Falling Sky (3 page)

What the hell am I doing here?

It's a question I've been asking myself ever since accepting Miranda's offer.

Then I think of Gastown and the way it was overrun, and I think having something to look after, something to protect, can help save a man. The Core has clean water, clean food, and fuel. And they make enough for me to barter for ammo. My needs are met, and all I have to do in return is risk my life down on the ground from time to time, risking exposure to the Bug.

Fuck.

I take another swig of the moonshine and settle down against the console.

We are all Life's bitches, until Death steals us away.

Miranda's knock on the gondola hatch wakes me from the light slumber I fell into. I wipe my mouth and go over to open it. I always know when it's her—she always uses the same pattern of knocking. When you're a forager, out on your own, you learn to pay attention to sounds.

She climbs up into the gondola and falls back into one of the chairs. She sniffs. “Drinking?”

“Just a little nightcap.”

She nods, as if she understands. “Have any left?”

I raise my eyebrows and reach for the bottle, pass it to her.

She takes a big swig from it but swallows it down easily, a slight flush of her light-brown skin the only reaction. “We need to go out again,” she says.

“What?”

“We need to go back. To the last location.”

I reach for the canteen of filtered water and take a gulp. “Why?”

She pushes back the wavy brown hair from her face. “Because I need to find that Feral. The one I drew the blood from.” She looks at my face. “There's something in it.”

“Yes. It's called the Bug.”

“Something else.”

My eyes narrow. “What kind of something else?”

She takes another slug from the bottle. “I'm not really sure. A mutation maybe? But the virus seems to react differently in him, and I need more plasma to look at. I need to maybe do a physical examination. It's by no means sure, but this specimen could exponentially increase our knowledge of the virus and help us find a cure.”

I rub my hands over my face willing her not to say it.

“Ben. . . ”

“Don't say it.”

“We need to capture it. Alive.”

I shake my head; I can't stop myself. Craziness. I keep telling myself she's really not all that fucked in the head, and then she opens her mouth and—

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Ben—”

“No.” I start pacing. “No. I thought you were crazy when you wanted to transport blood. And you are. And yet I found a way to accept that. To deal with it. But now you want to capture a Feral, knock it out, and what—bring it on my ship? No. No way. Not ever.”

“Ben, you know this is important.”

“Why? Because you say it is? Because you believe that you'll find a cure? I once knew a woman who believed the Bug was God's judgment, and that one day he would rescue those who were pure from this hellhole of a life. What's to say that your belief is any better than hers?”

“C'mon Ben—”

“No. Fucking no. You. Jesus. You hired me to protect you. To keep you and the others safe during all of this. Well, I can tell you that dealing with a live Feral is not. Fucking. Safe. Especially if you're thinking of. Goddamnit. Thinking of poking it with needles and getting all up close to it. You know how it is. One drop. And that's not even considering what happens if the sedative wears off prematurely. Or if he manages to escape and run wild in the Core. Goddamnit, Miranda.”

Miranda stares at me. Silent. Then says, “Are you done?”

“I just might be.” It takes a moment for what I'm saying, what I'm really saying, to sink in.

She shakes her head. “You confound me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You'll risk your life for trinkets—for scissors and hubcaps—but something real. . . ”

My face flushes with heat. “I risk my life so that I can prolong it. I risk it for food. Or I risk it for things I can barter for food. You find me a magical machine that spits out good food on a regular basis and I'll hole up there until my old age. Until then, I aim to keep on living. What you're talking about reeks of going in the opposite direction.”

“What I'm talking about is the long view, Ben. What happens when the food runs out? When your sources of barter dry up? If we find a cure—”

“That's a big fucking if, Miranda. And in the meantime, people are going to die. People are going to be infected. And then more. And then more. And I'm not sticking around to have it happen to me.”

She leans forward. “There are risks, yes. But what we're trying for . . . it's worth it. Don't you want to help save the world? Isn't that worth putting your neck out for?”

“Not if I lose my head,” I say.

She shakes her head again. “You're a selfish coward.”

The words sting more than I thought they would. “Fuck you, Miranda. Get off my ship.”

“Ben—”

“Now!”

Her scowl breaks for a moment and I see that she's hurt. And for a fraction of that moment, just a tiny little space, I want to reach out to her and tell her I'm sorry. But I don't, and she hardens up again. A little part of me is proud at that.

She doesn't say anything as she lowers herself to the ladder. And for that I'm grateful.

I finish the rest of the bottle after she goes.

