[Closed] All of This Turbulence

[Tom Cooke]

Uccello di Hurte • Aloft

Nighttime on the 24th of Yaris, 2719

H
e’d hoped for the slightest, driest little smile in Aremu’s eyes. He remembered him in Sweet Waters, wary and quiet, but with that sharp-edged wit; it’d never been easy to make him laugh, not like some kov, but he’d thought a joke might set him at ease. It had the first time. It had —

Instead, the imbala crept back, ‘til he couldn’t feel the press of his field. Tom didn’t blame him; he wished he hadn’t put him through it in the first place, lying out on deck like a landed fish.

The smile on his face flickered as Aremu dipped in an awkward crouching bow. When he insisted he’d been the disturbance, Tom made a little tut in the back of his throat, frowning briefly, but he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t say anything, neither, when Aremu nodded his head and made to get to his feet; he half-wanted to, but he knew it’d be selfish beyond reason. He nodded back, and smiled tightly, and watched as the imbala edged round.

Tom lowered his head back down to the deck, and knit his fingers back over his chest, and sighed. He crossed his ankles, in the hopes it made him look more relaxed and less dead.

When he was sure Aremu’s back was turned, fair sure he wasn’t looking back, he lolled his head on one side to watch him pad away. He squinted, scanning the dark pane of the cabin wall for anything like rungs, a ladder. Then Aremu was clambering up on the railing, balancing himself with as much grace as Tom remembered. One long arm stretched up to the roof, feeling the edge out careful-like with familiar thoughtful fingers, and then that one arm was pulling the weight of him up and over. A smile broke across Tom’s face; he couldn’t help it.

He sighed again. He felt the deck shift a little more underneath his back, but he wasn’t worried. Aremu flattened against the roof, and when the rocking stilled, he was up again. Tom tilted his head back to study the sky as Aremu turned and sat on the edge. He’d half-expected him to make for the rigging, but it was tangling something tsuter right now. That was Yaris for you, he reckoned.

He could still see the imbala, but he found himself relaxing; he shifted, stretched, pillowed the back of his head with his hands.

He smiled suddenly, again, lifting his head a little — he’d found it. He thought. Puzzled, he lowered his head back, tilted it. He traced the head, the handle, with his eyes; he squinted them, so the stars melted together again, and no point quite so bright drew him away. On second thought, he wasn’t at all sure; he frowned, pursed his lips. But what other landmarks had he to know it by? Sighing, his eyes wandered away, and the hammer looked less and less like a hammer. He searched for other shapes, but he didn’t think he was fair good at it.

Once or twice, the Uccello gave an even greater heave, and Tom felt it creak underneath him; he saw the slim shadow of Aremu sway, just a pina, on the roof. It didn’t set his stomach to lurching anymore. Once or twice, he thought to say something, to point out a scattering or whirl or winding path of stars he thought comely; he had the strangest urge to ask if he knew their names. You know them by their shapes. His heart sank.

The Uccello rocked, and creaked out a deep complaint, and the chainmail skin of the artevium balloon shivered. Moonlight shimmered over it; like lightning, he thought, and wondered what that’d look like. He ached; Aremu perched there, in the corner of his eye, like a held breath. Tom felt like his own breath was held, and in that second, it became unbearable.

“D’you see that star, there? The red one?” he called, soft, and only half-hoped his voice carried over the wind; he pointed, looked at it down the length of Anatole’s thin, wavering finger. “I see it sometimes on clear nights, but it's hard to see, in the city. Sometimes I wonder what it’s called — it reminds me of a coal.”

He regretted it the moment it came out of his mouth. He folded his hands back over his chest, swallowing thickly. He felt like he’d laid a flooding laoso obligation on him, and they’d both come out here to be alone; he shouldn’t’ve had to babysit the incumbent in the first place. He shut his eyes momentarily, feeling tsuter, hoping the wind died down sooner than later.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Night, 24th Yaris, 2719
Uccello di Hurte, in the skies over Anaxas

Aremu waited. The current blew through the rigging above him, whipping it into a tangle. The balloon would be there, Aremu told himself; later tonight, he could hope, and the next night if not. And then?

The imbala closed his eyes for a long moment, and exhaled out his disappointment. No climb was worth it, he thought, his fingers digging into the leg of his pants. There had been a time when he had thought he would never climb again, when he had tossed, feverswept, and in the moments between nightmares had dreamt of the wind on his face.

There were dreams, Aremu thought, that were crueler than nightmares.

The imbala peeled down at the figure still sprawled against the deck; from above, he thought the incumbent looked relaxed, hands behind his head, ankles crossed. Faintly relived, Aremu turned his gaze to the sky.

From the roof, the rigging and the swell of the balloon blocked a good deal of what he could see. The incumbent had the right idea, Aremu thought, and he smiled, just a little, at the acknowledging of it. Perhaps another man would have said so, would have yielded and gone to lie on the hard, polished wood of the deck. It was big enough for two.

He did not entertain the thought for more than a moment; better not to impose upon the galdor. He wanted to ask: have you known imbali before? How? Where? Who? Am I a man, to you, or a curiosity? He never would; there were a thousand reasons not to, not the least of which was that there was no answer which would not hurt.

No, Aremu thought, studying his hand and the wrist that rested next to it. The shape of a man, with an emptiness inside.

(Not empty, something inside him whispered. Not empty. You felt it inside Lars, you felt his -)

Aremu closed his eyes, and he knew that he could not bear to be alone with his thoughts, not any longer. He swept his gaze back up to the stars, and let himself be lost in the looking. Lost and found again, he thought, idly; places on a map.

There; rising off the horizon, at this hour, not the hammer, but the fish. Aremu found the contours of it, the flickering blue star that made the eye, the shape of it swept around, half imagined, and the two stars that he could draw a line between, shining bright against their fellows. A fish, if one squinted; if one wanted.

And from there! Aremu could close his eyes and see the whole map of it against back of them. From the fish, and he could go left to the fangs; two bright gleaming stars set against a thick swirl, both with the faintest red gleam.

