With Eyes Turned Skyward Read online

  With Eyes Turned Skyward

  Gregory Stravinski

  Copyright © 2016 Gregory Stravinski

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1530804238

  ISBN-10: 153080423X

  DEDICATION

  To all the folks out there who have a story to tell, this book is for you. Do yourself a favor and write it down. Believe me, the rest of us want to hear it too.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you so much to:

  Terri Mertz of Ossiwary Comissary – For editing my book. Thank you so much for helping smooth out all of this rookie’s mistakes. For those looking to have their own works edited, send her a message at [email protected]

  James Mayfield – For the gorgeous cover art. One of the best surprises I’ve ever had is you sending me that imagery after remembering a conversation we had about it four months prior. Thank you for giving the cover the punch it deserves.

  Bob Marshall – For helping me concept the cover art. You put in a ton of time and effort to assemble a design to match the story, and all of it was appreciated. Check him out at marshalldesign-portfolio.blogspot.com.

  Dan and Elizabeth Stravinski - You raised me right! Thank you so much for putting in all that patience and resources. You taught me from a very young age that if I had the right idea, and a little elbow grease, there’s really no obstacle that could stand in my way. Looks like you were right.

  Alexander Stravinski – For lending his voice (once described by a critic as “chocolate ribbons”) to my audiobook. I’m extremely proud to be your brother, and you’re amazingly talented. For professional voice or stage acting, contact him at [email protected].

  Ramsey Khudairi – For pulling me up off my ass after a tough loss in my high school wrestling career. It might not seem like much, but that moment reset how I looked at goals and the failures that are bound try to keep me from them.

  Annie Drabant – You’ve been amazingly supportive of this book and my passion for writing. Sorry for all of the late night, glaring bed side lamps when I should have been asleep hours ago. Hopefully you think the finished product is worth it!

  Sun Tzu – Um, I guess he doesn’t actually have too much relevance to this book, but he was a really amazing military strategist during the Warring States period in 500 B.C. China. Still feel like I should thank him though.

  Jess from Indie Coffee – For letting me stay to finish a few more pages all those nights, even after the cafe closed. Your feedback helped shape what the story looks like today. Congratulations on getting into your Computer Science PhD!

  The Midwest Crew, especially RJ, Eric, Katelyn, Jessica and Ilana – Yeah, we should have probably been selling radio, but you guys helped lay the foundation for this book. Without your constant feedback, week after week, this story would have never gotten off the ground. (pun semi intended)

  To everyone who read my drafts – There were many, but to James, Helen, Megan, Jane and Andy in particular, thank you so much for all of your feedback and the time that you put into reviewing it.

  Amazon.com – Without the network you guys created, this book probably would have never made it past a publisher (let’s be honest). Thank you so much for creating a space where both you and fledging authors like myself can flourish.

  Lastly, to everyone about to read this book – Every author loves an audience. Thank you so much for taking the time to sit down to check out this story, even if it’s a small sci-fi adventure piece. You guys and ladies are the real heroes.

  “Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will always long to return.”

  -Leonardo da Vinci

  1

  The crackle of gunfire ruins what would have been the perfect morning. A slight crosswind blows out of the east, but it’s the kind you appreciate with the southern summer sun beating down as hard as it is. Our eyes trace the planes as they dance. Black and gold flits by, as white and black does its best to keep time with the steps. The Admiral didn’t consider piracy when he chose our colors.

  Every crack tightens my grip a bit more on the rusted banister. You can tell which spot’s mine: I’ve twisted away all the black paint, leaving trails of previous anxieties. It’s really not my fault that the Admiral won’t spring for some quality coating. I flinch as belt feeders send several more rounds exploding from their barrels at 1,700 miles per hour.

  It’s a simple job, really; one that’s necessary to our survival. That’s how I need to frame it. I let the oxygen flow deep into my lungs. I’ve done this before, and I can do it again. Closing my eyes, I imagine the pressure of the seat folding against my back, and visualize the gunstocks pressing into the palm of each hand. I release another breath into the wind.