I wake up the next day with a steady pounding in my head and a taste in my mouth like a Feral's ass. The bottle of moonshine is lying on its side next to me, a small, clear puddle around it. And of course today is the day I am leaving. I came to that conclusion last night some time before getting stinking drunk. Miranda's not going to change her mind this time—I know her too well.

Neither am I.

So I have no choice but to leave. Though there's still time before I need to. Time for something to eat. And water.

That's one of the other big things about the Core that makes it valuable. They built a filtration system that produces fresh water. There's a collection of vats that take dew and rainwater from the air, but then there's also the stuff they take from the ground. It's boiled first. Because of the Bug. It still makes me nervous, but there's not one person around who doesn't get used to boiling water if they want to survive. I just take it as truth that boiling kills the Bug.

But the stuff at the Core is some of the best I've had. Maybe even as good as the stuff they used to bottle back in the Clean.

So I pull myself up and pull myself together. I know I look like shit, but what else is new. I think about maybe even grabbing a shower before I go, or what passes for one here—a bucket and some clean water. But they have this stuff that cleans you up real good and that's also something worth taking advantage of before I take off.

I descend the ladder, wincing at the sun as it stabs into my eyes, but my stomach feels okay, which is good because I've flown before while puking into a bucket and it's not something I feel like repeating.

I take a while to clean myself up, brush my teeth (yes, they have that, too), shower, nibble on some dried meat and cheese. After I'm done I feel much more human.

Miranda is nowhere to be found.

Before I head back to the
Cherub
, I stop to see Sergei. He nods at me. I feel like there's already more white in his beard than when I met him. People age quickly in the Sick.

“Miranda said you might be leaving,” he said.

I guess Miranda knows me better than I thought. “Well, tell me you expected me to stay this long.”

He shrugs. Then extends his hand. “Thanks for all your help.”

I take it. “Listen, I've been thinking about this plan.” He raises his eyebrows. “I think what you need to do is build a cage. Then stash it in the cargo bay. You could even cover it with old screening material. It would help hold back anything it might fling at you while letting it breathe.”

He nods. “That could work. We could rig something up fairly easily.”

I nod back. “If I could figure out a way to hang it from the ship and still keep the thing alive, I'd tell you to do that. But I know that's not going to fly with Miranda. Just keep your eyes open and stay sharp. Stay alert for any raiders. You know things have been messy since they took Gastown. Make sure you take enough ammo with you. Best to just grab this Feral, wrap it up, and haul ass back here.”

“Okay,” he says. “We'll be able to handle it.”

I nod again and start to walk away. Then turn back. “And watch that starboard engine. It's been a little shaky, I noticed. Make sure you keep an eye on it.”

“Okay, Ben,” he says. “Good luck.”

“Same to you, Sergei.” I mean it, too. Sergei's stiff, but he's a good guy.

I start wandering through the Core before I realize I'm doing it. Then I realize I'm looking for Miranda.
No
, I tell myself.
Not a good idea.

On my way back to the ship, my pockets full of the Core's food—I mean, I
have
been working for them—I run into Clay again. He cocks his head at me, which just makes me want to punch him. I resist the urge. But only barely.

“So you couldn't hack it,” he says, a smirk on his face. And my willpower slips just a bit more. “Well, I can't say that it's a surprise.”

“Move out of my way,” I say.

“We're going to do it, you know. We're going to change the world. While you're picking among the scraps of the old world, we're going to create a new one.”

I think of about thirty things I could say to him, about ten ways I could hurt him. But in the end, I just push past him on the way back to my ship.

“Don't worry,” he says at my back. “I'll look after Miranda.”

I stop for just a split-second, then curse myself for it. But I force myself not to turn around. Then I continue walking.

All I want is to be in the air. To be in the air and fly away.

So that's exactly what I do.

I have to admit as I fly the
Cherub
away that she's handling better than she has in years. Sergei and some of his friends were good mechanics. I'm going to miss having their input. Their tools. Their skills.

Shut up, Ben. That's all done.

I scan the horizon from the gondola, then flip on the sound system, an old phonograph Dad installed even before I came along. Records are hard to come by these days. Especially when back in the Clean they'd moved on to anything digital. But Dad used to say that records couldn't fail. And every so often you'd come across a stash in an old house or a store, and from time to time you'd find them at trader stands. We'd lost a lot among the years—from too many scratches or just plain breaking, but there was still a decent stack left on the
Cherub
. I put on George Harrison, one of my old-time favorites, and rock gently to the music as I fly the
Cherub
across the sky.

Truth be told, it feels a little weird to be on my own again. Despite so many years of being alone, it seemed like the last six months had a greater gravity to them, more momentum. It feels weird knowing that I don't have a place to go back to. Even though the
Cherub
was always my home.