Silver Lining
Chapter I, First Light
>It's barely first light when you step into the lounge.
>A dim halo of blue crowns the Eastern horizon, and shades of pink lick at the pillows of cumulus rising in the middle distance behind round, brass windows.
>There isn’t much light to speak of inside though, and there wouldn’t be any if it weren't for a row of amber bulbs under counter of the bar in the back of the room, which leak a puddle of pale honey onto the floor and cast long shadows from the barstools.
>The air tastes of rain, salt, and diesel. There's a hint of chill in it too, but you only feel it on your face and fingers. Your jacket hangs heavily on your shoulders, swaddling the rest of you in a mass of fleece and leather.
>It's almost enough to sweat, and you find yourself unzipping it a little.
>It’s almost enough to make you feel like you’re the guy you say you are in the stories you tell yourself.
>It makes you feel like a grizzled old veteran, like from the books and moving pictures, with the right to be annoyed that your partner isn't already here waiting for you.
>It must be because she's young, irresponsible, and doesn't know what she signed up for.
>You know, nothing like you.
>And you hadn't been late either, right? You hadn't overslept that five minutes, certainly not on account of being up all night mulling over today.
>Because it wasn't the first time you'd done something like this.
>You'd done it yesterday too.
>Yeah, you were a real old pro, weren't you.
>You zip the jacket back up, figuring it best to keep right on believing you weren't just playing dress-up.
>It was much too late for second guesses, and besides, you knew what you were doing.
>You hadn’t worked your ass off in that factory half a decade for nothing.
>You’d worked your ass off to learn to fly.
>And you had learned. You’d learned real good; better than all those chucklefucks who strapped guns to old crop dusters and called themselves combat pilots and bounty hunters.
>They’d fly out and die a week in, but you were different.
>You’d learned good and proper.
>And Ol’ Steve never would have let you fly away in the airplane he taught you in if you hadn’t, now would he?
>Good Ol’ Steve. You owed that man a bigger debt than you could ever hope to pay. He’d made you the real deal. Hell, he’d practically been your father. 
>But now you were the real deal.
>And you dressed like it.
>And you had right to.
>Not like this kid they’d paired you up with for patrol this morning. 
>You’d have to set her straight.
>Fetching coffee and a slice of toast from behind the bar, you settle into a worn leather chair beneath one of the windows.
>You set your feet up on the table in front of you and cross them, then turn your attention to the land drifting by far below.
>You wait in silence, savoring the morning solitude.
>You don’t know a whole lot about this girl, other than that she’s twenty-one, and thus a few years younger than you, and about as inexperienced as they come. 
>Rumor has it her parents helped her out a lot too, and that she didn’t work for it the way you had.
>Somewhat wilder rumor also holds that she’s an anthro of some kind. Most of the reports say dog. A few said wolf. One said she was some kind of goddamn flamingo.
>You don’t put a whole lot of stock in those though.
>You’ve never seen an anthro in your life.
>They kept to themselves mostly, and you’d heard that many didn’t think a whole lot of humans.
>But that they had their reasons, and a lot of your sort didn’t blame them so much.
>Of course, there weren’t many humans who could say they actually knew one.
>Ol’ Steve had claimed he’d fucked one once, but Ol’ Steve was a much better instructor than he was a liar or braggart. 
>Leaning forward, you snare yesterday’s copy of the ship’s newspaper, The Ballonet Weekly, and thumb through it sleepily, reading around the previous morning’s coffee stains.
>Nothing special, really.
>Apparently Jim, in Engineering, had married some chick who worked in Communications.
>You didn’t know either of them, but wedding was going to be in the port side Grand Hall, up into the envelope a few decks from Gondola  #2. You figure there will probably be good and alcohol, and thus note the date for later attendance.
>Besides, you’re new here. You haven’t been aboard more than a few days, and have yet to make any friends. It would do you good to socialize.
>The privacy was nice at first, but frankly the whole affair had so far been a little lonelier than you were expecting.
>Presently you hear the snap of the door latch, and set your paper down again, careful to make it look as though you weren’t reclining nearly as much as you were.
>Conjuring your best stern expression, you look up to meet your partner’s eyes.
>Unfortunately surprise overturns the look before you can make much use of it.
>You’ll be damned.
>She’s a fucking Border Collie.
>Cute too, particularly wearing that red scarf around her neck, goggles hanging loosely in her left hand.
>Or paw, or whatever.
>You have to admit, that big suede and fleece bomber jacket looks pretty good on her too, particularly unzipped and showing the grease-stained flannel shirt she’s got on underneath.
>Of course, she’s just a kid playing dress-up.
>Nothing like you.
>She grins, perhaps a little shyly.
>You hurry up and get back to looking stern.
> “You’re late.”
>She nods sheepishly, ears wilting a little.
> “I didn’t sleep real well last night. Big day, you know.”
>You wish you didn’t, and set to pretending you don’t.
> “That’s no excuse. They depend on us to keep this balloon afloat, and that means being ready to protect her at a moment’s notice. If we fuck up, people die, goods are lost, and dreams are crushed. So when I say we meet at 0500, that ain’t a goddamn suggestion. You got that?”
>Holy shit you’d sounded so cool! Never mind you hadn’t gotten there until 5:05 yourself; she didn’t know that, and it sounded just like you knew what you were doing! 
>Which you did, right? 
>Yeah.
>Still, you can’t help feeling a little bad when her ears wilt a little further, and she swallows conspicuously.
> “I understand. I’m sorry mister, it won’t happen again.”
>She raised her chin up, looking confident again.
>Ha. She’d called you mister. That had felt pretty good. Your ego a little bolstered, you rise to greet her and extend a hand you’re suddenly glad has been properly worn and scarred during your time doing factory work.
> “Now, then...”
>She slaps her paw into your hand eagerly.
> “Whitney. Whitney Latham.”
>Shit, she’s got a pretty firm shake, even without the extra toe.
> “Anon.”
>She smiles again, showing a little bit of canine tooth this time.
> “Suppose I probably shouldn’t call you Annie, should I?”
> “Reckon not.”
> “Gotcha.”
>A big part of you expects her to ask for your pitty and enough time for breakfast, but she rocks on the heels of her boots and makes for the door again instead. She pauses there, letting you gather yourself and catch up.
> “Hangar B, right? The little blue twin engine?
>Blue? It’s painted in naval camouflage, thank you very much.
>But you stop yourself short of pressing your luck with the “I’m hardcore” game.
> “Yeah, that’s it.”
>You nod and follow her into the corridor, taking the opportunity to indulge your budding curiosity as to whether her bushy tail is routed over the waistband of or directly through her navy trousers. 
>You haven’t quite figured it out by the time you sidle beside her and take the lead.

