pulled the trigger. And I saw him die. Because of what I did.”

“And you saved a life because of it. I don't get why this is so hard for you.”

“Because I want to save his life, too. Because I see all these people that you think of as creatures, and I see the humanity in them. And I think I can give it back to them. I believe it. I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise what point is there in going on?”

I don't know how to respond. It's like all her words are twisting around in my guts like writhing worms.

“I think you should take this back,” she says, handing me the gun. “I don't want it anymore.”

I shake my head. “No. I won't.”

“Then I'll just leave it here.” She places it down on one of the
Osprey
's counters.

“Miranda, please. I know you're upset. I know that you want to distance yourself from this, but we're about to head into a very dangerous situation and I need to know you're armed.”

“What for?” she says. “I don't want to use this again.”

“Just . . . do it for me, okay?”

She looks up at me, then shakes her head and walks back to where Diego and Rosie are.

Now she's not wearing it, so I have to assume she left it on the
Osprey
.

“We should split up,” I say. “Cover more ground that way.”

“Good idea,” Miranda says. “I'll go with Diego.” Which is not what I had been expecting.

“Okay,” Diego says. And before I can muster up some kind of protest, Miranda's grabbed Diego by the arm and they're moving off, leaving me standing next to Rosie.