He searched, and he relaxed, slowly, into the finding. If there was a trick, it was not to think about the trick; if there was a trick, it was to remain in the wanting. The stars gleamed overhead, thick and lovely, dashed across the sky. Wherever he went, there they were, and there he was too; he could find himself. He wondered if it was something that most men could find inside themselves, this light, if they looked. If they had something to find.

Vauquelin’s voice didn’t end his peace; he had done that himself, Aremu thought, tiredly, resting his face in his hand. He cleared his throat, and glanced down at Vauquelin’s bare bluish feet, at the thin pale hand pointing out at the sky, almost translucent. He followed the finger out, traced the line of it with a frowning gaze.

“I believe that is the planet Phaeta, sir,” Aremu said, and he pitched his voice a little louder than he might have, to carry his words on the drifting wind. He was quiet, for a long moment, weighing inside himself. There had been something whimsical in Vauquelin’s voice, he thought. Like a coal.

He wanted to - he couldn’t have said what he wanted. He was sorry he had named it; he felt as if he had taken something that Vauquelin could not get back.Aremu swallowed, hard, and offered what he could. “It’s covered in craters. There’s an observatory at Thul’Amat, where they say you can see them.” He tried to keep the longing from his voice, but he knew he hadn’t, and that was even worse. He was sorry he had answered at all; he was not sure Vauquelin had really even meant to put the question to him, not in an answering way.

[Tom Cooke]

Uccello di Hurte • Aloft

Nighttime on the 24th of Yaris, 2719

P
haeta,” repeated Tom, and watched the planet. Not disappointment, not exactly. It was, all told, a fair familiar feeling. This time, it sank in his chest and ached there, like a stone he couldn’t cough up. But he’d known better than to speak of stars; he knew, through a mist of chan and the warped window of two years gone by, what stars meant to Aremu. He was grateful, nevertheless, he’d answered at all.

Something tickled at the edge of his mind, and he struggled to remember. It hadn’t been Ansari pez Nasoor, no, and he hadn’t read enough of him to stick — or even Ishme-Suen, so long ago, who’d written so much of stars — Hadima pezre Saynab, then, and a ghost of a smile lit his face. He remembered the verses, even; he traced them in his head, looking up at Phaeta and putting the shape to the name. Dzido, bereft, guided by Phaeta in her path across the steppe.

But the wind picked up, swinging the rigging, and the poetry went cold in his head; his smile faded. The stone sank further, into his stomach, and he knew to name what he felt guilt. He’d not meant to compel Aremu; he’d never meant to do that.

He hadn’t, had he? He’d never compelled the imbala to do a damned thing. His lip twisted. He’d come to him of his will, and Circle knew his old kitchen table could attest to the imbala’s will. It’d been on his terms, and he’d cut the thread on his own terms, too. He’d had the right to; Tom’d known from the start how little it’d meant to him. Or he should’ve.

Aremu went on, and Tom’s thoughts scattered. He couldn’t sustain the anger, but he felt a sheer drop underneath it, almost as bad as the one underneath the Uccello. He didn’t know what to stand on. He didn’t know why Aremu was speaking to him of craters on Phaeta and the observatory at Thul’amat, but he heard the longing in his voice, even broken up by the wind. He didn’t know why Aremu was giving him this. He could’ve stopped with a simple answer; Tom would’ve taken the hint.

There were a hundred questions he could’ve asked. Didn’t you go to Thul’amat? Don’t many imbali? Did you grow up in the Turtle? You never told me any of it. He didn’t think Aremu’d want to talk about it, to have that wanting poked and prodded. He had half a mind to stay quiet.

But reminded himself, heart aching, he’d never asked Aremu a question without finding a way to accept whatever gift the imbala chose to give him in return. These, too, were familiar motions.

“Phaeta, cast your lovely brown eye on her,
Who lingers now with cup unshared;
Shelter her with light; make for her
A temple, to bear the long, empty night.”

He tilted his head and smiled up at Aremu, but all he saw was a star-limned silhouette; he didn’t think the imbala was looking. He turned his eyes back to the sky, smile fading.

He wondered what Aremu saw, looking up at all that. He reckoned he’d never know. His eyes danced from one star to the next, and he tried; he tried to empty his mind, to let the stars fill him. But all he could see was lights — either one at a time, or in one mant tangling mass.

“I don’t know she’d want us to see her craggy face. I suppose some things are kinder from afar,” he offered, and he didn’t know why he’d said it; his voice wavered and went out like a candleflame, and he didn’t know what to do with the smoke. He’d meant the first part as a joke, but he didn’t think it came out that way.

You don’t have to call me sir, he wanted to add, but it was a half-hearted thought, and he knew better. That sure as hell wouldn’t make the imbala any more comfortable.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Night, 24th Yaris, 2719
Uccello di Hurte, in the skies over Anaxas

“Y es sir,” Aremu said, quietly.

I don’t know she’d want us to see, the galdor had offered, casually. Aremu closed his eyes against the sting of it, as if not seeing the stars would make it ache less. Not for you, he thought; better that you not see.

The memory was sharp, still, unexpectedly. There had been so much which was painful over the years, so many sorrows and partings. Niccolette, somewhere beneath him, was filled with anguish, her pain impossible to contain, seeping out through all the pores of her, every outlet but her field. There was pain that cut so deep one could not feel it, like a burn; it turned hot cold with the press of itself against you. This was not one of those, was it? It couldn’t be. The memory should have dulled the ache; time should have ground down the edge of it.

He had been young; he could not remember anymore how old. Thirteen, fourteen? There had been printed flyers, with an image of a cratered planet, announcing the opening of the telescope. He had been grateful just for the chance to attend, still - then and now - and he had never been able to bring himself to ask for more, but that had meant that even the few coins of admission were like a fortune to him, then. He remembered long nights, doing classmates’ work for coin, burning down the candles in the library, working in the carrel at the window on the top floor, dim starlight just enough to see the scrape of paper.