Chapter II, Dawn Patrol
>The Echo isn’t the nicest airship you’ve ever seen, at least not once you work your way out of the corridors and into her superstructure, and it doesn’t take you long to do just that. She’s leaner than most, and that means the wood and brass trim and climate control stop a little sooner than you’re sometimes ready for. 
>Today is one of those days, evidently, as you find yourself pausing a moment before the fogged glass porthole of the door leading out from the bow quarters, and onto the narrow catwalk that runs the length of her keel.
>You’ve never been a huge fan of the keel-walk. It’s a cold, damp place, and depending on where you are, it can offer either the most awe-inspiring views, or the tightest spaces.
>You actually don’t care for either.
>As nice as the views are, you’re not sure you like dangling from narrow wires, with a tiny railing and the taught, gray skin of the envelope the only thing between you and the great, vaulted sky.
>You don’t think you’re scared of heights, but you’ve only been here a few days, and you’ve already had a dream about falling off and punching through.
>That said, it’s the fastest way to almost anywhere, and Whitney’s right on your heels.
>Besides, you’re the real deal, right?
>The guys in the moving pictures have sword fights on keel-ways. And yeah, that might be fiction, but shit, you can at least walk on one.
>Even if you sometimes have to be a little careful not to look down, or think too much about how strong the skin is or isn't.
>You open the door and step out, the narrow walkway weaving a little under your falsely-confident footfall.
>The cold is swift and thorough, even as you zip your jacket to the collar.
>You can feel its clammy tendrils working their way between the strands of fleece and the mesh of the zipper.
>You thrust your hands into your pockets and work them into the sheepskin gloves stored within.
>Advancing a few steps, you turn and wait for Whitney, whom you assume is hesitating herself.
>Turns out she isn’t giving you the pleasure.
>She's right on your heels. 
>Scarcely bothering with the handrails, she gazes up into the superstructure with a sort of wonder you don't think you've quite felt since you were about twelve.
>Another grin slides across her muzzle as she studies the ballonets and tension wires, showing a few more teeth this time. Her breath condenses in thick clouds, gathering on her whiskers as snow.
> “Big, isn't it?”
>You keep moving, stepping a little more cautiously.
> “Big? It's incredible! I could spend all day here!”
>You'd really rather not, but this is your chance to prove you know what you're talking about.
> “You see those gas bladders?”
> “Yeah, they're beautiful! And so much bigger in person!”
> “Well they ain't for show. Every day each one of them manages the flow of thousands of gallons of flammable hydrogen. Those are our life blood,--”
> “And we get to protect them,” she chirps.
> “This isn't an easy job, kid.”
>Yesterday was pretty easy, but you're certain the other shoe will drop sooner rather than later.
> “Oh, I don't reckon. Would have slept better if I had.”
> “Yeah, well just stick with me and do as I say. Keep your head, and you’ll be alright.”
>That second sentence was probably more for your own benefit than hers.
> “Can do, Cap’n.”
>Shit, now she’d called you captain. This day just keeps getting better.
>Another few minutes of careful walking bring you to the bulkhead of hangar B.
>It’s the larger of Echo’s two hangars, broad enough for twins and the wingspan they tended to bring with their extra engine. It’s longer too, such that one might land something with an approach speed in some excess of Echo’s at cruise power.
>You enter from the side into a recessed alcove, the icy morning wind whipping angrily over the runway no more than thirty feet from you, casting gusts about like breaking waves and streaking the metal walls with dew.
>The temperature drops sharply as you step in, enough to make even Whitney shiver and flip the collar of her jacket up under her scarf.
>You’d like to think you’re used to it, but it’s tough to pretend that’s so.
>It’s only the third time you’ve been out here, and, while it might not be quite so shocking anymore, the few hours you have under your belt have done nothing to take the edge off.
>Your nose burns as ice crystallizes in its lower regions and your hands set straight to shaking.
>You do your best to hide it as you stumble toward your airplane.
>She’s an Eastern-Aerodyne P-73 Cormorant, an amphibian flying boat with a broad fuselage and wings that bent like a seagull’s so her props would clear the waterline.
>A logistics airplane really, though more slippery than most. You’ve kitted her as a sort of night fighter. Hardly the cutting edge anymore, but proven by a decade of service and a good, solid war.
>Besides, you don’t have the luxury of purebreds. If someone needs something moved from A to B, you’d like to be as suited to flying it there yourself as you are to escorting it. There’s freedom in that, and you fancy yourself the vagabond type. And it hadn’t stopped Ol’ Steve painting a few silhouettes on her bow, had it?
>Of course, this was Steve who had claimed he’d fucked an anthro.
>You have your doubts, but if Whitney mentions them, you’ll think you’ll just say they were your kills and hope she doesn’t pry.
>You’ve given her a pretty good show so far, you think.
>She’ll listen to you.
>Captain.
>The very word drives the tentacles of cold away with a warm wave of validation.
>You stop short just behind the left main wing and turn to Whitney, trying to remember something Steve told you a long time ago.
> “Now remember, kid, it's always a lot better to be down and wishing you were up than up and wishing you were down. It's easy to get complacent, but before every flight--”
>She ducks out from beneath the horizontal stabilizer, keeping the elevator pinned at the top of its travel with her off hand. She cocks her head at you, looking vaguely hurt.
> “I do know how to fly, you know?”
>She ducks back under the stabilizer and runs a blunted claw along the elevator hinge.
> “Also, your pitch trim jackscrew’s rusted to shit. Will you work the trim for me real quick cap’n? Don't know about you, but I’d rather it not get stuck, myself.”
>Holy fuck, the last time you’d bothered to really look at the jackscrew had been how long ago now?
>You can't help flinching.
> “Uh, yeah. I've had my eye on it. It’s been fine, but we can check it if you want.”
> “Well, if you've had your eye on it....”
> “No, no. We should check. It'll just take a second.”
>You hurry to the cockpit and haul yourself over the window frame, leaving the canvas covering open behind you.
>Any luck and it’ll go the whole way. You don’t really want to come up with any more respectable-sounding excuses.
>Even if part of you is already pretty sure this masquerade was a greenhorn mistake all its own, and it might be better to let it die.
>But okay, maybe she does know what she’s talking about.
>She’s still in over her head, right?
>And it’s not really a masquerade. You know what you’re doing; you’re the real deal.
>She needs you, and you need her to listen to you.
>Probably.
>You flick the trim wheel, grimacing as you feel it stick toward the bottom stop.
> “Other way?”
>You flick it back, feeling it catch a little then free itself again.
>She mumbles something skeptical, her voice echoing dully behind the aluminum. You get to work testing electrical systems, maneuvering carefully to keep from scratching yourself on any of the plentiful sharp edges.
>Despite the tight quarters, you find yourself relaxing as you work. The cabin pulls you into a cramped, metallic embrace as you ease yourself into the left seat, wrapping you up in a blanket of familiar sights, sounds, and smells.
>The ragged whir of the attitude gyro behind the panel; the chug and whimper of the fuel pumps.
>The warm amber glow of the oil pressure warning light.
>The sweat, smoky flavors of leather, oil, fuel, and dew.
>Just like the very first time you’d ever climbed inside her, your eyes bright and wide as the first rays of dawn fell across that old grassy strip back home.
>But even then they’d seemed familiar. You’d dug and dug for whatever memory they’d belonged to, but never found it.
>Even if some mornings it seemed right at the tip of your tongue.
>But no matter.
>It was a warm, familiar feeling. A sense of belonging you can’t seem to find anywhere else.
>Proof that you were who you said you are, and that this was what you were meant to do.
>That you were the real deal.
>A knock on the glass brings you back to reality just as you snap the last switch on the checklist. You startle a little when you look up to find Whitney’s muzzle on the far side of the window.
> “It’s pretty sticky, but it’ll do. I’ll take care of it when we get back. Other than that, we’ve got thirty-five gallons in each tank, no water. 10 quarts of oil in the left engine, nine quarts in the right. Free movement on all other control surfaces. How’s the weather?”
>Fuck, you knew you were forgetting something.
> “Uh, come on in and we’ll go over it. Not like we’re going far.”
>She nods dutifully.
> “Just let me grab the tiedowns.”
>She drops away from the window again. You flick the radio on; it comes to life with a champagne cork pop and a crackle of static. 
>Suddenly you’re nervous.
>You’re used to talking with Jim, who runs the little observation “tower” back home.
>You’ve had beers with Jim.
>This is a real airship weather deck.
>They probably don’t have much patience for fuckups, and you don’t really want to start your day getting bitched out over the radio.
>Certainly not with Whitney there to hear.
>But you would definitely like to know just how much wind shear you should expect once you’re off the deck. It was a lot last time. Thinking back to what Steve taught you in the beginning, you conjure the most professional voice you can come up with.
> “Echo weather, Screamin’ Eagle.”
>God damn you regretted telling anyone that was your “callsign”.
>Turns out that’s not how those tend to work out here. Turns out you’re supposed to earn one, and usually for worse. 
>Like Tucker “Whirlygig” Riley, who fucked up hand proping his little biplane, got lucky, and only received a mild concussion and dose of ridicule for his trouble.
>Fortunately the radio comes to life before you can cringe any further at yourself.
> “Mornin’ Squawkin’ Bird, Echo weather...” 
>The transmission stays hot for an audible coffee-sip.
“...what can I do for yeh?”
>Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad.
> “Launch and escort brief?”
> “Mmm, well we’ve got about a two-degree skid going, and at sixty knots... ‘Gonna be about two knots of shear when you clear the hangar.”
>Another coffee slurp.
> “‘N after that, we got some thin fog outside. Reckon it burns off within the hour though. No major convection between here ‘n Norfolk. Anything else I can do for ‘yeh?”
> “Altitude?”
> “We read 6,500, with 29.78 on the barometer. About a thousand feet below freezing level.”
> “29.78. Thanks. Shall I contact launch control?”
> “Ya’ can if ye’ want, but you’re just ‘gonna get me again. Still the night shift over here.”
> “Then I’m departing Hangar B.”
> “Good hunting, mate.”
>The radio pops off half way into a protracted yawn.
>You hope he’s not serious about the “hunting” part.
>Hell, you’re still on the East Coast.
>Can’t be too much attention here, right?
>You don’t have time to dwell on it, as Whitney hauls herself over the window frame and tumbles in beside you, tail catching you across the face in the process. She doesn’t seem to notice though, and only hesitates as she works out where she’s going to stuff the thing once she sits down.
>Eventually she folds it around behind her and tucks it between the seat and the pillowed insulation along the right wall, but the narrow cabin still pinches you together at the shoulders. 
>Fortunately this isn’t your first rodeo.
> “Getting intimate”, Steve called it, and between them, you know who you’d rather be intimate with. 
>That son of a bitch must have weighed well into two hundred pounds, and he wasn’t nearly so fluffy as she was. Not to mention how much better your climb performance would be, given she couldn’t have weighed much over a hundred herself.
>You’d have thought she was used to it too, but one of her ears flicks bashfully nonetheless, and she makes a show of keeping her eyes on the panel while she fiddles with her belt.
> “You, uh, you ain’t allergic, are you cap’n?”
>Your brain trips over itself.
>You actually are allergic to dogs, come to think of it.
>Does that mean you’re allergic to anthros too? Just dog anthros? Hell if you know. 
>Either way,  you have to admit the little bit of her weight on your shoulder is more welcome than you were expecting, particularly as warm, comfortable respite from the biting cold and icy metal surrounding you. 
>Something about it feels right. Certainly a lot more right than the weight of Steve’s shoulder and respectable beer gut had.
> “Nah, I don’t think so.”
>She smiles and relaxes back into her seat. The weight on you builds up a little, no less welcome.
>Taking the warmth for what it’s worth, you fish out your startup checklist and get to work.
Battery?
>Off.
Magnetos?
>Grounded.
Mixture?
>Cutoff.
Throttle?
>Idle.
Fuel flow?
>Both tanks.
>Pausing, you look back to Whitney. She catches on quickly.
> “Crank start?”
> “Yeah.”
>She nods, unfolding the canvas covering again and standing up in her seat.
> “Also, probably ought to turn the radio off. Alternator output jumps on startup; fries ‘em sometimes.”
> Shit, she’s right. You left the radio switch on. You do as she says while she clambers up onto the wing, blunted claws scratching hollowly on the aluminum as if it were an oil drum.
>You turn back to the engine controls, but she bows her head back into the cabin again.
> “Listen, Cap’n, I want you to know I really appreciate you takin’ me on like this. I know I’m probably a little greener than you were expecting, and I sure as hell ain’t your kind. Maybe they didn’t give you a whole lot of choice, but I ain’t heard you complain about it either, and that means a lot to me. It’s my first time really doin’ this sort of thing; I’m sure they told ‘ya. An’ I don’t look like much, but if you promise to set me straight when I screw up, I swear I’ll give it hell and make sure it worth your while, alright? Anything you need from me, you holler.”
>She thrusts a paw back down toward you. You take it, feeling nice and warm inside again.
> “Anything, huh?”
>She shrugs.
> “Well, I ain’t ‘gunna promise you won’t have to teach me whatever it is, but I will promise I’ll learn.”
>You shake firmly.
> “You’ve got a deal, kid.”
> “Thanks, Cap’n.”
>She turns away again, face so bright you could swear she has an aura about her. You catch her hugging herself out of the corner of your eye, feet shuffling a bit of a jig on the wing root. Then comes the sound of the left starter winding. You drop a hand to the throttle knob and flip your checklist back open.
Mixture?
>Rich.
Throttle?
>Open.
Battery?
>On.
Primer?
>Actually, it’s shit. Better to stroke the throttle a few times and leave it a little shy of idle.
Mixture?
>Back to cutoff.
>You drop your other hand to the left magneto and wait for Whitney’s call. Finally the cranking stops.
> “Contaaaaact!”
> “Contact!”
>You flick the magneto just as the prop lurches into motion, the airframe shuddering and shimmying under the weight.
>You advance the mixture steadily as it tumbles. It coughs once, then barks and clatters.
>Come on, don’t fuck this up in front of Whitney. Not after that speech she just gave you. Bump the throttle in a little, keep advancing the mix.
>Bark, pop, clatter.
>Bark, clatter.
>Bark, clatter.
>Bark, clatter.
>Bark, clatter.
>Bark, clatter.
>Bark, clatter.
>Bark, clatter, belch, roar!
>The prop slaps the air like a belt and settles into a deep, pulsing whir punctuated by the bang and tumble of the engine as it fires and misses.
>Presently Whitney crosses overhead and onto the right wing. As she does you verify that her tail is in fact routed under and through the beltline of her trousers.
>Of course, what you really should have been checking was the oil pressure.
>Fortunately it’s still under the green ark and building steadily.
>You back the throttle out a little as she starts winding again. She’s done by the time you finish priming the other engine.
> “Kawn-taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaact!”
>You actually manage to hear her belt it over the racket. You draw all the breath you can to reply.
> “Con-Tact!”
>Magneto, throttle, mix.
>The same song and dance.
>You manage not to fuck it up, and as the second prop settles into a rhythmic thrum Whitney drops in beside you again, the white patches of her fur stained gray with carbon and smelling freshly of exhaust.
>It’s still just as soft when she brushes against you as she goes about closing the canvas up again.
>You do your best to ignore it, and make a show out of waiting on the oil pressure gauges to edge into their green arcs while she settles and snaps herself back in, ears folded awkwardly against the noise.
>She fiddles with wires a moment, then jams a probe into each of them and ducks into a metallic headband that presents her muzzle with a microphone.
> “You read me, Cap’n?”
>The intercom squelches the dimension out of most anyone’s voice, but somehow you can still hear the eagerness and optimism in hers.
> “I read you loud and clear, kid. You?”
>“Loud ‘n Clear! How’s the weather?”
>You rattle it off for her.
> “Got a brief for me?”
> “Know how to handle a radio?”
> “Sure thing, Cap.”
> “Then I want you on that, and keepin’ your eyes peeled for traffic ‘n bogeys.”
> “Can do!”
>Suddenly you think back to what the weather guy said.
>Good Hunting.
>You flinch, but do your best to sound nonchalant.
> “Hey, Whitney?”
> “Yeah?”
> “You know how to shoot?”
> “Rifles, yeah. Brother and I used to have contests back in the day; I always won.”
> “How about an M2 Browning?”
>You indicate over your shoulder to the open-air turret behind the wing. She glances behind her and then back, eyebrow perhaps a little raised. You hear her hesitate.
> “Uh, yeah; I think I can do that.”
> “Yeah, but can you?”
>She nods, a little more confidently this time.
> “I can do it.”
> “Good.”
>You glance around one last time, then edge the throttle forward.
>The rumble of the props and engines smooth, and the wheels lurch into motion. With a tap of the toe you stop just shy of the launch bay.
>The second you pull out there you’ll be hit by the sixty knot winds tearing through the channel.
>Turn to shallow, and you’ll get pulled right around. Maybe the wind gets under the wing and flips you.
>Too fast and you might blunder into the far wall.
>But you’ve done this before. Once before.
>Yoke back in your lap, so the elevator’s pinning your tail into the floor.
>Ailerons banked in the direction of the wind.
>Hand steady on the throttle balls.
>Now do it quick and smooth.
>And whatever you do, don’t fuck up.
>You push the throttles in. The wheels bump over the threshold and the wind strikes the canopy  with a turbulent rush. You feel yourself yaw away, and then back again as the wind starts to catch your vertical stabilizer.
>Hard on the rudder! Advance the throttle!
>The rudder swings around and comes into line, and immediately you feel the airplane rock up off one of the mains. Shit! Fix it with the aileron, and a little dose of rudder!
>More throttle! Yoke forward! 
>You jam the vertical stabilizer up into the wind and things stabilize a little. For the moment you’re treading water, stationary in the bay despite the howling wind and chugging engines, a bright patch of sky beckoning to you from the far threshold as you dance back and forth in the pedals.
>You push the balls to the wall. The props slap and roar, and the hangar starts to edge by.
>Then it rolls.
>Then it races.
>The sky rushes forth to meet you and the landing gear give one last jolt as you cross the threshold and fall away.
>A sinking feeling churns in your gut as you claw for the last few knots you need to fly, wings shuddering with stall buffet and feet flailing on the rudder to keep the wings level.
>Don’t touch the aileron.
>No matter how much you feel the wing dip, you stick to the rudder.
>Touch the aileron and you’ll spin.
>Spin, and you’ll die.
>Just a few more knots.
>It’s over as quickly as it started, and then you’re climbing away, coasting up the expanse of Echo’s flank with the weathered silver skin so close you could almost run your hand along it. As your adrenaline recedes, you notice Whitney trailing off of a protracted cheer.
>She’s white-knuckling the handrail on her right and has her left paw pinned on your thigh, but she’s grinning like a fucking psychotic.
> “Anon, that was incredible!”
> “Always is.”
>At least it was last time, and you doubt you’re ever going to quite get used to doing that.
>Finally you settle back again as you crest the dorsal structure and level out, watching the morning dew slide off the windows in lazy streaks and paying a quick wave to the upper observation dome as you drift by it.
>The fog is gone within the hour, and in its place the crisp autumn morning spreads like the pages of a children’s book, sky sharp and clear save for tall billows of icy-looking cumulus so perfect and fluffy they almost seem painted.
>The cold dulls behind the dry, desert air spouting from the heater manifolds, and as it wraps around you, you feel yourself relax the rest of the way.
>Whitney settles against you, or maybe you settle against her, and the two of you watch the fields, forest, and coastline of North Carolina drift by as if you were watching a moving picture.
>The farms glow gold with wheat, or green with corn and tobacco.
>The waves gleam like jewels as the shallow morning light breaks over their crests, and the sand catches alight and shines with the intensity of the sun itself.
>Deciduous forests paint the land in broad swatches of of copper and honey.
>Almost as if the world was build just for today.
>Just to remind you why you were here, and why you’d bothered with any of it.
>And probably why she was next to you.
>You turn to her, finding the idiotic grin gone and a soft, happy smile in its place.
> “Hey, kid?”
> “Somethin’ I can do for ya, cap’n?”
>You shake your head.
> “How long have you wanted to do this sort of thing?”
>She snorts, kicking back a little further into the leather of the chair.
> “Shit, I ‘dunno. Forever? Grew up on an airstrip. Dad was a racer; guess sometimes he still is. Can’t think of much any other way I could’a turned out. Don’t see much point in thinkin’ about it either, ya’ know?”
> “Yeah. Yeah, I get that. How long you been flying?”.
>Her eyes roll back a little and she taps a few calculations on her thigh.
> “Uh, maybe twelve years? Give or take one? Depends on if you count dad’s lap as flying proper; couldn’t reach the pedals m’self.
>Shit, that’s more than twice as long as you.
>Maybe she was a kid for most of it, but still.
>You can’t help a little jealousy, particularly at that last bit. You’d never even known your father, and only barely knew your mother.
>Something had happened. You never could get anyone to give you the details, but whatever it was, it was grim business. Your uncle had raised you.
>He was a good enough guy. Took care of you. Even tried to be a father sometimes. He didn’t really have the money to support the both of you though, and certainly he hadn’t the time. You felt like a leech taking what little he did have, and by the time you were ten you found yourself wishing he’d just go out in the evenings like he used to before he had you to deal with.
>Eventually you’d told him that, and the both of you were probably better off for it, but in the end you’d really raised yourself on books, model airplanes, and the bb gun he scraped to get you for christmas that one year. 
>But hell, that’d gotten you here same as her, hadn’t it? And she was calling you Captain. Now, so long as she doesn’t ask....
> “What about you, Cap’n?”
>Shit, that was too much to hope for, wasn’t it?
>Well, probably no use lying straight out. 
> “Five years.”
>She chuckles.
> “Well I can’t be that much greener ‘n you, huh? Unless you’re one of those guys who grabbed an airplane and jumped in blind, but you don’t fly like it.”
> “Yeah, well so what if I ain’t?”
>She shrugs.
> “Fair’s fair, Cap’n. She’s your ship, ‘n you fly her just fine. I’m just some kid who got to fly a lot. I reckon I do that pretty good; doesn’t mean I know my tail from a rattlesnake’s ass doing much of anything else. Certainly not making any sort of money at it. I trust you.
>You nod and settle in again, rolling into a shallow bank to bring you across Echo’s flank again.
>As the morning wears on the beaches sprout kites like mustard weed and chains of iridescent motor cars take to the roads. 
>Here and there the green swath of an aerodrome drifts by, smart little aeroplanes flitting about it like songbirds 
>You and Whitney speak sporadically, sometimes by her initiation and sometimes by yours.
>Evidently she likes a little cream in her coffee, and used to play baseball way back when.
>Her brother runs a shrimp boat, and knows how to cook the fuckers just right too.
>She’s still a better shot than he is, though.
>She thinks your country is beautiful, and your airplane too.
>And maybe she is just a little homesick, but she’ll get over it, you know?
>You tell her a little yourself, too.
>About the model airplanes and the bb gun, and that you like your coffee black.
>About your uncle, though you pass it off like it’s nothing.
>How shrimp is a stupid fish, and inferior in every way to baked eel.
>And you’re not such a bad shot yourself, and maybe you’ll have to show her how it’s done sometime.
>She doesn’t stop calling you “Cap’n”, and it doesn’t stop giving you that warm feeling.
>On the top of the fifth hour your shift is almost up, which is good because your fuel’s getting there too, and you’re about done with the cramp building in your leg.
>It’s about noon now. The sun hangs high overhead and casts Echo into a two tone pattern of light and shade not unlike a shark’s. 
>There’s still a chill in the air, but the light through the windows has been gathering on your lap for hours now, and it’s almost enough to make you sweat.
>Even Whitney, as in her element as she’s seemed the last few hours, has started inventing novel ways to stretch various muscles despite the confines of the cabin.
>She glances over to you, whiskers drooping a little and eyes squinted against the glare.
> “The shifts always this long?”
> “They break it up a little more when they get out over the water, or in more dangerous areas. Keep more airplanes aloft too. Here though, yeah. Five hours, one at a time, mostly.”
>Eying the idyllic tidewater marshes passing beneath you, she cocks her head.
> “Why do you figure they even bother with escorts around here? This is your home base; what could happen?”
>You hadn’t really questioned it. You shrug.
> “Maybe it’s just for practice, or they want to see how we’ll work together or some shit.”
> “I heard we’re dealing with some pretty exotic cargo, but I can’t get shit from anyone about what. Think that might be why?”
>You shake your head skeptically.
> “A lot of fiction and falsehood circulates aboard an airship. Big fish stories, mostly. Some people swear they saw fucking air whales. I wouldn’t take anything you hear in there as fact.”
> “They still haven’t told us where we’re going after Norfolk though. Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
> “I ‘dunno. Maybe.”
> “But you don’t think anything’s really going to happen, right?”
>There’s actually some anxiety in her voice. You can tell she must have been thinking about it for awhile. It takes you back to that morning again.
>Good hunting.
>You dismiss the foreboding in your gut with a firm swallow and a shake of your head.
> “Nah, Kid. We’ll be fine. Most voyages they go the whole way without engaging anyone; it’s just those aren’t usually the ones you hear about.”
>She raises a nervous eyebrow.
> “That what the browning’s for? Nothing?”
> “Better to be prepared if something does. You signed up to escort, same as me. What’d you think it was, a flying club?”
> “Yeah, I know, it’s just that it all seems so perfect. Like nothing could ever go wrong, you know? But then it gets quiet, and you start thinking about why you’re really there. That it might really... happen. But I suppose if it does, it does, right? That’s what we’re here for. Kick the asses of any sorry motherfuckers stupid enough to come for Echo, right?”
>Though she’s forcing it, you can feel a little genuine bravado in the depths of her voice.
> “Yeah. That’s why we’re here. And she may not look like much, but Echo’s bristling with guns. Any chucklefucks come around, and we’ll be competing for kills to paint on our hulls.
> “Hah, yeah.”
> “Yeah.”
> “...can I ask you somethin’ Cap’n?”
>Your stomach tightens up a little. You don’t really like to dwell on this kind of shit.
> “Yeah?”
> “You ever shoot someone down?”
> “No.”
> “Ever been shot at?”
> “Once.”
> “Yeah, well I ain’t done either.”
> “First time for everything, ain’t there?”
> “Reckon so.”
>The grim interlude fades, and her smile comes back as you peel off and settle onto approach for the hangar, Echo looming overhead like a sky all her own and prodding you with jolts of wake turbulence. 
>You sigh a tired sort of sigh, realizing in the process that your sinuses in fact are a bit stopped up.