  The breath barely blows away before I hear another crack. It’s not a hollow one this time, unlike the others we’ve heard this morning: this one has some weight to it.

  My eyes snap open, but I’m already two steps behind the others. Sasha grabs her helmet, barking orders. I already know them by heart. Taking advantage of this small opportunity, I lean out over the railing to see what’s summoned us. One of our Goldies is already on its descent, a plume of fire cascading from its wing. It’s a pretty sharp plummet. I’m not even sure our services are going to be needed, but that doesn’t stop Sasha.

  “Baz, get your ass moving!”

  Warmth rises up my shoulders into my neck. I hate being called out in front of the entire squadron, but it’s what I deserve for being the last to react. Every second counts. My training kicks in and I leave my rust trails behind. There’ll be more than enough time to etch new paths tomorrow.

  “Cry Havoc,” I mutter.

  I drop into a sprint, struggling to get my hand through the arm of my flight jacket. The embroidered letters “Semper Parati,” Latin for “Always Ready,” press against my back. The Admiral has a penchant for Old World theatrics. Once again, we're putting that pledge to the test. Luckily for me, there’s one strength I have over my squad mates: speed. I surge up past Katz, but can’t get to the craft before my lieutenant.

  The Helios sits there, waiting patiently for us, as it always does. It’s an odd craft, really, painted red and black, with a large cockpit and two stubby wings over its top. Both wings sport a golden bow with three splayed arrows against a black background, with a large propeller fastened to the tip of each. A short, upright tail reinforces the feeling that the Helios’ growth was stunted at some point.

  Its two side doors house the Helios’s hidden power. Pulling hard on the latch of the dented metal, I reveal an object of beauty; at least, to me. Her name’s Talia. She’s a long barreled, mounted machine gun that’s capable of punching through pretty much anything I point her at.

  We had to make it a fair fight somehow.

  As the rest of the crew closes in, I throw myself into the gunner’s seat. A strong hand clamps on my shoulder. Recoiling, I discover our flight doctor Chet has already made it to the Helios before any of the rest of us.

  “You feelin’ steady Sage?” he asks from the side of his mouth.

  “Ready as always,” I lie. Uncertainty slithers through my gut.

  Chet’s one of the few people who still calls me by my first name. I don’t know why, but he’s never been much for monikers. Glancing back at the seats, I see Chet’s already laid out his supplies for quick access. Now that I think about it, it’s not uncommon for him to just sit in the cabin and wait once a fire-fight begins. Just in case.

  Micolo throws himself into the other gunner’s seat, wiping the rest of the shaving cream off his face. It appears the Italian will be plunging into the depths, not only witho
ut a shower, but also with half a beard.

  Sasha doesn’t bother opening her door, opting instead to grab both sides of the window and throw herself through. Seemingly unaware she’s the last one to the ship, Katz saunters up to the side hatch of the cockpit and lets herself in. With her co-pilot onboard, Sasha begins her preflight checks. The appropriate clicks echo from the cockpit.

  They’ve been tailing us for three days now, but this is the first time they’ve launched a full-on assault. They want what we have: supplies, passengers, fuel; and from what I’ve seen, they’ve got the means to take it, too. An assault’s never a good sign in this business; it usually means they’re certain they have the upper hand.

  All previous thoughts of the day’s beauty, my sad little fantasies, what I ate for breakfast – everything - is forgotten. It’s all excess; all of them luxuries I can’t afford right now. Fresh air slowly enters my lungs against the rising hum of the engines above. I don’t care much for religion, but I say some half-remembered prayer anyway. What can it hurt?

  “Anyone see whose plane it was?” I shout over the engines.

  Ah shit. I haven’t turned on my comm yet. I press hard against the thin layer of plastic nestled just under my cheek until the greeting signal pings against my ear. Two deckhands remove the blocks underneath the Helios’ landing gear while I fiddle with the volume of the earpiece.