And he had gone, on a nine - alone, because he had wanted this for himself, something to hold through the long lonely nights - thirteen, perhaps, a boy searching for a bit of light to call his own - and the galdor at the entrance window had taken his coin, and grinned. Now, seen through a man’s eyes, he knew the student had been only a boy; at the time, he had been a towering, impenetrable figure of authority.

“No imbali allowed,” the galdor had smirked, and pocketed his change.

Aremu had stood there, shaking, the indignity of it burning in his chest. Shame had won, and swamped his anger; it had hissed and cooled, and he had fled. Hulali floats and he drowns, Aremu thought, now. If he had stood his ground - if he had insisted - had it been meant as a joke?

The edge of those words still seemed to cut deep, the remembered anguish of the boy he had been aching sharp, sharp enough to numb. Aremu looked down at the galdor sprawled out on the deck, and he could have wept.

But... to think Vauquelin could have known... Aremu rubbed his face with a tired hand, and thought of the drifting strand of unfamiliar poetry the man had offered him, half-swallowed by the wind. No, he thought, slowly; he did not think it had been meant cruelly. If it had, it was a subtle and deliberate sort of hatred, altogether too knowing.

And what galdor could understand an imbala? Not even Uzoji - Aremu thought of poetry, and a great flood of anguish welled up in him, and he ached for something to boil it away. He shivered, and his whole body ached, and he closed his eyes.

“Some things are best unseen, sir,” Aremu said, when he could open his eyes once more. He knew there were no tears spilling down his cheeks; there was a knack to not crying too, and it wasn’t so different from looking at the stars. “But none are more beautiful for it.”

The wind had died down enough; he could not wait any longer. Aremu swallowed, and he sighed, adding his breath to the drifting night air. He had not - he was not sure - “Good night, Incumbent,” Aremu offered, and he meant it to be heard. The other man, he thought, had meant well; Aremu could appreciate that. Enjoy the stars, Aremu thought but did not say. I hope they bring you poetry.

“Thank you,” Aremu added, a little more softly; he would let the wind decide, with those words.

And then he rose, and he left the man beneath him behind. Aremu crossed to the rigging, the chains that held the heavy balloon to the Uccello. He wrapped his hand in them, and pressed his feet to them too, and scooted himself up, steadily and easily, climbing with an easy scrunching motion. The wind whipped and rattled, threatening the tangle of ropes around him, but he never faltered.

And before long, his fingers tangled in the chainmail, and he eased himself to the rounded hull of the balloon. And he sighed, and closed his eyes, and let himself dream, offered up all those future aches for a moment of peace.

Aremu’s eyes fluttered open, and all he could see was the curve of chainmail and leather beneath. From this distance, there was nothing wrong with it, nothing unfamiliar. He climbed, hand over foot, steadily, curving out with the bulk of the balloon, up to the upper hemisphere. He tangled himself in the chains there, and let himself be spread out wide.

From there - from there all the night sky was spread out above him, like a feast. Aremu picked out the shape of a familiar hammer, his lips curving into a smile. Lying, stretched out, cool chains against his head and digging into his back, it was easy to empty himself out. They were chains he had chosen, and it made them easy to bear; they held him in place, but it was a yielding he undertook willingly, one that he offered himself too freely and without fear.

And Aremu let himself stretch out - let himself be held - and let the light pour through him, and fill him, and shine out of his every pore. He lost himself in the stars, and he found himself there too, and at least in the moment, it was enough.

[Tom Cooke]

Uccello di Hurte • Aloft

Nighttime on the 24th of Yaris, 2719

Y
es, sir. Tom let out a deep sigh, and he felt like a deflated balloon; he let his eyes flutter shut. There was a pause, full of creak and chainmail rustle, full of the whistle of the wind and the rock of the deck underneath him.

The wind’d quieted by the time Aremu spoke again, such that there could be no mistaking it. One of Tom’s eyes slid open, glimpsed, bleary, the shape on the roof, a shadow cut out of the shadows behind him.

He could make out nothing of his face; he could hear nothing in his voice, calm and even and soft. The words dripped, one by one, into Tom’s head, and spread themselves out. Meaningless, pleasant sort of words; clever-sounding words. Good night, Incumbent. Tom’s other eye opened, and he looked back up at the sky, unseeing. He pressed his hands flat against his chest, like he was holding a lid down over his jumping heart. His lips were a thin white line.

Good night, Incumbent, and then another wall of a pause, and Aremu rose and crossed to the base of the rigging. Tom wanted to call after him; Tom felt like something was holding his throat stuck shut. Then nothing’s beautiful, he wanted to yell. The more you see of something, the less beautiful it is to you, the less you want it. Ain’t that the real way of it?

He lay there a long time. He saw Aremu’s shadow break up the stars; he didn’t follow it with his eyes, but he couldn’t help but see it, grappling up the rigging. He heard the chains hiss and jangle each other, like the rattling of ghosts from stories you told to shut bochi up. From here, not looking at his motions too close, you wouldn’t even know the man climbing up to the balloon only had one hand.

When Aremu disappeared, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, rolled awkwardly onto his hands and knees. “Chroveshit,” he snarled under his breath, then, even quieter: “Hypocrite.”

He heard his voice trembling and felt another lash of frustration. The deck heaved; it nearly threw him back on his erse. He felt like a manhandled hingle. He rubbed his jaw, found his fingers cold as ice; the skin of his cheeks burned. Even more awkwardly, he half-waddled, half-crawled back across the deck, toward the railing.

If those words were a vessel for his anger, the vessel was full of cracks. Whatever seeped through splashed white-hot on his own soul. What good would the hating do? Was it any better than the wanting? How could you hurt a man like Aremu? Why would you want to, when he could do such a damn benny job of it himself? Tom’s eyes were prickling; the cabin smeared, and he looked down at his bare feet and the deck instead.