Chapter III, The White Zone is for Loading and Unloading Only

>It’s late afternoon, and the sun stoops low over the Grand Norfolk Aerodrome, staining the fresh-cut grass a dry, dusty yellow.
>You've been back for hours now, the bulk of them spent wrenching on your airplane. The jackscrew had turned out to be the tip of the iceberg.
>She’d said it would be easy. Loosen up the tension on the wire, hold the crank in place, lubricate the screw a bit, crank it down where it ought to be, tighten everything back up. It sure sounded easy.
>Only somewhere along the line the turnbuckle on the cable managed to work its way onto the wrong side of the aft bulkhead, and the two of you had spent the better part of four hours and your collective vulgarity vocabularies unfucking it.
>Turns out anthros have a library of curses all their own. Your favorite so far is “flea breedin’”, which seems to be an approximation of “motherfucking”, but with a visual you like a little better.
>But you'd finally gotten that squared away about an hour ago, and even managed to sneak a shower while Whitney was moving herself in.
>You share a cabin now, evidently, which is great, because you're pretty sure you're allergic.
>One way or another, she's made short work of what little there is of the narrow, gray-walled room.

>You weren’t a huge fan at first, but you have to admit her handiwork brings a lot of life to the place.
>Pictures and postcards clutter her side like a scrapbook page, beating back the cold, dull iron and pinning it behind a net of colorful paper and cellophane tape. 
>A little brass spyglass sits on the end table under the porthole window, and from the ceiling a trio of paper airplanes sway from lengths of fishing line.
>A pair of flashy posters hang over her cot, crowning the rest of the collage:
>One looks to be a record cover of some kind, and features a rough-looking coyote leaning in the shade of his stetson hat, six-gun on his hip and a notch out of an ear.
>Josey Robins, it reads
>You’re about fifty percent sure you’ve come across that name, but not a lot of anthro music makes it across the wilderness and ocean that separate the Eastern Union from the place they call Avalon.
>The second is a travel poster for somewhere called Tora Renaki. It’s drawn in blocky Art Deco, and depicts a modest city built up around a cove of warm-looking water.
>You’ve never heard of it.
>The cot itself is spread with an old, but brightly colored quilt decorated with images of seabirds and sailing ships, and atop it a leather-bound journal sits open beneath the weight of a slender pen.
>You’d never really been the kind to snoop, but the longer you listen to the shower run, the more your eyes wander to the pages.

>Her handwriting is fast, and just a little better than sloppy. You can’t make out much from where you are, but you think you recognize your name somewhere on the left page. The right seems to have something drawn in it, but before you can work out what, you’re startled back to reality as she snaps the cover shut.
> “How’s about you mind your own fuckin’ business, huh, Cap’n?”
>Her words are backed by an uneasy glare that’s somehow a little effective, even though she’s dripping wet and wearing nothing but a towel. 
> “Sorry.”
> “Bullshit y’are. Now are you ‘gunna look away, or are you meanin’ to watch me change too?”
>It honestly hadn’t occurred to you, but the way she says it makes you feel like a fucking degenerate anyway. You obey as casually as you can.
>Her towel drops to the floor with a muted thud, but before you can come up with anything witty to say, a set of zippers sound and she taps you on the shoulder.
> “Thanks, Cap’n.”
>You turn back to find her wearing a pair of faded jeans and another flannel shirt. It’s red this time, and missing the grease and oil stains that decorate the one she’d worn flying. She’s rolled the sleeves to her elbows and left the collar and top button undone, revealing quite a bit more fur.
>You don’t have the balls to try and touch her, but fresh out of the shower it looks almost profoundly soft, and smells faintly of the ocean.
>You notice a few other things too.
>A silver chain dangles around her neck where the bandanna was, bearing a spent rifle casing and a wooden charm carved in the shape of an eagle.
>Around her left wrist a chrome-rimmed watch ticks quietly.
>Also her chest. You definitely notice her chest. Nothing unusual, but quite a bit shaplier without the heavy jacket.
>You set right to pretending nothing caught your attention, which she makes a little easier on you by flopping noisily into her bunk and cupping her head in her paws. She seems to consider something on the ceiling, then glances over to you.
> “Hey, I didn’t mean to get snippy right then. It’s just that I ain’t ever had to share a room before is all.”
>Fucking rich kids. Back in the factory you’d slept four to a barrack.
> “You’ll get used to it.”
> “Yeah, well I might need a few pointers here and there.”
> “Like what?”
>Her whiskers quiver uneasily.
> “Well, like how the fuck do you get dressed in the morning?”
> “Get over yourself and don’t stare.”
>She grimaces. 
> “I’ll make it work. I knew what I was signing up for. It's just weird not having my own space, especially if I’m sharing it with, you know, a human.”
>That actually stings a little.
> “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
>You meant to come off annoyed, but you’re pretty sure you sounded more than a little hurt in spite of yourself. She flicks an ear nervously.
> “It’s nothing. I- I didn’t mean that.”
> “Yeah? Well, your rack is your own space.”
>She nods and retrieves the journal, making furtive corrections to keep the pages out of your line of sight. Now and again she glances up like a nervous meerkat.
> “Hey kid, you know this is an even deal, right? I ain't here to spy on you any more than you are on me.”
> “Yeah, I get’cha..., wait, I ain’t intruding, am I? You, uh, you don't mind the pictures 'n shit I put up, right?”
>You shake your head. She seems to relax, though she gives the album cover a glance that suggests it embarrasses her a little.
>The silence gets awkward fast. You can tell she's keeping an eye on you, and her latent discomfort isn't doing your own any good. You actually find yourself missing the jackscrew work, and the easy camaraderie that came from the two of you cursing at the airplane together.
>It doesn't help that she's who she is, either.
>The guys you’d shared the factory barrack with were just work buddies. Good for drinking and playing cards with, but you didn't really give a damn what they thought of you.
>This doesn't feel quite like that. You need her to trust you, and trust you even though she's  technically more experienced on the stick than you are. 
>Even though you’re a “human”, like she said.
>You’re going to spend hours and hours cooped up with her in that little cockpit, and at any point it might become a foxhole you share in a fight for your lives.
>That's not a job for a work buddy. That's a job for a brother in arms.
>And besides, while you can’t quite put your finger on why, you had a pretty good time with her today.
>Even with all the jackscrew fuckery.
>You feel a little more confident with her around, and find you catch passing glimpses in yourself of the sort of man you think you ought to be. 
>A little of what you imagined you'd feel when you became the real deal.
>And you feel like you're in it together. 
>Like if things really went south, it'd be her you back up against rather than a cold, solid wall.
>All this from a five hour flight. You didn't have a reason really, but you felt those things and you want to keep feeling them.
>You've got to break the ice again.
>Should you ask her what she's working on?
>Probably not.