  “I think I saw Carter’s emblem on the tail,” Micolo’s voice clips through. Still too loud.

  He’s got keen eyes, but I’ve always disliked the Italian’s tendency to fish for recognition. Even so, I indulge him. “What emblem was it?" I ask.

  Micolo throws his arm over the seatback, smiling. “I believe it was a hornet,” he offers, appreciating that someone’s taken an interest in one of his unique skills. His slight accent’s always been popular with the opposite sex, but it’s never done anything for our friendship.

  “Fantastic . . . Never met him,” I respond with a little bit more gall than I intended.

  A hornet, huh? Now that Micolo mentions it, I do remember seeing a new call-sign towards the bottom of the kill board. “Stinger,” I think it was. I don’t remember any kills being listed. I guess with some of our new pilots, that’s to be expected. Gotta start somewhere, right?

  Great . . . We’re going in for a rookie. Knowing my luck, he’ll probably panic, maybe even set off his sidearm inside the cabin. I wonder if I could get a Purple Heart for catching a ricochet, even if it was from one of our own guns? Might be worth looking into. Maybe it would net me some extra rack time.

  “Get your fucking head out of the clouds Baz!”

  My commlink crackles to life with my lieutenant’s ironic comment. Her turn of phrase is showing its age: we do, in fact, live up here now, at least, the people who can afford it.

  As the wind funnels down from the open hangar bay, I realize this could be the last time I see the skeletal structure spanning the roof of the Artemis. She’s a good airship, really, although, I suppose I’m a bit partial since I was born on her . . . and never really left.

  The Helios lurches under us as it leaves the hangar floor. Sasha’s encouragement has the desired effect. Strapping myself into my harness forces me to narrow my focus to a needle-fine point. I tuck in any loose strands of my uniform as the other large craft flow beneath us. We’re going a little faster than regulations allow, but no one’s ever going stop a Helios on a mission.

  As I tuck my feet in, one of the deck crew throws me a quick salute. Surprised, I barely manage to return a rushed wave; she must be new. The tension between the deck crew and pilots would be a much larger worry among the general population if more of them realized just how extreme it is.

  Fresh light pours through the hangar doors as we close in.

  A smile vibrates in Sasha’s voice. “Everyone hang tight! Especially you Baz.”

  Oh God. She’d better not try it.

  My fingers fumble to tighten my harness, but it’s too late. A cold gust whips across my face as we stick our nose out of the stern’s hangar bay. If there’s one thing I hate about flight, it’s the rapid weather changes; then again, I don’t really have much time to contemplate meteorology before Sasha drops us into a freefall.

  My feet jerk over my head and I let go of Talia entirely. Clutching at my harness, I choke down the sheer amount of G-force rushing up through my stomach. The only thoughts keeping me together is imagining all of the ways I can make Sasha’s life miserable once we get top-side again: horrible things can be done to an unguarded toothbrush if the opportunity presents itself. Although I suppose her reprimand is my punishment for not being on task all morning. Either way, my sentence is being executed with Sasha’s trademark precision.

  Plummeting earthward, Sasha tilts the Helios just enough for me to have the pleasure of experiencing the full momentum of our free fall. Taking a respite from my panic, I glance over, gauging Chet’s reaction to our little drop. His dark skin blends in with the shadow of the cabin, but his straight white teeth cut through the darkness, creating his big signature grin. He’s planned for this too, with his supplies all doubly strapped down. Just in case.

  If there’s one positive to be gleaned from my gut-wrenching position, it’s my excellent view of the Artemis. Not only is she a solidly built ship, she’s beautiful for her class. A slew of large propellers line each side of her white, compartmentalized balloon, under which sits our workspace, affectionately known as “The Roost.” All large craft dock there, from transports, to zep hunters to our comparatively tiny Helios.