He felt his way back along the railing, leather loop to leather loop. He watched his feet swim forward, careful, pale and dreamlike against the shadows; then he shut his eyes. For a space, four steps, all he could feel was the polished wood underneath the soles of his feet; he could hear a man breathing, a man’s breath evening out, and he let it calm him. He heard a deep, rumbling hum, winding over no melody in particular, and he let it calm him, too.

The air was closer and hotter inside, and he took care with the steps. He stopped at the bottom, slumping against the wall and pressing one hand to his face. He ran clammy fingers through his hair.

He’d been dreading this trip; he’d got lax. It’d been more than a week since he’d drawn a plot or practiced his Monite or meditated. He thought, for a moment, he might turn round, go back up out to the deck and find his spot. Pride stung him too bad; nobody’d seen him, nobody’d heard him, but he felt like there was a Bastian chorus giggling just out of earshot. That was nothing to drop at the mona’s feet.

On his way back down the hall, his thoughts wound back to Aremu. He hadn’t thought. Had it been about Thul’amat, or something else? How had he taken those words? Had it been something in the years between them, a hand, a plantation, a death, a burning airship away? Had there been anything in his voice, anything at all? Had it just been Aremu extricating himself gently — safely — as he could, from a moony conversation with an Anaxi statesman? And on what must’ve been such a godsdamn hellish voyage. Some things are best unseen, he mouthed, pausing in front of his door and bowing his head again, but none are more beautiful for it.

He got the door open and wiped a streak of wet away from one cheek; but he didn’t have any weeping left in him, thank the Lady. Careful-like, freezing whenever the ship rocked, he shuffled round the sheets on the bed, lit a tiny phosphor lamp by the bedside, and found the smallest of his bags. Sitting on the bedside, he rifled through it ‘til he found his reading glasses, then a book — the first book his fingers felt. It didn’t matter which.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 25th Yaris, 2719
Uccello di Hurte, in the skies over Anaxas

Niccolette had not thought she would sleep. She had crawled to the bed, eventually, and curled up in the sheets, corset squeezing so tightly she had thought it would cut her in half. Still, she could not bring herself to get up and remove it; still, she could scarcely do anything but weep, and even that grew slow and aching, because she hardly had the breath for it. 

She must have slept, though, because she awoke in the dark light-headed and shaking with cold. She thought - she could not have said. Perhaps there had been a rattling at the door; perhaps not. Her hands shook so badly it was hard to remove the dress, and harder still to undo the laces of the corset, slowly, one by one. She did not trust herself to cut them loose. 

And then it was off, and Niccolette dropped it to the floor. She climbed back onto the bed, and curled beneath the blankets. She was shaking, then, with the cold and with the desire to weep, her hands fisting in the blanket; her teeth chattered, and waves of cold swept through her, and battered her like a storm. In time, she found the rhythm of her breath through the sniffling, through her aching chest. In time, the shaking stopped, and her hands loosened their grip on the sheets. In time, the heat of the mona dried the tears on her cheeks, and whisked them away.

In time -

When Niccolette opened her eyes again, it was morning; pale light streamed in through the shutters, and swept over the blankets. She sat, weary, and tucked her legs up, elbows settling on her knees, fingers tangling in her hair. With her eyes closed, the softness of the sheets, the swaying of the ship - she could almost imagine that the door would open, and Uzoji would come in -

Tired, perhaps, weary from an overnight shift, but with a slow blooming smile on his face at the sight of her, one that would catch in her chest and kindle bright.

Or else bright-eyed and full of energy - her husband, as irritatingly sharp in the morning as he was at night, eager for the day to come.

Or else - she would take him any way, Niccolette thought bitterly, her eyes opening. Even to ache with his sadness would be a blessed relief compared to this - this -

There was a knock on the door then, and Niccolette held silent for a moment. She cleared her aching throat, raw with sobbing, and answered, as sharply as she could. “Yes?”

“Good morning, madam. I hope you slept well,” a Bastian-accented voice offered, politely. A pause, and then: “The captain requests your presence at breakfast in an hour.”

Niccolette said nothing, face curling back into her hands, shoulders shaking. There was an uncertain silence outside the door, and then footsteps, slowly, down the halls and a distant knocking at some other door, the echo of words too soft to overhear in full.

Niccolette wiped her eyes, and rose, glancing around. There was a hatch cut against the wall; pulled down, it became a basin with running water. She rinsed her face clean, and did what she could with the rest; her hair, at least, she could brush out. Niccolette was not sure why she bothered, but that no day, however difficult, had been made easier by refusing to groom herself.

There was a mirror, small, above the basin. Niccolette held, looking down at the polished metal basin until she was ready. Slowly, with deep breaths, she raised her gaze to her own reflection, and she held, firmly; she looked. Puffiness around the eyes, Niccolette thought with a little grimace; she looked tired.

The Bastian opened up her trunk, and took out her things. There were creams for the under-eye, to reduce swelling and redness, the best of them a gift from a friend in the Rose; there was powder, and kohl, and lip color, and by the time she had finished, never letting herself look away, Niccolette felt herself once more, or as close, these days, as she could ever seem to hope for.

She dressed then, did up the laces of the corset and pulled them as tight as one could. The fawn brown dress fastened in the front, and her hands only shook a little on the pearly white buttons. She ran her brush through her hair one last time, and then went to the door, unfastened her chest. Step by step, Niccolette pushed it back to the wall where it had been originally, and carefully redid the ties. She stood, then, and brushed off her dress, and took a deep breath.

There was another knock at the door.

Niccolette strode back to it, and swept it open, raising her eyebrows. “Yes?” She asked, coolly.

Isidore stood outside, smiling. He bowed. “Good morning, Mrs. Ibutatu. May I escort you to breakfast?”

Niccolette’s eyes flickered over him; he looked, she thought, dispassionately, as if he had slept well throughout the night and risen early for a shave. She bowed as well, and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind herself as a response.

Isidore hesitated a moment, then smiled. “Excellent,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

Niccolette shrugged. “Why should I not?” She asked, glancing up at him. “Surely your ship is quite safe.”