> “You know, I didn’t take you to be the shy sort.”
>Her whiskers relax again and she hauls herself up to sitting, back propped against the wall. She flips the journal over and sets it over a knee.
> “I ain’t, normally.”
> “Something to do with my being a filthy human?”
>She shakes her head.
> “Forget it, okay? I shouldn’t have said that. What I said on the wing stands: I appreciate you taking me on.”
> “Even if you’ve been flying longer?”
>She considers that a moment, then cocks her head skeptically and raises a sharp white eyebrow.
> “This some kind of a test or somethin’?”
> “No test.”
> “Good. Then I told ‘ya: She’s your airplane, and that’s fair.”
> “Then what’s the matter?”
> “Nothin’.”
> “Bullshit. You weren’t like this in the airplane.”
>She sighs and stands again, making her way to the porthole and leaning on the table there. She seems to study the advancing dusk for answers.
> “I don’t know. It’s just..., I’ve got a real weird feeling about this whole operation, don’t you?”
>You hadn’t, but the tone of her voice is giving you one.
> “...I mean, we’ve been here how long? I don’t see a single truck or parcel of cargo out there, Cap’n. Not one. And they still ain’t told us where we’re going.”
> “They’re probably just hung up on something administrative. What makes you think that ain’t normal anyway?”
> “Hung up on every piece of cargo from every supplier? I’ve seen airships load, Anon. My brother and I used to bike out ot the aerodrome and see them off. It ain’t like this, at least not back in Avalon.”
>She pauses and scans the field again.
> “N’ not telling your escort pilots where you’re going? That’s just crazy. How are we supposed to know what to expect? What weather, let alone what opposition?”
> “I ‘dunno. Reckon they'll tell us once we're underway. Relax.”
>You wish you were half as certain of that as you'd managed to sound. You'd been telling yourself you just didn't know the ropes whenever something struck you off, but you had to admit it was getting hard to keep believing that.
>Whitney rocks on her heels and flops back into her cot.
> “It doesn't strike you odd at all? Really? Shit, Cap’n, I swear this place even smells off.”
>She draws a sleek, silver flask from a bag left at the head of her bunk, and in a slow, single motion pops the top, takes a gulp from it, and screws it shut again. A shiver runs up from the base of her tail and makes her ears and whiskers droop a little. 
>She reaches it to you then, as if to shake your hand. The bittersweet bite of scotch whiskey washes through the room like a draft.
> “To sketchy first times?”

>You almost second guess yourself, but it’s been awhile since you’ve had anything to drink.
>And the two of you need to trust each other.
>And the more she goes on about the cargo, the more your nerves could use it.
>Besides, this is the beginning of your very first voyage.
>It’s supposed to be good luck or something, right?

> “To sketchy first times.”
>You take a swig and hand it back to her. She smiles weakly as she takes it.
> “...and maybe a little adventure,” she adds.
> “And maybe a little adventure.”
>You settle back against the wall as the gust of warmth from the liquor works its way up from your stomach and into your scalp. Whitney flops onto her back and shuts her eyes.
> “Wake me for supper, won’t ‘cha Cap’n?”
> “Yeah.”
>Setting your watch for seven o’clock, you slump over onto your side. Your cot creaks beneath your shifting weight and settles with a taught, belt-like snap.
>Not nearly as comfy as what you had when you were staying in the guest house at Ol’ Steve’s, but a damn sight better than the factory bunkhouse.
>Especially with Whitney around.
>As much as her drawing your attention to it doesn’t help, you can’t help thinking the weird, anxious feeling in the base of your heart would be scarier if she wasn’t there.
>You like your privacy, but you have to admit that it feels good having someone in the other bunk right about now.


Chapter IV, There is No Stopping in the Red Zone

> “Hey, Anon.”
>You’re jolted out of an unpleasant dream about the asshole emu your uncle had kept back in the day by a frantic shake to the shoulder. Your consciousness skips a few beats as it spins back up, the little jolts of logic suggesting it was the emu that had you at first, and then that it was Whitney, but that she was trying to get you to run from the emu. Then something about a big fuckoff fire and some guy shouting about humanity or something.
>Once your waking mind finishes piecing itself back together, you find yourself face-to-face with Whitney, who is leaning over you.
>She’s looks more than a little distressed.
> “Anon!”
>She slugs you this time. It actually hurts a bit, too.
>Clasping a hand over your new bruise, you haul yourself up on an elbow.
> “The hell? We under attack?”
> “I don’t know.”
>It doesn’t feel or sound like you’re getting shot at, but there’s no mistaking her breathless tone or the look on her face.
> “Well what the fuck is it?”
> “We’re locked in. Something’s going on, and they locked us the fuck in!”
>Her voice runs back and forth between anger and fear, passing across the notes in between like xylophone keys. It’s enough to trigger a shot of adrenaline, and you’re on your feet in short order.
> “You sure, Kid?”
> “Yeah I’m fucking sure!”
>She waves you to the door, a wild gleam edging into her big, brown eyes.
> “...I was just ‘gonna go for a walk, and--”
>She reaches for the handle and shakes it: angrily at first, then frantically. It doesn’t so much as jiggle.
>She pries her hand away and stalks to the window instead. You follow, quickening your step as she waves for you again.
> “Look.”
> Night has fallen thickly beneath a cover of overcast and a light, misting rain, but the grass below stands out harshly in the milky wash of floodlights.
>In the islands of light people scurry like gerbils, shuffling bulky packages about the loading equipment.
>Many carry slender rifles at low ready.
> “Finally loading, huh?”
> “Yeah, with armed guards.”
> “So? We're armed guards too, you know.”
>She swears, teeth clicking together a little between syllables.
> “Then we ought to be out there and not locked in our bunkrooms. Maybe it’s my first time, but any idiot could tell you this isn’t normal. Anon, we have got to get out of here.”
>She breaks away from the window and paces, steps flashing between anger and fear as her voice does. Her tail switches like a cat’s, and while you aren’t sure, you think she might be shaking a little.
>Your heart is moving at a pretty good clip now too, and you can feel the adrenaline leaking through your stomach lining and souring it. You dig up your best brave face and contort your muscles to fit it. The next time she passes, you snare her paw in your hand. 
>She whirls in surprise. For a second you swear she’s about to deck you, but she stops herself.
>Teeth half bared, she stares you down like a wild animal.
>You’re not sure if it’s a predator she’s seeing, or prey.
>Her paw shakes like a frightened mouse in your palm. You squeeze until the shaking stops.

> “Kid, look at me.”
>She’s looking at you harder than you can remember anyone ever looking at you, but it seemed like the thing to say.
> “Take it easy, okay? So maybe it’s true what you heard about the cargo; I’m sure they’re just being cautious. They wouldn’t have hired pilots if they meant to lock them up and systematically murder them the first day. I promise.
>She sighs and almost seems to settle, then shakes her head and wrenches her paw free.
> “I ain’t waiting to find out.”
>She turns and sets to rooting through the bag again. You follow her.
> “Whitney--”
> “I said I ain’t waitin’!”
>She turns back again, this time drawing a heavy, chrome revolver. Thumbing the hammer, she levels it at the door handle.
> “Might want to plug your ears, Cap’n.”
> “Whitney!”
> “We’re getting the hell out of here.”
> “Wait!”
>She looks at you quizzically, keeping her pistol trained.
> “Take it easy. We’ll figure this out. If shit’s really that bad, we’re going to need a better plan than blowing the door off anyway.”
> “Well why do you figure they did it, huh? Fucking laughs? This would never happen on an Avalonian airship.”
> “Echo isn’t an Avalonian airship. I don’t like it either, Kid, but I’m telling you this is security or something. So it’s valuable cargo; so what? Reckon they payed what they did for a reason. They didn’t hire us to ask questions, and I ain’t ready to go to war with them over it.” 
> “So they lock us up? That ain’t something you can just do. That is not fucking okay! This would never stand--”
> “...in Avalon?”
> “Yeah.”
>She trails off into a low growl, then stifles it.
> “They didn’t even tell us....”
> “We were sleeping. You don’t know that.”
>Sighing, she eases the hammer back down and falls back onto her bed. You give the matter a few seconds deliberation, then sit beside her.
>She’s definitely still shaking, but her anger seems to have collapsed a little.
> “I need to get out of here,” she whimpers.
>If she’d been trying to hide the fear in her voice, it betrayed her. Gingerly you take her paw again.
>She swallows and shakes her head.
> “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Forget it.”
>She pulls back the paw you took and clasps it uneasily in her other.
> “Just wish I knew what the hell was going on.”
>You consider shifting closer to her, but think better of it.
> “We’ll do some digging, I promise. Can we give it until supper before making air pirates of ourselves?”
> “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”
>She settles back against the wall.
> “Sorry about that. I said I’d trust you. I will. This whole situation just really folds my fur against the grain, you know?”
>You’re not quite sure what it feels like to have one’s fur rubbed against the grain, but you hope it isn’t as bad as she makes it out to be. You consider setting a hand on her shoulder, but stop yourself again.
> “If it makes you feel any better, remember if this goes south we’ve got a ticket out. We get out of that launch bay and there’s no chance in hell they could catch us, and if we have to fight our way there, we will.”
>It definitely makes you feel a little better, and better yet to tell her. She cocks her head uneasily.
> “You promise?”
> “I’ve got your back, Kid. We’ll figure it out.”
> “Yeah? Well then I've got yours.”
>She shuts her eyes and blinks away what you're almost certain is a tear.

>You’re all but asleep again when the ship’s phone chimes the dinner hour. Your vision sharpens mechanically, and you find you’ve slumped onto Whitney’s shoulder. FOrtunately her weight suggests she’s answered in kind.
>You can’t tell if she’s sleeping. Her breath is slow and doesn’t seem so agitated, but she isn’t limp either.
>In the corner of your eye you make out her pistol sitting in her lap.
> “Hey, Whitney.”
>Her ears lift a little, then spring half-erect.  Some of her weight leaves your shoulder, but she doesn’t move much. Her right paw slides up to the gun like some sort of tree snake.
> “We’re alright.”
>The paw drops again and you feel the rest of her weight shift away. She rubs an eye with the back of the other paw and hauls herself up, slipping the gun into a leather holster on her hip.
>You follow, snagging your inner jacket from your rack and leaving it unfastened.
>She stops in front of the door and looks you up and down.
> “Got a gun, don’t you Cap’n?”
> “I said I ain’t goin’ to war.”
>She eyes you skeptically.
> “I smell the powder, anon. It’s right...”
>She waves her paw like a divining rod, then strikes you in the chest. Her toenail blunts against the metal frame of your handgun.
> “...here.”
>She nods approvingly.
> “Sneaky. Any luck and we won’t need them, huh?”
> “We won’t.”
>The door opens without a hitch.

