Skyland (8 page)
It looked worse through the professor's
cracked glasses.
He'd dropped them, recoiling at the
explosion, and now one lens had a thick crack running halfway
across his vision. Out on the street, it didn't matter much:
everything was fractured.
Jostled by the fleeing people in the street,
the professor bumped railings and storefronts as he stumbled away
towards the bridge out of the city. Uninjured in the first
explosion and the second and unharmed by the raining debris, he was
now bruised and bloodied by his own clumsy flight. He caught his
shoulder on the corner of a building and stumbled again. And again.
He shivered at the heat coming from inside the buildings to his
left and flinched from the rain of fiery bits from above.
The professor jerked to a stop.
No...
His sleeve had caught on a stick of a
debris, hanging from one of the burning structures. He shivered
again, and winced at the light – the unnatural firelight against
the darkening sky. So close. So close. The old neighborhoods beside
the docks were the last before the bridge. He was almost there. He
fumbled, struggling to free himself and keep a hold of the
briefcase tucked under his arm. It was only secured by one clasp,
the other open, papers poking out. It slipped and he dug his elbow
into the leather to keep it from falling. He tugged desperately at
his sleeve, still caught on some broken piece of something. The
case slipped again.
No! Stop!
Almost crying, he squeezed his elbow harder
against the briefcase to hold it and tore at his sleeve. As the
fire burned hotter – or maybe that was his own blood running
terrified in his veins – he jerked his arm free from the
debris.
It was a sign, shaped like a throne, hanging
lopsided in front of a doorway, hanging by one chain. The other
chain hung down to the ground, broken. The professor glanced
inside. The fire didn't look nearly as close as it had when he was
stuck. The far wall smoldered and dripped. The smell of plastic,
thick in the air, was diluted here. Mixed with another scent...
Charred wood...? Wood!
Even in the older sections of the city with
houses built before the drought, most buildings weren't made out of
real wood – most bits having been sold off years ago. The professor
couldn't help it, he stood there, still holding onto his ripped
sleeve, and breathed deep. The scent was unmistakable.
Then he choked.
The fire was moving fast.
The professor turned to leave, but paused as
a white shock of hair caught his eye. On the far side of the ruined
structure an old man sat while the house burned around him.
Fool!
He turned away again. One step, two steps.
He followed the people moving further from the city, further from
the burning and melting buildings.
A howl rose from the building behind
him.
The professor turned back. Through the
doorway he could see the old figure still sitting amid the rubble
of his home, unmoving except for his lips which opened around a
mournful wail. The professor looked back to the fleeing people, to
the edge of the city, to the bridge that was so close.
The wail continued.
He sighed, then coughed as more of the smoke
and acrid smell of burning plastic and wood filled his lungs. Then,
covering his mouth with his torn sleeve, he turned away from the
bridge and made his way to the burning workshop.
Somewhere behind him there was singing.
Faint, wordless singing.
Something crashed.
The door? The door. It had burst open. Or
fallen. Or exploded. The chair maker didn't look and didn't care.
He closed his lips over the escaping sob-moan, the pained animal
sound. The air was thick with burnt smells: the charcoal of his
work, his livelihood going up in flames, the varnish that had shone
so brightly over the cherry, the chemicals of the non-wood
compounds in the walls, the floor, everything that wasn't organic
and everything that was, all smoldering. A cough forced it's way
through his lips. Saliva flew between his clenched teeth.
His house was melting. Melting and burning
and crashing.
Someone shouted. A man. By the door. Or what
might have been the door or might have been an empty hole where the
door was. The chair maker did not look.
Another shout. Then hands.
Persistent hands grabbed the chair maker's
shoulders from behind. The man said something. The chair maker did
not hear and did not listen.
"No."
It said something else. He did not
listen.
"No."
The hands pulled at him. They dragged him
Then two arms were around him and the arms dragged him up.
"No. Belle..."
He was such an old man! He tugged helplessly
at the delicate hand that was still in his own, pulling himself
back down to the floor. He was bent as the arms behind him tried to
pull him up and he clung to the pale hand. But the arms were so
strong! Or they were stronger than the old chair maker. He was so
old... The arms were pulling him, pulling him up, pulling him up
off the floor, then he was almost standing and the pale hand in his
was slipping.
"No. Belle.."
The arms pulled him backwards, backwards
still bent towards the floor, backwards to the workshop door, and
the pale hand was slipping and only it's fingers were in his
now.
"No."
The pale hand fell with a
thunk.
His own hand was empty and the hands behind
him were still pulling him up, pulling him back, pulling him away
to the door.
No.
The chair maker struggled.
"Come
on!
"
"What?" The chair maker looked around. There
was a man behind him, the man that the arms belonged to. "What are
you doing?"
"
Come on!
"
"No, I don't think–"
"For fuck's sake, jackass! Get moving!"
"I have to wait... wait for my wife... I'm
sorry, I don't know who you are."
"I'm
leaving.
That's who I am. I'm
leaving
and so are you.
We
are leaving! Now. Let's
go!"
"No I have to wait... my wife is
here..."
"Move old man! Someone will pull her out
later. Come on."
"I think–I think she needs help."
"
You
need help now.
You
. You
need to go!"
"No."
"There will be burials later. Come
on
!"
Burials.
The chair maker doubled up. His lungs
spasmed, the acrid air forced it's way through his lips again. He
coughed and coughed. He couldn't pull away from the arms that were
pulling him away from his wife. One step. Another. Another. He
bumped into something. A voice was babbling beside him.
"That's it now. Watch yourself. I think your
sign's broken. Caught myself on that earlier. Okay, okay. Come on
now."
Sweat shone on the news anchor's forehead.