“Of course,” Isidore said, taking a few steps down the hall. Niccolette swept her skirts out, and followed behind him. There were two galdori already eating at a heavy table in what looked like a kitchen – eggs, bacon, and crumpets sitting on a countertop, with a pot of steaming tea, and what looked like fruit preserve.

“Breakfast is a more casual meal, shipside,” Isidore smiled. “Sit, please, Mrs. Ibutatu. I’ll bring you something.”

Niccolette’s lips pressed together. “I should like some tea,” she said, firmly.

“Of course,” Isidore bowed.

Niccolette sat, then, at the table, her hands lacing together in her lap. The two crewmen greeted her with polite smiles and gentle caprises, physical and static mona prying curiously at the edges of her own living field. She kept it – not dampened, but not flared either, self-contained and indectal, holding firm in the air around her. They returned to their conversation then, low-voiced, only just audible.

“You’ll like the crew,” the older of the two was saying, grinning. “Captain Giordanetto’s strict but fair – an even-handed man. Our last engineer – ”

Aremu came in as she sat, and she glanced over at him. Both of the galdori at the table stopped talking for a moment, Niccolette noticed, with a sudden sharp feeling.

“Good morning, Aremu,” Isidore said, standing at the serving dishes at the countertop.

“Good morning, Captain,” Aremu said, bowing politely.

Isidore’s gaze flicked over him, then settled on Niccolette. “Please,” he said, smiling, lifting his gaze back to the imbala. “Help yourself.”

Niccolette’s hands clenched on her dress, and she loosened them with a sigh. Aremu, she thought, was more than capable of serving himself food, even one-handed. It seemed a pity to her that Isidore should have been born with ley lines when Aremu had not been; she rather liked the thought of the man gated forever at Anastou.

Isidore set down a cup of tea for her, and a full plate of food for each of them. Niccolette wrapped her hands around the mug, left over right, and did not so much as deign the bacon and eggs with a look.

[Tom Cooke]

Uccello di Hurte • Aloft

Mid-Morning on the 25th of Yaris, 2719

T
he knock came at the door before he was finished shaving.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath. He took the shaky razor away and pressed his fingertips to the budding line just below his left cheekbone. His fingertips came away spotted with watery pink. He glanced back up, and his eyes came back into focus on the face in the mirror. He saw a little red line, scraped bare of soap, was getting redder and redder. He felt the sting.

The knock came again. “Incumbent? Sir?”

“Mmm,” he hummed.

There was a pause, and a creak of boards. “Good morning, sir,” a familiar Bastian voice said; something about the shape of the words made it sound like the speaker was smiling. He could see the door, behind him, in the mirror. “The captain invites you to breakfast in a half-hour, sir.”

Another pause. A desperate glance at the pile of books on the bed. No, thank you; I’m still feeling quite ill, but send the captain my apologies. Again. Tom bit his lip, then said, “Thank you.”

There was a quiet thump of footsteps.

It had been dusky when he’d shifted to the edge of his bed and tested his feet on the floor. Now, the light that trickled in through the shutters was sharp and cool as fresh water, and hurt his raw eyes. Hasty, he set himself to finishing the job. When he dried his face off with the towel, it came back streaked red in one corner. His eyes flicked over the face, then met themselves, and his brow furrowed helplessly. Here and there, a dusting of short stubble glittered like hoarfrost. He swabbed the cut with the towel again, made it invisible; in a half-second, it turned red again.

The knock came again not long after. By then, he’d heard footsteps, hushed voices, down the hall. He was pressing the tape into place, and he didn’t flinch this time, though he saw the lines in his face tighten.

He’d fallen asleep some time during the night, because he’d woken with his head pressed to the wall beside him and a book open in his lap, the phosphor lamp a low glow and a clocking awful taste in his mouth. But the dawn’d filled up the room early, seemed to him, though he hadn’t the nerves to get the shutters open and look out at whatever landscape of cloud and sun and blue he’d see. Like a dream of being free, he’d thought bitterly.

Sometime in the night, something had happened. Maybe it was that he’d emptied himself of everything the nausea had to take, but when he got to his feet, he found everything moved just a pina less. He didn’t have to hold onto anything, when he crossed to the loo in the dark (though it was colder than it had any right to be in Yaris). When the morning light filled up the room, it looked bigger than it’d done the night before — bigger, and airier. Halfway through shaving, his sore, tired belly was aching in a way that told him he was hungry, and he found that the idea of yats actually made a favorable impression on him.

When he answered the door, the man in the mirror was finally reasonably neat. He’d given himself a dashing wink, then immediately wished he hadn’t, then turned abruptly away. He felt the brush of physical mona through the door, felt it draw itself in politely as it could. Then he found himself looking the man from earlier in the eye — the short, pudgy kov who’d helped him from the saddle. If there was something uneasy, and maybe a hint of something cruel, in his eyes, he couldn’t read the polite smile.

“Marion Capaldi, sir,” said the man softly as he stepped out into the narrow hall, with a cursory bow. “I hope you slept well, Incumbent Vauquelin?” The man’s Bastian accent made three syllables of it. He could hear the clink of dishes and the chatter of voices, muffled.

“Quite well, Mr. Capaldi.” He bowed his head and shoulders, feeling a tweak at the nape of his neck.

At first, along the way, Capaldi hovered, and Tom felt the brush of his hand on his elbow once; his own fingertips drifted over the wall to one side, and his legs felt shaky, but there was no need for it. Halfway down, he could already smell it: hot oil, cooked meat, the bitter waft of black tea, warm bread.

The captain and Niccolette were already there when they got to the table, and a few dishes, piled with yats, dotted it. Niccolette was cupping a steaming mug, and didn’t look fair interested in the full plate that lay in front — and maybe a little to the side — of her. She looked good, he thought, all told; it’d been dark, the night before, and given he hadn’t seen her since that drunken night in Roalis, she looked fair good indeed. As he crossed to the table, he felt the brush of her field, bright and strong but controlled; his lip twitched with a memory of irritation, and he glanced away.