>Fortunately for you, the trek from your cabin to Echo’s starboard crew mess doesn’t involve any keelway-strolling.
>The corridors over the midship gondola are tight but furnished. Wood trim covers the cold, hollowed aluminum, and a busily patterned carpet gives comfortably under foot. Narrow walls and frequent passages imply some complication, but Echo isn’t actually difficult to navigate. You only find yourself checking signs on occasion, and a few minutes’ walk brings you to the door.

>The starboard mess beats the shit out of the chow-hall back at the factory.
>The air smells thickly of steak and bread, and across each table spreads a smart, white cloth, corners neat and surface flickering warmly in the modest glow of electric lights. Modernist paintings and old photographs decorate the walls, and in the far corner a player piano chirps a delicate, noncommittal tune.
>The scene repeats itself in the glass of the observation windows forming the far wall, and behind the reflections spread the white, green, and red beacons of boats motoring about Norfolk harbor. 
>Already the room echos with the pleasant din of conversation, the tumbling voices washing gently beneath the strains of piano.
>The further you press into the room, the more it seems to put you at ease. You’re not sure that’s the best idea, but you can’t deny a big part of you wants it, and they’re certainly making it easy.
>By the time you pick a table under the window, you’ve all but forgotten about your imprisonment.
>Instead, you find yourself realizing you’ve literally never dined in a formal setting. A sense of pride follows, succeeded promptly by a prom-date sort of dread.
>You sneak a glance at Whitney as she takes her seat opposite you. To your dismay she seems rather at home, her fur in order and ears at ease. Fucking rich kids.
>She tugs her napkin from the table and spreads it neatly in her lap. Hastily you copy her, hoping to god it isn’t one of those things only women are supposed to do, or some shit like that. She doesn’t laugh at you though, and a few glances at the other diners suggest you made the right call. 
>She is smirking at you a little, but a smartly-dressed waiter interrupts you before you can make any excuses for your ignorance.

> “Mr. Anon? Dinner’s on Stratiform Ltd. tonight. We’d like to thank you for supporting our operation.”
>You hadn’t actually bothered to note the the name of the company that had hired you. You’d started at the bottom line, and hadn’t looked much past the extra zero in the pay offer. You flip through an imaginary rolodex for meals you understand to be somewhat fancy. 
> “Uh, Ribeye.”
>Shit, he’s still looking at you.
> “...and a beer.”
>Whitney’s smirk broadens. He turns to her.
> “Miss Latham?”
> “Duck, and... a sauvignon blanc.”
>She smiles sweetly. The waiter nods and moves on. She’s smirking even harder by the time she looks back to you.
> “A beer, huh Anon?”
> “I like beer.”
>She shoots you a look that asks if you’re serious.
> “Well what would you have me order?”
> “Wine. Maybe a scotch. Come on, Cap’n, if we’re going to figure out what the hell they’re up to, we ought to blend in, don’cha think?”
>Oh yeah, that. You’d actually forgotten for a minute. A pleasant minute.
> “...Speaking of, didn’t it strike you a bit odd he knew our names?”
>It actually had sent a bit of a chill down your spine, but you’d rationalized it away.
> “Not like there’s that many escort pilots. If it was nefarious, they wouldn’t let on that they knew.” 
>She flashes her teeth bitterly.
> “Wouldn’t lock us in our rooms either.”
> “Give it a rest, will you? It’s just security. We’re probably moving gold or some shit; you saw the size of the paycheck.”
> “But we’re going to find out for sure, right?”
> “Yeah, yeah.”
>She considers that, rearranging a few nervously scattered whiskers.
> “I mean, I don’t know I buy this spread either. Going to enjoy it, but I don’t know I buy this ‘on the company’ shit.”
> “It’s the first evening of the voyage. It’s like, tradition, you know?”
>You’re pretty sure you read that somewhere.
>Her eyes narrow.
> “It’s Avalonian tradition. Like you said, Echo ain’t an Avalonian airship.”
> “Maybe they just like Avalonian tradition. I’ve met people who were pretty into that shit. Of course most of ‘em have never met one of you. But hell, you ever consider that maybe it's just a coincidence? They did lock us in our rooms; I’d say they owed us.”
>She flinches when you mention the room again, but the waiter interrupts you with your drinks before she can start ranting. Hurriedly she slots the stem of her glass between her toes and takes a generous, but elegant sip.
>Your beer is pretty lame, but it’ll do.
>The food follows shortly. You take furtive, but careful note of what utensils she uses for what, and do your best to match. She’s not the most elegant eater though, and bits of the Whitney that drinks from a flask and carries a revolver show through the veneer of refinement she’s affected.
>Relaxing a little, you discover the ribeye is in fact fucking awesome.
>One of the best meals you’ve ever had, actually.
>Hopefully that’s a good sign. You really want it to be a good sign. You like it here. The pay is incredible. The food is great. You’ve wanted to do this for most of your life, and it ought to be the best decision you’ve ever made.
>Finishing a particularly juicy bite, you look Whitney in the eye. Any luck and you can change the subject before she goes back to talking doom.
> “So where’d you get that pistol?”
>Her ears fold sheepishly.
> “Dad gave it to me,” she admits.
> “Why a wheelgun? I heard you guys have all kinds of shit over there.”
>Now she looks outright embarrassed.
> “I won’t kid you with excuses. You saw the poster. You know why I like revolvers.”
> “Josey Robins?”
>You return the smirk you reckon you’ve been owing her.
> “Hey, I grew up listening to him. It’s not my fault I was in love with him for a few awkward teenage years. I have all his records and saw all his movies, and I fell in love with the aesthetic. Cylinder gap be damned.”
> “You guys don’t even have a wild west.”
> “Some of us like yours, okay?”
>A strained tone in her last syllable begs you to stop pressing. As fun as it is, you back off.
> “Well, it’s a nice one.”
>She snorts.
> “You’re damn right it is.”
>She’s clearly sizing you up for something to call out in revenge, but somewhere a speaker crackles to life before she can. An uneasy silence settles on the room.

> “Captain Walker speaking.”
>The voice scratches over the intercom with a casual confidence that’s very difficult to ignore; you’re not sure if it makes you feel better or worse.
> “On behalf of the Stratiform corporation, and on behalf of her permanent shipboard crew, I would like to officially welcome you aboard the Echo.” 
>There’s something vaguely peculiar about his accent, but you can’t place it.
> “As you may have heard, we are transporting very sensitive cargo. I apologize for any alarm the lockdown may have caused, but it is imperative that it remains secure.”
>You give Whitney an I-told-you-so look, but she isn’t having it.
> “I cannot disclose our route or destination at this time, but, while we’ve conducted our operation as quietly as possible, it’s very likely we’ll meet resistance. I’ll repeat: the security of our payload is of the utmost importance. I wish I could tell you how much rides on its safe arrival, but I want you to know that no matter how many figures Stratiform ltd. pays you all for this, I consider your support a personal favor.”
>A little shot of fear flashes across Whitney’s face, but she buries it so fast you barely notice. Any luck and you did half as good a job of the same.
> “Thank you for protecting my beautiful airship; I wish you all the best for the coming voyage. Unfortunately I do have to ask for you to remain in your respective mess halls for the remainder of the loading process, so please enjoy the rest of your evening. Refreshment and entertainment will be provided, courtesy of myself and the Stratiform corporation.”
>Whitney tenses visibly. On instinct you set your hand on her paw.
> “Thank you. Captain Walker.”

>The intercom pops and dies, the piano music rising again to fill the silence. You wait for Whitney to pull her paw back, but she leaves it there. She rests her chin on the other one and seems to stare through you, considering. 
> “What do you make of that, Cap’n?”
> “I ‘dunno.”
> “Yeah, me neither.”
>She considers a little longer, then finally takes her paw back and returns to picking at a bowl of salad she’d skipped earlier. She keeps from looking you in the eye, but it’s plain from her whiskers and ears that her posh veneer has suddenly worn very thin. 
>Her voice quivers a little when she speaks again.
> “What do we do?”
> “Give it time.”
>She grumbles and takes another swig of the wine, this time without much pretense.
> “Gettin’ real sick of being trapped. Least the room’s bigger.”
>Presently the sound of a band cuts in over the piano, and the air livens with jazz. Some of the tables toward the shipboard side have been pushed away to make room for a dance floor, and the more socially adventurous of your fellow diners have begun making some use of it.
>This provides some welcome amusement, as the male/female split is seventy-thirty at best, and the competition to sort through it heats up rapidly. 
>You and Whitney watch awhile. As things get livelier she flags down the waiter and orders a whiskey. A few minutes later you do the same. The two of you sip delicately at your glasses, studying each other and keeping your creeping nerves at bay with little shots of alcohol. She drums her toes on the table, keeping alternating eyes on the dancers and on the doors. Finally she shoots the rest of her whiskey and stands. She extends her paw to you.
> “Fuck it, come on.”
> “Huh?”
>She grabs your hand impatiently and pulls you up along with her.
> “We’re ‘gunna dance. Real close to those doors the waiters use. Maybe hear something.”
>You can’t help being a little taken aback.
>Dance? With her?
>Holy shit, it would be fun to tell Steve’s lying ass about this.
> “Whitney, I--”
> “Come on, Cap’n, please? I can’t just sit around anymore. It’s killing me. I need to know what the hell is going on. At least I need to try.”
>She tugs at you plaintively. 
>You don’t have to be told twice. The whiskey’s doing its job, and frankly you’d have been happy to dance with about anyone if only to take your mind off things, and to remind you that you’re definitely not in over your head or anything.
>You have to admit though, you kind of like the idea of it being her you dance with, especially since she asked you.
>Even if she is just a stupid kid who’s in over her head, and who just so happens to be more experienced than you are. 
>And even if she is just trying to get a little spying done.
>Returning her grasp, you follow as casually as you can; you don’t want to attract any more attention than you’re already going to.
>Anthros have been the subject of a great deal of superstition since back when Avalon was just something old, lost sailors ranted about in stories of spinning compasses, thick fog, and jagged reefs.
>And dancing with one was long rumored to be the best sort of luck a sailor could have.
>It seems today is your lucky day.

> “You know how to do this, right Anon?”
>Her paw settles on your shoulder and her whiskers shiver anxiously.
>It’s a strange sort of grasp. It’s heavy, blunt, and firm, like you’d imagine a bear’s. There’s nothing delicate about it, or even feminine if you hadn’t been looking her in the eye, but it feels kind of right anyway.
>Right in its own way you can’t quite place.
>You’d danced with girls before. Bar flies mostly, here and there, but the first time had been in High School. 
>She was a brunette, and the daughter of a tailor. Her touch was gentle and dexterous, and for the few wonderful minutes she’d held you, you felt like you belonged in a way you hadn’t since you moved in with your uncle.
>But then the song had ended, and she’d moved on.
>And that had been enough for you that night.
>You’d danced with a girl, like a real man and not a boy. Like you were the real deal, which you had been.
>But that night had passed.
>And sure, you’d done it again here and there, but it had never been quite the same. Each time it was a little bit less, and a little bit shorter.
>But this was different, even after what she’d said about the spying.
>A slug to the shoulder brings you back to reality just as the last song trails off in a trumpet solo.

>Blinking, you catch a little bit of concern in her eyes as she sets her paw back on your shoulder again.
> “You okay, Cap’n? Looked like you about fell asleep just then. Ain’t that drunk, are ‘ya?”
>She falters suddenly, eyes widening.
> “You...-- you don’t reckon they drugged us, do you?”
>You wave a hand dismissively as you go to set it on her shoulder. 
> “I’m fine.”
>Her fur is soft, thick, and warm. You can’t help burrowing your fingers a little. That feeling brushes you again, but you drive it away before you lose yourself in it.
> “...just been a long time since I’ve done this. That’s all.”
>There’s still a little alarm in her expression, though the shade of it has changed some.
> “But you do know how, right? You’ve done it? ‘Cause I ain’t ever done it.”
>Shit, well, you suppose you do. You’d better, because the fucking music’s starting.
> “Sure kid, just follow my lead.”
>You pull her a little closer and take the first step, hoping to hell you know the song.