Dark circles hung under her eyes. Her face was worn. There were
lines on it that Harper had never seen in images of Union women.
Deep lines marked the sides of her mouth, thinner ones ran along
her forehead and her eyes looked like they had been scrunched up
for too long.
Like an old farmer's wife.
The anchor woman's hands moved to her hair.
She looked down, she looked to the side, she gazed over the camera
with blank, confused eyes. She kept talking.
"...total numbers unknown. Union officials
on the periphery report thousands missing. Communications to the
embassies are slowed to a near standstill, lines flooded with calls
of Union citizens asking after relatives, friends traveling on
Skyland. Uh, um... "
The anchor's eyes blinked. Fast. They
flicked over the camera. To the side. Back to the camera. One
finger wiped quickly across her nose, then jerked back down to the
table. She looked down, back up, all the while talking, talking,
talking.
"
...services in almost every chapel, the
faithful keeping vigil all over the Union...
"
In the background of the broadcast, an image
showed hundreds of people clothed in black, holding candles,
holding hands, holding pictures. The eerie music of the Infinite
Space whispered under the news anchors voice. Harper flinched.
The image disappeared from the projection as
the woman kept talking, but the singing rang in Harper's head, even
though the observation deck was silent. The song-wail, the prayers
of the Infinite Space had been stuck in his ears since the ship's
own vigil had ended. They
were
like Space, those prayers –
continuing, wordless expanses of voice. Alien. But now the
worshippers on the ship were silent.
Harper was glad. He didn't like space, and
Infinite Space was worse. The thought of anything infinite made his
stomach turn. Just the thought of all that nothingness going on and
on and on and on... But he wasn't looking at the endless black
spaces beyond the observation deck window now. He was just looking
at the news projected on it.
"...
speculation that this is the work of
the Sky sects native to Skyland. While Skyland is the heart and
origin of the religion, attention has also turned to the other
periphery planets on the edge of the Union. Union troops stationed
on bases around the periphery have been put on highest
alert..."
The broadcast had been going on for
hours.
Someone had succeeded where he failed.
Abomination. Abomination.
Harper repeated his father's words in his
head. He tensed his eyebrows, scrunching his forehead. He could
feel his nostrils flare as he forced his lips into a deep scowl. He
crossed his arms, planted his feet apart and tried to snarl at the
broadcast on the observation deck window and the endless Space
beyond. The habit of the Sky Reverend's son had not expired when
his body's clock hit zero.
"...Union ships headed out to Skyland this
morning. Special troops from planets on the periphery have already
moved in..."
"Don't."
Harper jumped as Zara's voice whispered
beside him.
"You look like him, you know," she said.
He stared at her and shook his head.
I
know.
He didn't say anything.
"You do," Zara whispered.
Harper turned away from the news projected
on one corner of the ship's vast window. Zara's eyes flicked away
from it and locked on his. He looked at her and tried to block out
the voice of the news behind him.
She was so
clean
!
Her dirty long-necked tunic, and Harper's
too, had been abandoned in favor of the light cotton outfit that
the Union worker on their level had kindly offered. The white shirt
and pants were dull and shapeless but they were not smeared with
waste or dust or sweat. Her black hair was combed and washed. It
caught the glow of the ship's lights and threw it back, dancing. He
tugged absently at one of the locks.
"Harper?" Her eyes were no longer on him,
they rested somewhere over his shoulder looking in the direction of
the news projection.
"Hm?"
"Do you think this means... we can't go
back?"
"To Skyland?"
"Yes. Back home."
"Why? Do you want to?"
"No, I mean, not now. I know we won't see it
for... a long time. I know that. I just mean... sometime. Do you
think we even could? If–if we wanted to?"
"I don't know."
He really didn't. No one he'd ever known in
his life in the fields had ever been off of Skyland, let alone to
Union Proper. He did not know what awaited them. He did not know
what fortune they would find there. He did not know how their lives
would turn, how they would be filled, how they would end up. Would
they ever have the means to return? Would they have the time? Would
they even be allowed? Harper did not know.
He realized that, without saying it, he had
come to think of theirs as a one-way trip.
"Would you want to? If you could, would
you?" he asked.
"Yes. Wouldn't you?"
"Hm."
I am a traitor... an abomination.
Like the city, like the Union.
Could I return?
Harper's scowl deepened, the furrowed brows
clenched even tighter together, his frown deepened – the grimace
now directed not at the broadcaster but his own troubled thoughts.
He wondered about going back, but he wondered more about whether he
even wanted to. Or whether he would ever want to. He really hadn't
thought about it before. At all.
Stop.
Now was not the time think about it. He
looked down and met Zara's eyes, looking up at him, wondering.
"Stop it," she whispered, echoing his own
thoughts. She reached a hand up and stroked his face, he felt her
fingers run over the hard lines of his scowl, his eyebrows still
knitted together in attempted anger. "Stop it... you look like
him..."
"He is my father."
"Yes, your father. Not you."
Harper closed his eyes. He tried to relax
his face. He shook his head, trying to loosen up the muscles in his
neck, his cheeks, around his eyes. He rested his chin on the black
hair, so soft, so clean, so–
"Harper Fields?"
He opened his eyes. "Hm?"
A man stood behind Zara, looking Harper
right in the eye. He was dressed in heavy cloth the color of dirt,
but the clothes were very clean, pressed with fold lines still in
them. There was a black cord around his neck, but he was not one of
the Infinite Space passengers. Harper looked around, to his right
and left there were two others dressed in the same dirt-brown
suits. Harper turned his head further and caught more figures out
of the corner of his eye, behind him. They all stared – hard,
unmoving stares fixed on him and Zara.