Capaldi moved around him, and he noticed two more men already seated. As he crossed hesitantly to the table, he felt the brush of two more fields; if they were familiar from last night, he couldn’t place them. Neither of them withdrew, but as he looked over the table, he wasn’t meeting eyes. The captain was passing one of them a full plate.

He offered them all a tight smile, feeling a little pinch at his cheekbone. He ran a hand over the back of a chair and glanced up at the counter. He felt a knot in him tighten.

It was like seeing someone you knew in a bad dream. Everything laid out strangely, with just one or two details amiss, setting the whole picture off. He knew him; he knew the shape of him, even like this. He knew those shoulders, even set off-balance, awkward in a way he hadn’t looked on the way up the rigging. But there was a new line to him. He kept his eyes up, worried they’d go down of their own accord to search for that wooden hand.

Everybody else, except the captain and the incumbent, was sitting. He felt there was something here he wasn’t reading, something he should’ve been. He watched, for the space of a breath, as Aremu set his plate down on the counter and moved with his one free — with his one — long-fingered and fine in the morning light — Tom glanced aside, past him.

There, the source of the smells; the ache in his stomach deepened, and he felt something approaching desperation.

His eyes moved to Giordanetto, reluctantly. The Bastian looked better than any of them. Tom knew his hand was shaky on the back of the chair; now that his eyes were on Giordanetto, he felt the prickle of eyes on him. “Good morning, Captain,” he said lightly as he could, bowing deeply, and wove round to join the imbala at the counter, scanning it for empty plates.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 25th Yaris, 2719
Uccello di Hurte, in the skies over Anaxas

Niccolette glanced up at the brush of Vauquelin’s field, an odd sore spot in a well-organized room; she nodded at him, once, and turned her gaze back to the cup of tea in her hands, her field easing in a little tighter around her, held close.

There were several empty plates, set on the counter between small pins to hold them in place, and plenty of food remaining, long-handled spoons propped against the corner where Aremu had left them.

“Good morning, Incumbent,” Isidore bowed, and smiled at Vauquelin. “I trust you’ll forgive our rather informal breakfast. Dinner will be a more proper affair, naturally.”

Niccolette glanced up at him, and back at the plate of food on the table before her. She made a little face, and took a sip of the tea. She had not seen Isidore prepare it, but she could taste that he had added sugar. She grimaced, faintly, and swallowed the mouthful, and set the cup down on the table, her hands returning empty to her lap.

Aremu was setting the last scoop of food on his plate. He set the serving spoon down, picked the plate up, and turned, looking at the table. After a moment, carefully, he wound his way around the outer edges of them, and sat at the far end. As far, Niccolette realized, as he could, from all the rest of them. She closed her eyes for a moment, and opened them again, and took the cup of tea in her hands once more.

Isidore would let Vauquelin get his food, cheerful and upbeat; he made himself a plate as well, and sat, close to Niccolette, just shy of brushing her arm with his, the last one at the table.

“Now,” Isidore said, cheerfully. “No need for anyone to rise – we shouldn’t stand on ceremony. But I think some introductions would be appropriate,” he turned to the three crewmen at the table, and smiled.

“My name is Marion Capaldi,” the man who had entered with Vauquelin said, and inclined his head politely. “A pleasure, Incumbent, Mrs. Ibutatu.” His eyes flicked to Aremu, and he made something that vaguely resembled a nod in his direction as well. “I’m second-in-command of the Uccello.”

“Antonio Galatas,” The other man sitting at the table managed something of a bow with his upper body, smiling. “One of the ship’s pilots. Welcome to the Uccello di Hurte.”

“Grigor Sostratos,” added the last man, the youngest by far. He had a slender moustache that curled, oddly and unfortunately, which he stroked with lightly callused fingers. “Ship’s engineer,” he said, and sat a little straighter, and grinned. “Very pleased to meet you both, Incumbent Vauquelin, Mrs. Ibutatu. I’m sure it’ll be an easy flight.”

“We have a few other crew members as well,” Isidore said, smiling. “Naturally we can’t all breakfast at the same time! It’s not so long a journey, but by the end of it I think you’ll know us all well.”

“Do you pilot?” Niccolette asked, her gaze flicking up to Isidore. She lifted the mug to her mouth, and took the slightest of sips.

“Oh, of course,” Isidore said, grinning. “Not as much as I’d like, unfortunately. The captain has many duties,” he chuckled.

“Of course,” Niccolette made a little face, and set the mug back down, hands still wrapped around it. “I am sure you must be… quite busy.” Her tone left it unclear whether she had intended it as an insult or not. Aremu understood, she thought; there was the tiniest flicker of a smile on his face, there and then gone, and he was eating again, carefully, with no indication that she could tell of how much he disliked eggs in the Anaxi style.

For a moment, Niccolette thought longingly of the scrambled eggs that had made on the Eqe Aqawe; eggs were too easy a food for a short flight not to eat, and with a proper carton stored and kept well. Uzoji had led the charge against them plain, and each of them had had their own style – a twist of pepper, of cumin, chopped vegetables if they were there, tomatoes or peppers or zucchinis, cooked in – spicy, sometimes, unexpectedly so; once, Niccolette remembered, she had gotten a bite of something much too hot, and she had sat there sobbing into her eggs, Uzoji wide-eyed and worried, Chibugo laughing –

Niccolette’s hands tightened on the mug, but with effort, she kept the expression on her face smooth, neutral.

“I trained at Anastou, in fact,” Isidore was saying. Niccolette had the feeling they were not his first words – that she had missed something – but she couldn’t have said what. “I served in the Bastian Armed Forces with pride for years, but I resigned my commission in 2714.”

Galatas, across the table, nodded knowingly, and went back to his eggs.

For a moment, the men ate in comfortable silence. Niccolette could not have touched her eggs, not for all the coin in the world; the thought of them turned her stomach more than she could say. Even the smell –

“How will you spend your day, Mrs. Ibutatu?” Isidore asked, politely.