  Under The Roost sits the multitude of the Living Quarters. My little corner of the world is nestled in there somewhere, but I never like to think about it while I’m working: it makes me wish I were still asleep. Below that sit the gun ports and the small craft hangar, also known as “The Cellar”. The hangar’s doors gape open as one of our cranes positions another wing of fighters for launch.

  We hit our desired altitude.

  The Helios shudders under its own weight, then rights itself. My stomach detaches from my throat. My left foot also releases from the free fall, and obeying the law of physics, slams into one of the struts. Pain shoots up my side as I try my best not to swear over the com.

  “Goddammit Sasha, that was my leg!” I growl.

  So much for self-discipline.

  “Aw . . . sweetie - If I weren’t so busy leading this mission, I’d come back and make it all better,” she retorts.

  That thought’s an oddly comforting one, but then that breaches the whole chain-of-command business, and that tends to get messy very quickly. It’s probably best that age discourages me from trying anything stupid, although I do have to admit her daughter Rosie is one of my favorite kids on the Artemis. Rosie shares her mother’s playfulness and her late father’s sense of adventure.

  I never knew Sasha’s husband, but apparently he was one hell of a pilot. The day he was shot down was the day that Sasha joined the Support Squadron. She swore no one would ever touch her daughter, because that would require going through her first. After getting to know my lieutenant, it was hard for me to argue otherwise. Still, it was probably best that Sasha left Rosie with her sister back in the Charleston Flats. Today's proof that we’re traversing one of the roughest stretches of the Appalachian Spine.

  As I scan for possible threats, my mind wanders to our other crew mate, Katz. I once heard one of the other pilots joke that Katz and I would have made a good couple if we hadn’t ended up in the same crew. I'm gonna guess they said because Katz and I share almost all of the same physical attributes: brown hair, green eyes, tanned skin. We’re even close on height, but I’ve still got her by an inch. I’m also a little stockier, but I guess that’s to be expected, even if she does serve the fleet.

  There’s something about Katz that’s always caught my attention. She spends so much time locked in her own world that I want to be the one who breaks through to her; I guess for the sake of the challenge. Or maybe I just like the idea of
having the odds stacked against me.

  The gun fire gets louder, serving as a reminder that we still have a job to do. Both Micolo and I scan for any signs of the crash. Spotting a large fire emanating from wreckage is a double-edged sword: on one hand, it helps pinpoint the location of the downed pilot faster, but on the other hand, a fire that big means the pilot’s probably already dead.

  My eyes flit from tree to tree, searching for anything out of the ordinary. To call them “trees” is generous. In reality, they’re large thickets of amphibious seaweed—a holdover from a time that’s not quite ancient enough to call history. A shudder runs through me as I try to think about something other than the creatures dwelling in that swampy mire.

  As I continue my vigil, I can’t help but think about what was probably here before. The books from my childhood always had these pictures of glass cities covering most of the earth: sprawling towers standing hundreds of feet high. Our ancestors had such magnificent power; how is it possible that could they have lost it all?

  What the sea did leave behind were coarse forests of gigantic seaweed that still continue to thrive despite the absence of standing water. That repulsive seaweed persisted, along with the austere creatures that were able to adapt after the Drowning had come and gone. If Mother Nature couldn’t kill these nightmares, then we stand a pretty slim chance.

  A pop interrupts my thoughts.

  A red flare bursts into the sky.

  “You see it?! Port side, ten o’clock center!” I yell.

  “Good eyes Baz,” Katz chirps.

  I’m somewhat surprised she said anything at all. She usually keeps pretty quiet for the whole flight, assuming things don’t get too hairy. Katz is a technician at heart; she hardly ever makes eye-contact with anyone on the crew, seeming most at home in her own head. However, having said that, I know that if you put her in front of a console, you would swear the machine actually talks to her. Despite the apparent disconnect, I wouldn’t want anyone else monitoring our systems.