>It starts simple enough. Rhythmic shots of muted trumpet backed by the steady prance of an upright bass. Five seconds, then ten. You lead her in easy steps. 1-2-3-4, slow and sloppy at first, but then better, and better again before the horn cuts in. Yeah, you know the song, and her feet are tentative but firm when she plants them. You watch and step and step a little faster until your boots tap with the strums of the bass, and you look up to her.
>She’s looking at her feet and counting under her breath. Her grip is firm though, and when she glances up at you, she’s smiling.
> “That’s not so hard, huh?”
> “Nah.”
> “Am I doin’ it right?”
> “You’re doing fine.”
>She looks down again, but only half way.
>The horn rhythms complicate some, and her footwork speeds to match yours, tail swinging gaily as your movements liven.
>The same pattern again, and another time. She’s fast and steady now, like the stroke of a big-bore engine. The lead horn cuts away into a solo and she’s looking up again, grinning stupidly and counting through her teeth.
>The rhythm slows and she pulls you closer; your hand slides a little down her back.
>It’s starting to make a little sense to you now, and the more you move, the more it seems to.
>Her touch is like nothing you’ve felt before.
>But the rhythm’s fast again, and you glance at your feet and back up again.
>You’re scarcely leading her anymore, and the glow from the electric lights twinkles warmly in the blue and gold of her eyes. 
>Her jaw hangs open a little in an awkward grin, and you can smell garlic and whiskey on her breath but it doesn’t seem to bother you.
>Even as you speed up she pulls you closer,
>And alien as it is, there’s something familiar about the way she holds you.
>Like something you’ve known from birth, 
>But never noticed or understood.
>But its slow again, and you watch the room way and spin behind her in a blur of gold and honeydew.
>There are other dancers out there, and maybe they’re watching you, and maybe you should care, but she doesn’t seem to care,
>And you can’t bring yourself to either.
>The horn loses itself in jazz and you realize she’s stopped counting altogether. You let her lead you a little, studying the way her feet click on the wood beneath you, and the dusty, smoky smell of her fur over the aromas of bread, meat, and seasoning.
>1-2-3-4
>1-2-3-4
>She’s fast but easy to follow, and you can feel her confidence building with each step, ears quivering to keep tabs on the music as she leads you.
>Again, and then again with both of your footing a little surer this time. And each time she pulls you a little closer and you find yourself smiling a little wider.
>The horn trails off to the beat of drums and the pulse of the bass, and worry’s gone from her whiskers, and then as the horn cuts back in you suddenly remember that strange feeling all at once.
>That alien, familiar feeling.
>It feels like the first time. 
>It feels like the very first time.
>And you file that away in case you ever need to come up with song lyrics.
>The horns finish a final sequence, and end on a sharp, upbeat note.
>The two of you part again, perhaps a little reluctantly.

>Another song follows, and then another.
>Each time you teach her a little, and she follows as best she can. Most of it she picks up easily, though you can tell by the look that crosses her face sometimes that a few steps are frustrating her.
>But when the band finally breaks she’s grinning just as broadly as she was in the beginning, if panting a little.
>The two of you sit side by side on a pair of the chairs pushed away to clear the dance floor and catch your breaths. She leaves her arm around your shoulder, seeming to pay the gesture very little attention.
> “That was really fun,” she chirps on the back of a deep, raspy pant, “thanks for showin’ me.”
> “Yeah.”
> “I was pretty bad, wasn’t I?”
> “I ‘dunno. I’m no good either.”
>She chuckles a little as her breathing slows.
> “Yeah. Good thing we learned to fly instead, huh?”
> “Good thing.”
>Suddenly she pulls you closer and lowers her voice a little.
> “Listen Cap’n, I’m real sorry I was late this mornin’. You’ve been real fair to me, ‘n you sure as hell didn’t need to be. I ain’t ever been good at being told my business, so that means a whole hell of a lot, you know?”
>You sense an opportunity you’ve found yourself waiting for more and more over the course of the day. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you can’t bring yourself to pass it up.
> “Yeah, well you know what? I wasn’t there when I said I’d be either.”
>She grins toothily.
> “That so, Cap’n?”
> “...you don’t have to call me that.”
> “Bullshit I don’t. I owe ‘ya it, at least. ‘N I still wasn’t kidding about what I said, neither. I trust you. They made me your partner, and I’m ‘gonna do what I said I was ‘gonna do. I appreciate you treat’n me the way you ‘been, but that’s a favor. You don’t owe me that.”
>“Yeah? Well what’s this about?”
>You pat the paw she’s got slung over your shoulder. To your surprise she doesn’t draw it back.
> “That? Oh, that’s just the whiskey doin’ that. Probably going to be real awkward tomorrow, but it feels good now. You want me off you, you just push, okay?”
>Actually you don’t mind so much, but while you’re fishing for a way to articulate that, her embrace sours. The mood goes with it.
>She tugs at you and nudges you toward the door.
>It’s hung a little open, jammed on a dropped napkin.
>Nobody’s watching it either.
>She nudges you a little more.
> “Cap’n! You ready? This is our chance to find out what the fuck’s going on; we might not get another one!”
>Shit. You gulp as subtly as you can.
> “You sure about this, Whitney? I mean, I’m really thinkin’ they’re being truthful with us. I’m really not sure this is a good--”
> “Cap’n, you promised!”
>She elbows you firmly in the ribs.
>The fear is back in her whiskers, and it's tough to ignore. You swear under your breath.
> “Alright. Let’s fucking do this, I guess.”


Chapter V, Donkey Riding

>The two of you slip through the door without catching any sideways glances. A quick dodge behind the cover of a metal counter shelters you through the rest of the kitchen, and you stumble out into the corridor. 
>The door latches shut behind you with a muted snap, and suddenly the commotion of the mess hall is stifled to a murmur. 
>A heavy silence settles as you catch your breaths, cut only by the low, wheezing whistle of Whitney panting through her canine teeth. 
>Even that settles before long.
>Then there’s nothing, save for a ringing in your ears and the throb of your pulse beneath your skull.
>A few minutes you wait with baited breath, huddled in the shadows and listening, but there’s nothing to be heard, and so you press on.

>The warm, flickering aura the dance had built up around the two of you seems to sputter and dwindle the further you advance into the still, frigid air. A strange set of emotions whirl in the back of your mind as if in a tumble dryer, growing more chaotic as you steal your way down the darkened hallways. You can recognize bits of them here and there: that feeling of getting away with something that you haven’t felt since you were a stupid teenager. That sickly understanding that you could die doing it. One told you you were being foolish and the other said to run, but you could handle those. The one that’s getting to you is a nagging sense of helplessness.
>That had always been your least favorite emotion.
>You reckon it’s a lot of people’s least favorite.
>But you were the real deal. You were a flying mercenary. You could handle it, couldn’t you?
>You’d better, because for once Whitney doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to show you up.
>She sticks close to you and follows your lead, her steps soft, fast, and measured. She keeps her left ear trained ahead and casts the other a little behind her, and now and again her right paw strokes the grip of her revolver, perhaps keen to remind her it’s there.
>The both of you tense for every corner and whirl at every sound, but each time there’s nothing to hear or see.
>Bit by bit viscous solitude seems to seep in from under the doors and tug at your ankles like mud.
>Then you break out of the cabin and into the superstructure, and it hits you like a brick wall. 
>You stop short and lean forward on a railing, Whitney settling beside you.
>Echo’s yawning innards spill wide before you, fading into a dim amber twilight cast by the lights that trace the catwalks that span her like strands of spider silk. Far below, her ventral skin shines like a Chinese lantern under the harsh gaze of aerodrome flood lights, but what light that filters through does little more than cast twisted shadows on the upper reaches of the envelope.
>Whitney edges her way closer to you, stopping just short of leaning on your shoulder.
> “Where the hell is everyone,” she whispers, her voice seeming to echo even under her breath.
> “Guess they weren't kidding about the security.”
> “But not even air crew? Nobody watching the rigging and ballonets? I guess you could get away with it, but that's asking for trouble.”
>You’re no expert, but you’re pretty sure that checks out.
> “No shit, but here we are. Guess you’re right; whatever they’re doing it must be pretty fucking important to keep hushed.”
>Her paw inches along the railing until it bumps into your hand. 
> “I ain't ever seen an empty airship. Kinda’ fucking creepy, you know?"
> “Scared of the dark, are 'ya Kid?”
> “It ain't my favorite.”
>A bit of a growl washes out in the breath behind her words.
> “What do 'ya reckon we do, Cap’n?”
>What the fuck is she asking you for? This is her errand.
>Then again, you can't deny you’re starting to think she was right. The food had done a pretty good job of helping you forget, but out here you can’t shake the feeling that something’s fucked up. You doubted they’d just let you leave anyway, even if you got a head start. You weren’t keen on being assassinated.
> “Work our way down to cargo and figure out what the fuck is up. Come this far, ain't we?”
>The line of her muzzle flattens grimly.
> “The hangar’s closer. You know, we could just hide until launch and then....”
>She stops herself and blinks away the glint of fear that’s been gathering in her eyes, then shakes her head with some finality.
> “No, you're right. I ain't a coward. Lead the way, Cap’n. I got your back.”
>The waver in her voice doesn’t inspire confidence, but you’re not doing a whole lot better yourself, particularly as you step out onto the mid-level catwalk. The darkness thickens quickly as the cabin structure falls away behind you. The metal weaves underfoot like a guitar string, slinging your heart into your throat with every other step. Far below, the twisted forms of Echo’s ventral bracing lurk like crocodiles in milky twilight, waiting patiently to for you to slip in the darkness so they might swallow you whole. At least you aren’t alone.

>Echo sighs like a sleeping dog as you pick your way through her guts, her taut skin singing with the steady breathing of the wind and bulbous lungs whispering furtively to one another. All around you her great, metal ribs stretch like whalebones, murmuring as they yield and shift to bear her heft, and overhead the darkness echoes the soft patter of rain. 
>The evening’s alcohol sloshes uncomfortably in your brain as you walk, throwing off your balance in little ways you never notice unless you’re trying. Here and there it shoots you a little dose of bravado, but it never seems to last for very long. Mostly it just seems to complain about how you aren’t talking or dancing, and then take out its frustration on your already strained sense of vertigo.
>You’re just about used to it when a shot of adrenaline hits you like a freight train, and suddenly you’ve whirled on your heels and snagged a guidewire in the crook of your arm to keep from falling.
>When you come to your senses you’ve got Whitney by the paw, the final reverberations of a loud, desperate yelp still ringing in the air.
>She’s clinging to you and one of the guide wires, half stradling the narrow walkway with most of her bulk hanging out over the abyss. 
>Her nails dig into your hand like climbing cleats, her eyes wide with terror. She’s panting like a hyena when you haul her up again, and buries her face in your shoulder a second while she finds her balance.
> “Get a little cocky, did ‘ya?”
> “Ain’t feeling very cocky,” she whimpers, more than a little shakily.
>She pulls herself away again, this time keeping hold of both guidewires.
> “You reckon anybody heard that?” 
>You don’t have time to guess before a flashlight beam snaps on somewhere far below and casts a dancing tongue of light up into the rigging. The adrenaline hits you again just as the light flashes past, and the next thing you know you’re lying on your back with the wind knocked from you, the catwalk maybe five feet above.
>Whitney straddles your waist, forcing you down with a firm paw to the sternum while the light slings sloppily by, the both of you shrouded in the shadow of the midship ballonet.
>The light clicks off again, the snap ringing like a gunshot in the silence.
>She exhales slowly as she releases you, whiskers dancing a little.
> “You okay, Cap’n?”
>Your ribs have felt better, but you’re pretty sure nothing’s broken. You sit up as you catch your breath, finding yourself on a maintenance platform servicing the midship ballast pump. You gasp a lungful of air and come up with the most affirmative-sounding wheeze you can.
> “Then I guess we’re even already.”
> You nod, gathering another lungful of air.
> “That was quick thinking, Kid.”
>She shrugs as she slides off you, wearing a weak but self-satisfied grin.
> “I ain’t perfect, but I ain’t dead weight either, you know?”
>The grin doesn’t last very long. Once she’s free of you she slumps back against the ballonet skin, nerves looking more than a little frayed.
> “...but I ain’t ‘gonna lie either. Never done anything like that before. Ain’t sure I’ve ever been that scared before either. Guess it could have been worse; guess I could have panicked, but fuck. And now...,”
>Her head falls back against the structure and she stares up into the darkness, the catwalk dangling just a few feet out of reach.
> “...now we ain’t goin’ back, either.”
>She seems to dwell on the last word for awhile, her eyes shimmering even in the twilight and her breathing shuddering as it slows.
>As the pain in your gut subsides, you slide over and join her. Her paws rest limply beside her; you debate taking hold of one, but pat it a few times instead. 
> “Hell of a first day, huh Kid?”
>You have to admit it feels good to be the one doing the patting. You aren’t sure how or why; by all rights you should be freaking out at least as much as she is, but something about trying to provide a little security makes you not seem to need it so much.
> “This is my fault,” she winces, “I shouldn’t have dragged us out here. I just really needed to get out of that room, and I wasn’t thinking, and I--.”
>She stops short as you take hold of her ears and ruffle them a little. 
>Holy fuck, she was soft, and you’re not sure why you did it, but she seems to settle a little.
> “We’re in this together now, Kid, whether you dragged us or not. We’re going to be okay, we’ve just gotta’ keep our heads, alright?”
>She sighs, a little bit of a growl working its way out from under her breath.
> “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are to be fucking with my ears like that, but yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ve got your back, I promise. I can do this.”
>The last sentence seems to be more for her own sake than for yours, but as you move your hand back to her shoulder you feel can feel a little of her confidence returning. You stand and offer your hand to her, catching another glimpse of that man you think you ought to be as you do.
>That courageous, resourceful one from the moving pictures, who could protect Whitney and take care of himself and get to the bottom of all this shit while he was at it.
>Fortunately the feeling sticks with you a second, even after she doesn’t bother to take your hand. 
>She hauls herself up instead, looking steady, if a little shaken. You notice her shirt is torn a little at the shoulder, and then, as she approaches you, that the tear is surrounded by a dark stain.
> “You okay, Kid?”
>She glances to where you’re looking and flinches a little.
> “Must’a caught something when I tackled you. There’s uh, quite a lot of blood, isn’t there? I fucking liked this shirt, too.”
>Hastily she unbuttons about half way and peels the flannel back from her shoulder. She seems to consider your gaze for a second, then ignores it and licks at the wound a few times, spitting the blood over the railing.
>You do your best to hide your disgust as she buttons the shirt again.
> “It ain’t that bad, just ugly. I’m good to move, Cap’n. I’ve got your back.”
>You’re honestly a little surprised; there’s scarcely any pain in her voice at all, and no more fear than before.
> “Doesn’t it hurt?”
>She nods enthusiastically.
> “Didn’t until you fucking mentioned it. Now it hurts like all hell. Fucking sticky too. I hate sticky.”
> “Sure you’re okay?”
> “Fine. Ain’t the first time I’ve bled, Cap’n; I’ve had a lot worse than this. It’s the being hunted part that gets to me. That I ain’t ever done, and so far I don’t like it.”
> “Can’t say I like it either.”
> “Yeah, well do you think we could get a move-on while I’ve still got my shit together?”
>You nod, turning for a ladder.
> “Can you climb with that?”
> “I’ll deal.”
> “Let me know if you need help. I could support you from underneath and give you a break if you need it.”
>She snorts.
> “First my ears, and now you want to grab my ass, too? I ain’t ‘gonna need help. Let’s just go. Come on, before I think about it too much.”