Niccolette shrugged. “I had not – ”

The ship gave a sudden lurch; Isidore caught his plate, Galatas as well; Capaldi was there, for his and Vauquelin’s both, although his tea went flying onto the floor. Sostratos’s plate lurched; he missed it, and eggs splattered across his neat white shirt. Aremu had caught his plate unerringly, fork clattering lightly against the edge of it.

Niccolette had not made the slightest effort to move; her plate skittered off the table, and splattered noisily against the floor. She did not so much as glance down at it.

A low, rumbling groaning echoed through the wall, and the ship lurched again.

“Mr. Sostratos?” Isidore said, smiling, although his voice was curt.

Sostratos was fumbling at his shirt front. He glanced up. “Oh – yes sir. Yes, captain.” He leapt to his feet, and fled the room, shutting the door behind himself.

“Nothing to worry about, I’m sure,” Isidore grinned at Vauquelin, and then at Niccolette. Another groaning noise echoed through the walls. His eyes flickered to Galatas, who set his plate down against Capaldi's and rose, hastily, to clean Niccolette's mess from the floor. "These things happen in airship travel - one simply notices them more on a smaller ship. Mr. Sostratos will have us marble-bright soon, I can assure you."

[Tom Cooke]

Uccello di Hurte • Aloft

Mid-Morning on the 25th of Yaris, 2719

A
s Aremu took his plate back, Tom skimmed the fare with his eyes. At the captain’s cheerful apology, he just clicked his tongue with equal cheer; he barely registered the prospect of dinner. He found himself smiling, despite everything, as he got himself some bacon and eggs. Up close, the smell of preserves mingled nicely with the bitter-dark steam from the tea. The plate he carried back to the table wasn’t as loaded as some of the others – he knew his stomach for a laoso traitor, by now – but he’d determined to break fast decently, and there wasn’t much tea and bacon couldn’t get you through.

He sat, and he looked just once up the long table, keeping his face careful-blank. Five other fields in the buzzing tangle of his, the mona thick enough at one end of the table you’d think it’d capsize. Introductions jerked his gaze away, and he fit something like a smile on his face.

Capaldi he just inclined his head to. The other two, he tried bows, dipping awkwardly with his fork in one shaky hand, perched and full of purpose over his untouched eggs. He blinked, eyebrow twitching, at the little greenhorn. You fuckin’ better be sure, he wanted to say. Instead, his thin smile broadened. “A pleasure,” he murmured, glance moving round the table one last time before it wandered back down to his plate.

He hoped, he thought through a bite of egg, he wouldn’t get to know any of the crew. Setting his fork down and tackling a strip of bacon – praise the clocking Lady, but none of these gollies seemed to care – he glanced up, briefly, when Niccolette asked the captain if he piloted. His eyes moved from the widow to Giordanetto, then back to the widow; careful-blank.

For better or worse, it launched the toft off on an elaborate explanation of his credentials. Tom didn’t much care; being honest, he reckoned the argument wasn’t meant for his ear – or any kov at the table, for that matter – and, forking another bite of egg and stifling a little smile, he wished him the best of luck. There was something a pina manna satisfying about hearing him say he was ex-BAF; Tom would’ve put his money on it. Officer gollies in the Sisters were all the same, he reckoned. Switch him places with an enlisted natt, he thought, mind wandering, and speak of flooding glory...

Tom spread a little jam on his crumpet, then craned his neck to take a bite. How will you spend your day, Mrs. Ibutatu? the captain asked, and Tom paused with the crumpet in his mouth. He looked sharply from the captain to the widow, frowning slightly.

Dry, he thought. Sticking in his mouth. He lifted his mug to his lips, washing down the bite with a swallow of black tea. He lowered the mug hesitantly, and Niccolette started to speak.

Tom felt the Uccello pitch, then, heard the scrape and clink of sliding plates. He banged his elbow on the table, splashing tea on his shirt, but managed to hold his crumpet upright. Beside him, Capaldi’s arm darted for his plate, but he heard the crack and splatter and roll of a mug against the floor – then the bang of a dropped plate.

When she righted herself, Tom’d managed to keep hold of his mug and his crumpet, and all the preserves on the crumpet, to boot. “Hell,” he grunted, wincing at the stain on his shirt, then setting the crumpet hesitantly back on the plate. He glanced up and down the table. The captain’d caught his, and the crew hadn’t lost much yats or tea. Niccolette’s plate’d gone – she didn’t seem too fussed about it – and Aremu was just setting his down, having spilled nothing.

The ship’d lurched. With that realization, Tom felt a lurch himself; he swallowed, felt his throat tightening. Unthinking, he looked at Aremu, first, his thoughts all tangled up – for a moment, the look he shot the imbala was almost desperate – then he shook himself right, looked to the young kov, Sostratos, who seemed more interested in the egg all over him than in the Uccello. But the captain called him, and he swung out quicker than if a fire’d been set at his erse.

There was an awkward pause. Suddenly, all the movement he’d managed to forget crept back into his awareness. He could feel it underfoot, and underneath that, empty space for – he grit his teeth, shut his eyes, and took a breath. When he opened them, the strip of bacon and most-of-a-crumpet on his plate didn’t look too appealing.

He caught Giordanetto’s grin, and he managed a tight smile in return. He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. Right about then, the great ship moaned again; Tom thought he could feel it in his bones. Galatas was hopping up to take care of Niccolette’s plate, like he was a natt servant and not a toffin with a field; he couldn’t say the sight didn’t amuse him, just a pina. His eyes flicked back to Giordanetto, studying his face carefully.

Marble-bright. Dze. Hell, maybe that curly little mustache hid a giant of a mind.

Captain’s smile’d already turned back to Niccolette; Tom felt a spike of anxiety, and suddenly, though he couldn’t piece together why, he was glad he hadn’t seen her eat or drink. He wondered if he was going to pick up the thread he’d dropped before the caoja. He went through his head for a distraction – are you quite certain, Captain? One hardly feels safe, with it grumbling so, said Anatole – but, Tom thought, best not encourage the flooder. He thought about all the BAF blather.