>You press on, sinking deeper into Echo’s guts as you work your way down the ladder toward the keelway.
>Whitney’s tail brushes rhythmically across your face, each swipe crimping your sinuses and baiting you to sneeze, but you manage to keep it together, and she manages to keep her word.
>The two of you find yourselves standing atop the midship cargo bay with no more than a quiet yelp and a stifled whimper. Overhead Echo’s swollen ballonets seem to hover like jellyfish, their supports lost somewhere in the darkness. 
>Then, for the first time since you’d escaped the dining room, you hear voices.
>Your heart leaps into your throat again and you drop prone about as fast as you can without falling.
>Whitney’s beside you in an instant, and you stare at each other a while, listening.
>The voices are quiet at first, then louder as you wait.
>They echo tinnily through the aluminum walls, and ring with a strange, stomping rhythm that you can’t quite seem to identify, even when you pin your ear to the metal.
>It should put you on edge, but instead you feel yourself calming. Your heart sinks back where it belongs, and the adrenaline in your blood withdraws.
>There’s something familiar about the chant, even as the wilder parts of your mind entertain ideas about pentagrams and demon summoning.
>Something from your childhood, you could swear, but you can’t place it.
>At least not until Whitney starts whispering the words, ears pricked and straining.

>Was you ever in Vallipo
>Where them girls put on a show?
>Waggle their arse and roll and go,
>Riding on a donkey!
>Way, hey, and away we go,
>Donkey riding! Donkey riding!
>Way, hey, and away we go,
>Riding on a donkey!

>Then suddenly you aren’t on Echo anymore.
>You’re on the wharf back home.
>Your real home. 
>You don’t know where you are or how you know, but you know.
>And the dockhands are chanting it as they load lumber on the ships moored there.
>You can’t be more than four years old, and your parents are there, but you can’t see them.
>You can feel them there, and it’s all so fucking real. It feels less like dreaming and more like waking up.

>And then it’s gone, and Whitney’s jabbing you in the gut with a paw.
> “Anon, you okay? You’d fucking better be, because I ain’t doin’ this shit alone.”
>You shake your head and clear the last of the image. As much as you’d like to try to piece that shit together, now is not the time.
> “Fine. Just ain’t heard that song in a real long time.”
> “Yeah, well I smell something. Something I ain’t ever smelled before. Whatever it is, it ain’t gold. Least it ain’t just gold.”
> “Think we ought to risk a look?”
>She shivers and rubs her forehead with a paw.
> “Wish I didn’t. I was telling myself you were right before, that it was probably gold they were protecting so hard. But now it ain’t gold, and that’s got me a bit freaked.”
>You nod solemnly and begin to crawl your way toward the edge of the bay. Whitney follows in turn, fur sighing as it slides across the metal.
>You’re pretty sure she’s right. You’ve got the same feeling, and it’s stirring the contents of your stomach until you feel a little sick.
>If she’s right,
>If it ain’t gold that’s lurking down there....
>Well, what the fuck else would someone go to such lengths to protect?
>Slaves? Some sort of weapon?
>Why would they keep you in the dark?
>What did they think you would do if you knew?

>You don’t remember much of the last war; you were young at the time, but you do remember being afraid.
>You remember that one night you couldn’t sleep and had sat on the edge of your bed reading comic books by candlelight.
>The Eurasian Collective was fighting with Europa, and trying their hand at conquering Avalon where the latter had failed almost a century before.
>The Eastern Union had sent troops, and war bond advertisements hung in the windows of your favorite candy store.
>You didn’t really know what war was. You figured it was that thing you played with your friends, but nobody could lie about getting hit, and when they did they never saw their family again.
>You didn’t want to go to war, and your uncle had said you wouldn’t have to.
>But what if war came to you?
>Of course it never had before, not since Eastern Union had cast off the rule of Europa’s cruel and foolish king.
>But what if it did?
>What would the communists think up next? 
>What were they really capable of?
>What if they built a higher-flying airship, or one that’s harder to see?
>Could they bomb you like they’d bombed Avalon and Europa?
>The enemy wasn’t supposed to be able to get to you. They never had before, but what if, this time, they could?
>What if you didn’t see them coming?
>You didn’t even have a shelter.
>It was all something Superman could have stopped if he were there.
>But he wasn’t.
>So you read, and didn’t sleep.
>Yeah, you remembered the shit out of that night, and this felt kind of like that.
>You had to know.

>You sling your leg over the edge and drop to the keelway as silently as your boots will let you, metal squeaking just a little as it catches your weight. Whitney’s behind you in short order, and you press your backs to opposite sides of the cargo bay door.
>It’s sitting a little ajar and leaking a shaft of copper-colored light. It catches Whitney’s tail a second before she whisks it away.
>The voices are louder now, loud enough for you to make them out yourself.

>Was you ever in ‘Frisco Bay
>Where the girls all shout, “hooray,
>Here comes Johnny with ten months’ pay!”
>Riding on a donkey!

>Yeah, that’s the fucking song, but you shoo your subconscious away before it can get ahold of you again.
>You glance to Whitney, who’s pressed up against the open side of the door trying to peer through the gap.
> “See anything?”
>She shakes her head, but raises her paw to stop you.
> “Hold up, I think I’ve got an idea.”
>She fishes in her shirt for something, paw emerging a second later with her flask.
> “Courage,” she whispers, taking a shot from it.
>Then she caps it again and holds it at arms length in front of her, swiveling it gradually with the concave side directed through the door crack.
> “Count two on the platform on the far side of the bulkhead. Lots more in the loading bay. Humans. They’ve got Echo badging, but I don’t see a Stratiform logo anywhere.”
> “What are they doin’?”
> “Loading crates. Big fucking crates.”
> “Like a lot of shit on them?”
>She shakes her head again.
> “No, I mean tough. Like, you couldn’t shoot through it tough. By the looks of it they ain’t light either.”
> “Markings?”
>She squints a little.
> “Not that I can see.”
> “Explosives, you think?”
> “Nah, can’t be. I’d smell ‘em.”
> “And you’ve got nothing?”
>Her brow furrows a little.
> “No, I definitely smell something. Something...,”
>She pauses, whiskers dancing as she probes the air again.
> “...wrong. But whatever it is, it ain’t explosives.
> “Anything else?”
>She holds her paw up again and closes her eyes, drawing another lungful of air through her nose and holding it there.
> “...lead. I think. One of the fuckers on the other side of the door is smoking and it’s covering fucking everything. Crappy taste in cigarettes, too. Camels.”
> “See anything that might tell us where we’re going?”
>She pans the flask again, but shakes her head.
> “I’ve got nothing. But here, you try.”
>She motions for you to switch places. You swap hastily, and she passes you the bottle as you cross.
>You can’t help noticing it’s quite a bit lighter now.

>The loading bay is brighter than the rest of Echo, and lit in contrasting halves by golden burn of the internal lighting and glare from the floodlights outside.
>Two men stand on the far side of the door, as Whitney said. The dull silver of the flask washes out the subtler colors, but you can tell they’re dressed in dark blue. They cary slender rifles you don’t recognize and banter softly with one another under the chanting of the men below. Something about dates timetables. You can’t make out most of the words, but they sound cautiously optimistic. 
>One seems rather eager to get going. He smokes a rapidly-shortening cigarette and taps anxiously at the side of his rifle.
>You do catch the number fourteen a couple of times in the words that pass between them, but you aren’t sure in relation to what. You doubt it could be flight time, even round trip. Echo could get anywhere in probably four or five days, at least barring weather.
>In the bay below men move thick, gray crates in groups of four and six, their coats slick and glistening with rain.
>They strain under the weight as they stack their burdens, and heave and shuffle in time to the rhythm of the chant.
>By the looks of it they’re just about done.
> “See anything, Anon?”
> “Rifles. Some sort I’ve never seen before. Big ass magazine in the stock, but I can’t tell the action.”
> “Must’ve had ‘em propped on the wall when I was lookin’. Swap sides again?”
>You nod, passing the flask back to her and settling to your original side.
> “What about you, you ever seen those before?”
>She considers for a moment.
> “I don’t think so. They look Avalonian to me though, and nice ones. Wonder where the fuck they got those.”
>There’s more than a little accusation in her voice, but it’s interrupted by a murmur from inside.
> “Hey Danny, you hear something?”
>The adrenaline comes flooding back as if by storm surge. You glance to Whitney as she yanks the flask back from the door and hides it in her shirt again, her eyes wide, ears pricked, and jaw hanging just a little open.
> “It’s nothing, Ken. You’re paranoid.”
> “Well I’m going to check it out. Watch the bay, alright?”
> “Whatever you say, man.”
>You feel your muscles tense. Whitney’s already backed herself against a handrail and slung a lego over, and she jerks her head for you to follow.
>You already don’t like where she’s going with this, but at least you’re too distracted to look down. 
>You sling one leg over, and then the other. Then you’re clinging to the far side of the handrail, arms taking the better part of your weight. Whitney jerks her head again, indicating toward the beams supporting the outer wall of the loading bay. They’re shrouded in shadow, and would be great cover where they meet the wall.
>The only problem is you don’t know how the fuck she’s planning on making that jump.
>It’s a few meters, at least, and a small target at that.
>If you miss, you’ve got the better part of thirty feet to fall.
>That’s assuming you don’t punch through the envelope,
>Or hit your head on a beam on the way down,
>Or hang yourself on a tension wire,
>Or--
>Your heart stops as the smoking guard pushes his way through the door.
>Panic flashes across Whitney’s eyes. You can feel the cool burn of it too, and you’re sure its showing. 
>She gives you a final, pleading nod, 
>and leaps.
>Even in the moment there’s some grace and confidence in her form.
>Despite the look in her eyes, there’s nothing desperate in her movements, and her trajectory is smooth and practiced, like a grasshopper’s.
>Her tail flows out behind her a split second, filling out like a banner.
>And then she’s swallowed by the shadows, landing with no more than a click from her claws. 
>She looks back at you, eyes glinting amber in the darkness.
>Could you even jump that far?
>Did you even have the guts, if you could?
>The guide rail wire is digging painfully into your hands and the muscles in your arms are starting to complain about holding you erect.
>The yawning maw of the darkness beneath you spreads wide in the corner of your eye, and your heart is beating so fast you can’t tell the strokes apart.
>A long second passes as the guard sweeps the keelway with his flashlight.
>Finally, as the beam closes in, something snaps in your brain. You shut your eyes, take the deepest breath you can, and jump.