“Well, I feel quite safe,” he put in quickly, placing his mug back delicately on the table. “I would imagine you’ve faced dangers a great deal more menacing than this, Captain…?”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 25th Yaris, 2719
Uccello di Hurte, in the skies over Anaxas

Isidore was looking at her, smiling.

If he brought her another plate of food, Niccolette thought, suddenly desperate; if he brought her one more bite of food she didn’t want – food she couldn’t stand – she would throw it in his face – scream – run wildly from the room – the urge of it was rising up in her chest, bubbling up, almost more than she could stand – her breath was coming a little faster than it should have, tight in her chest.

Vauquelin spoke up, and Niccolette’s eyes flicked to him, desperate for a moment. Galatas was rising behind her, carrying the plate and the food he'd scraped back onto it over to the heavy sink.

Isidore turned as well, and he grinned, broadly. “Oh, yes, Incumbent. I believe – were you a military man yourself…? But naturally you’ve known a few,” there was a chuckle. "But of course, I remember when..."

Niccolette shut her eyes, and breathed, steadily and easily. When she opened them again, Isidore was still talking – some idiotic story about a winter storm over the mountains outside of Caroult, of heroic spell-casting in the face of danger –

And Aremu, Niccolette noticed, had not touched another bite of his food. She looked at him; he held his fork, and it was bent over his plate, as if at any moment he might take a bite – but his gaze was fixed firmly on the walls, and he was frowning, disconcertingly.

The ship was still grumbling, and lurching, faintly, every so often, although never with the same force as the first. Isidore blustered steadily through it, although Niccolette became conscious of a faint pinching around his eyes, although his tone never seemed to falter.

There was a quiet noise at the door. Isidore dropped off mid-sentence, and looked up to Sostratos, standing there.

“Well, Mr. Sostratos?” Isidore asked, turning his focus to the engineer.

“Uh, Captain, I -” Sostratos said, eyes wide, egg still staining his shirt. He glanced sideways at the rest of the table and lowered his voice, as if there was any chance they might not hear him. “I - nothing seems to be amiss, sir, in the engine room.”

“And yet,” Isidore said, slowly. The ship gave another lurch. “There is clearly something wrong.”

“Yes sir,” Sostratos said. His hands were clasped tight in front of him; something searing and yellow wept through his field and vanished in a flicker of shame.

“So why not go check it again?” Isidore asked, and he smiled, tightly, as if his face would creak.

“Yes - yes, Captain,” Sostratos said. He turned and went from the room.

Niccolettr glanced at Aremu. His gaze was on the engineer’s back; she could see the corded muscles of his left forearm standing out against the line of his shirt. Then, plate still half-unfinished, he rose and followed the other man from the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

There was a quiet murmur in the hallway, a Mugrobi accented voice too soft to hear.

“What the fuck would you know about it, scrap?” Sostratos’s voice rose through the door, cracking audibly.

Niccolette gripped her hands in her skirt, shaking; red crackled sharply through her field, and she came near to pulsing, involuntarily. She took a deep breath, smoothed the redshift away and dampened her field back down. Capaldi, across the table, was watching her.

Isidore was already rising, field dampening in close. He pulled open the door of the kitchen, silently.

“I am sorry to intrude,” they could all hear Aremu now, his words pitched low and soft. “I only wished to suggest you might check the fuel venting system.”

“Why?” Isidore asked.

There was a jerk of startled silence in the hall, a flutter of distant yellow colorshift in the air beyond Isidore.

“Captain,” Sostratos said. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“I did not ask you,” Isidore said.

“The sound and the timing, sir,” Aremu said. His voice was tight - uncomfortable - but he spoke clearly and carefully. “If there were a problem with the fuel venting, on a ship this size, half a day into the voyage is when it would present.”

Niccolette found her hands were tight in the fabric of her skirt; she made no effort to pretend her eyes weren’t fixed on the doorway. She could not even try to look away; she felt, she thought bitterly, as helpless as Sostratos had sounded.

“Have you checked the fuel venting system, Mr. Sostratos?” Isidore asked.

A long silence from outside; another rumbling shuddering groan from the ship.

“I suppose that speaks for itself,” Isidore said. “Go. Now.”

Isidore turned and went back into the kitchen. He smiled at Niccolette, and at Vauquelin, and sat again at the table.

Aremu held in the doorway, a slim dark shape. After a moment, he stepped into the kitchen, and sat as well.

“How does a -“ there was a faint pause, and Isidore smiled at Aremu, “passive come to know about airships?”

The ship gave another lurch.

“I studied mechanical engineering at Thul’Amat, sir,” there was no anger in Aremu’s voice, Niccolette thought. She did not, herself, dare to speak. “With a concentration in airships.”

“That is allowed?” Isidore asked, eyebrows raising. “I understand Mugroba is permissive, but I might have thought...”

“Yes, it is.” Aremu said.

“Fascinating,” Isidore said. “Still, an unusual choice, with only one hand,” Isidore smiled at him. “I suppose you had rather a knack for it.” He picked up his knife and fork again, and resumed his breakfast, as if there had been no interruption.

There was a smooth sort of blankness on Aremu’s face. Niccolette closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, and opened them again. She never would have understood how difficult it must have been before, not really; perhaps she still could not, Niccolette realized.

But Aremu, as well as he had done, gave himself away in the pause, in the tightness in his voice when he spoke again.

“I had two hands then, sir,” Aremu said, quietly. He, too, turned back to his breakfast, and made to resume the motions of eating, bending his entire self to the plate as if he had no thoughts beyond the lukewarm eggs.

The motions of the ship smoothed out, then, settled. Niccolette tried to still the motions of her shaking hands, twisting them together in her lap.

“That does rather explain it,” Isidore said, smiling. He took a bite of food, and turned his attention back to Vauquelin. “And how do you plan to spend the day, Incumbent?”