>Jumping never felt like flying to you.
>Others seemed at home with it, or even liked it, but you’d never understood.
>Back in high school you used to go down to the river with your friends. You’d sneak beers, and dare each other to jump off the bridge into the water.
>You’d only ever done it once, no matter how much they called you chicken.
>They’d come out laughing and racing to do it again, and from higher, usually.
>All you ever felt was your head spinning as you looked over the edge, and the sick, churning feeling of freefall.
>You hated every millisecond of it, and you hate every millisecond of this.
>Even the last few, as you feel the jolt of metal under your boots and Whitney catching you across the chest to keep you from stumbling.
>Every millisecond until your eyes open again, and you’re perched delicately on the beam, holding on to an upright for dear life and doing your best not to look down.
>The flashlight completes the last few degrees of its scan, and, finding nothing, hunts further down the keelway.
>The both of you sigh with relief, and the next thing you know you’re resting a little on each other’s shoulders.
>Whitney’s paw is still on your ribs; no doubt she can feel your heart beating.
>She must, because she moves it to your shoulder.
> “You don’t like heights, do you Cap’n?”
>She pulls you a little closer, which you have to admit feels pretty good, even if you’re definitely not seeing any of that hero you think you ought to be in the process.
>Throwing vanity to the darkness below, you wrap your free arm around her waist and hold her perhaps a little tighter than you ought to.
>She seems to understand that pretty well.
> “Well I ain’t ‘gonna let you fall, so take it easy.”
>Her grip is remarkably steadfast, and you’re glad to have it.
>As the guard wanders further down the walkway you let your voice raise a little.
> “How the fuck are you so good at this?”
> “Climbed a lot of trees; broke a lot of bones. Besides, you ain’t my first acrophobe.”
> “Well don’t go spreadin’ it around, huh?”
>She taps your shoulder.
> “Hey, I freaked out on you a little; reckon I owed you. Just glad the universe saw fit to throw us something I was good at so I could redeem myself.”
>You suppose that’s good enough for you. Either way you don’t have long to dwell on it, because a sharp sound catches your attention.
>Then another.
>You don’t recognize them at first. 
>Sharp, hollow pops that ring metallically through the walls.
>But then a string rattle off like firecrackers, and you hear shouting in the background.
>Two and two come together very suddenly in your mind.
>Gunfire.
>You glance back to the keelway and catch the guard sprinting back toward the bay, flashlight dancing in his left arm while his rifle sways in his right.
>He bashes his way through the door and another chain of fire erupts.
>You glance to Whitney, but she’s already sizing up the rigging for a route back to the hangar.
>To your dismay, she lets go of you.
> “You can do a pull-up, right cap’n?”
>Come on, she doesn’t think you’re a total pussy, does she?
>You nod hastily.
> “Then follow me, ‘n follow close. Do what I do, and don’t look down. Got it?”
>Before you can reply she leaps and grabs hold of another beam a few feet over your heads, hauling herself up with little more than a stifled grunt.
>Suddenly you’re glad you went through a bit of a fitness phase as a teenager.
>Sure it was mostly out of insecurity, but maybe not everything insecurity makes you do is such a bad idea.
>You really should have stuck with that, but you suppose now is as good a time to get back into it as any.
>You jump, then haul yourself up with a noticeably louder grunt, dedicating your imagination to believing that there’s a gym floor a few feet under you and not a pit of metal webbing.
>By the time you’re to your feet she’s already dangling from the next, tail brushing across your nose again.
>So you jump again.
>And again.
>You strain a little harder each time, but she scarcely seems to tire.
>Probably helps that she couldn’t have weighed much over a hundred pounds, but you wouldn’t have thought she was all that strong either.
>Perhaps the two of you would have to arm wrestle some time when you’re not trying to dodge the stray rounds you’re hearing punch through the metal now and again.
>Fortunately the next leap lands you back atop the bay, and it’s an easy drop down to the keelway again.
>You and Whitney debate silently with each other in front of the door, but you don’t hesitate long.
>If there’s any chance of finding out what the fuck is going on, this is it.
>You crouch and scuttle your way through the door.

>A thick perfume of brass and spent powder flavors the air and picks at your tear ducts until your eyes water.
>The cigarette guard is crouched behind the railing wall, rifle slung in his off hand with its butt in a pile of brass. 
>He might have seen you, but he’s kneeling over his companion, the latter lying supine and grabbing desperately at his shoulder as blood creeps slowly from under his fingers.
>There’s fear in both of their eyes, but the fallen man’s are mistier. 
>There’s a desperate, pleading glint in them.
>Something deep inside you flops like a landed fish as you dodge behind a crate for cover and draw your pistol.
>Whatever it was must have snapped in Whitney too, because when she rounds the corner her eyes are dilated and her tail limp. Her revolver is drawn but gripped in her right paw only, her left spanning her chest as if to keep the contents of her stomach down.
>In a quiet moment you hear her whimper.
> “Holy fucking shit.”
>Her voice is weak and sickly.

>A trio of rounds crack over your heads, and then another rings the railing like a gong.
>You hear her gasp even as your ears set to ringing, and she huddles tightly against your shoulder, the revolver trembling in her grip.
>She’s pressed close enough for you to feel her pulse surge under her fur.
>It’s at least as fast as yours.
>But still she reigns her breathing in and thumbs the hammer as you ease your way down the width of the bay, peering over the edge of the railing each time the gunfire dwindles and your curiosity starts to get the better of you.
>Every time you start get a good look, Whitney grabs you by the shirt and pulls you back down.
>One of those times you land on top of her just as a bullet snaps past where your head was. She holds you close a minute, and you find yourself digging your fingers into her coat a little as you catch your breath.
>It’s soft and warm and for a wonderful second it doesn’t feel like you’re being shot at.
>But you press on, and bit by bit you piece the room together.
>The working men have scattered to the shipboard side of the bay and taken cover amid the stacked crates, those who were armed trading fire with the outside.
>Your angle is too extreme to make out what they’re shooting at, but in the middle of the bay four men lie shot dead at the base of an idling pickup truck, one of the smaller crates half-loaded in the back with its lid cracked open.
>The fallen men wear long trench coats cut from fabric too dark to make out the bloodstains, and at least one is lying on what you’re pretty sure is a thompson submachine gun.
>Mafia, you guess, though you suppose it could be anyone.
>But who else, and what the hell would they be after?
>What did they know that you didn’t?
>Was it drugs?
>Whitney would have smelled them, wouldn’t she?
>You’re going to have to get a look in that crate. Trouble is, that means pushing to the far side, and the catwalk doesn’t go the whole way. 
>You’ll have to descend the stairs, cross the bay floor, and then climb up again.
>At least there’s a way out over there.
>You’ve already burned through a good portion of your day’s allotment of bravery, though. 
>Taking stock of what’s left, you crouch and check on Whitney. She’s panting like she ran a mile.
> “How you doin’, Kid?”
>She just nods, the look on her face not inspiring much confidence.
> “We’re going to have to cross--”
> “I know. I can do it. If those are really Avalonian guns, if they fuckin’ took ‘em, well, I’ve ‘gotta know we ain’t on the wrong side of this little war.”
> You squeeze her paw.
> “Then follow me, follow close, and do what I do.”
>Funny how saying that almost makes you feel like you have the first idea what you’re doing.
>Then the gunfire dwindles again, and you leap around the corner.

>The stairs are steep and slick with dew, and in your haste you might have slipped once had Whitney not caught you.
>Much of the outside is hidden by the glare of the floodlights, but through the mist and rain muzzle flashes flicker like candles. Their reports split the air in scattered patterns, and echo sharply over the din of shouting and machinery
>You’ve got maybe fifteen feet to run before there’s any cover, and there’s a good chance the defenders will see you once you get there.
>But they’ve got bigger problems than loose crew now, don’t they? 
>You’ll have to take that risk.
>So you run, the smoky air driving needles into your eyes and burning your lungs as you gulp it.
>You count each footfall, and each round that cracks by or glances the ground by your feet.
>Seven of the first and five of the second, and then you’re in cover again and you’ve got Whitney by the paw.
>You press your back into a crate while you catch your breath.
>Whitney’s right about how solid these things are. Even when you throw your weight into it it doesn’t budge.
>Whatever it is, you’re glad it’s there.
>Particularly as the gunfire picks up again, though you can scarcely hear it anymore.
>But you have to make another run, and then another.
>So you grab Whitney again and move.
>Twenty paces, and then another fourteen.
>Nine rounds at least, but you’re pretty sure you lost count. 
>Either way the both of you are still breathing when you clamber up the stairs on the far side.
>The glare isn’t as severe from there; you can actually make out some of the landscape outside, and more so as you press toward the outer wall.
>You still can’t make out many details, but by the light of the muzzle flashes you can see a small armada of cars and trucks have built up in the field, most of them painted jet black. You count ten at least, though there may well be more in the shadows. The front lines trade bursts of fire with the bay, and the flanks with some other group you can’t see.
>Judging by the light jostle and shimmy you’ve been feeling in the deck, you’d guess they’re mooring crews.
>Those must be some brave motherfuckers, even under the cover of dark. Now way in hell you’d go out there.
>Of course, if they’re out there at all, that means the situation must be dire enough for someone to think it worth the risk. The thought burrows ever further into the gaping sinkhole that’s been developing in your stomach. 
>You do your best to suppress it as you reach the outer railing and lean for a look in the crate.

>From this side of the truck you notice a body you hadn’t seen before.
>He’s slumped back against the rear window, glassy eyes staring blankly at the half-loaded cask.
>It’s still too dark for you to get a look at the contents themselves, but you can tell he’s got something in his hand.
>It looks to be dull and vaguely metallic, but that’s not what stands out to you.
>It’s that his hand is all fucked up.
>Even in the shadows you can tell.
>And not shot, either. 
>It looks... burnt?
>You lean further, pressing against the handrail for a closer look.
>You catch a glint of light as it crosses the inside of the crate.
>It looks like the same shit, but you can’t make out what.
>Whatever it is, it ain’t gold, and it ain’t any sort of drug you’ve ever seen.
>You lunge for a few extra degrees, then your world shatters like some kind of crystalline vase.

>Then you’re lying on your back with the wind knocked from you, the catwalk shivering beneath you with the first reverberations of Echo’s engines. 
>A gut-wrenching pain tears at your chest like a pack of alligators, and your ears have given up on ringing and gone outright deaf.
>A moment you think you must have fallen, but then Whitney’s crouched over you.
>She’s shouting something at you, fangs gleaming white when she spreads her jaw wide enough to catch the light.
>But you can’t hear a damn thing save a distant, aching tone.
>She’s tearing into your shirt with her claws, popping buttons and ripping them out if they resist.
>Her eyes are panicked, and maybe even watering.
>You don’t really feel that bad save the pain in your chest, but what the fuck happened to you? Were you shot? Was this what it was like to be shot? It’s not like you would know. Fucking hell, though, you’d be certain you were fine if she didn’t look so fucking frantic.
>But maybe it doesn’t matter, because someone else steps into your vision.
>Your eyes are blurry and you can’t make out who he is, but you don’t have any trouble recognizing the barrel of his rifle when he levels it on your head.
>One of those weird, slender, wooden rifles with the big-ass magazine in the stock, like before.
>It definitely isn’t anything you’ve ever seen before; it has curves like a fucking dolphin.
>It doesn’t seem that matters now though. Whatever you saw in that crate, evidently it was too much.
>You’re almost too shocked to care, but then Whitney dodges between the two of you, and the world starts piecing itself together again.
>Starting with the blind panic you ought to be in.
>You gasp for air and throw yourself against your body weight, and then gasp some more and gather your core muscles to try again.
>Whatever time she bought you, it can’t be long.
>You’ve got to protect her.
>You’ve got to be that guy from the movies.
>It’s always just a flesh wound, right? Surely it’s just a flesh wound. You’ve just got to get up.
>Distantly you hear rifle fire, and spent brass falls around you like hail. Then the muffled bark of a revolver cracks over the static in your ears.
>And then another bark, and another.
>You hyperventilate a little and throw every muscle you have at sitting up. The guard is still right there. If you could just grab hold of him you might be able to haul him down, and then Whitney could--
>She’s extending her paw to you, the guard turned and facing the open bay.
>She speaks again, and this time you actually hear her a little.
> “Get up, asshole. You ain’t even bleedin’.”
>Her muzzle is curled in a half snarl, but there’s relief in her eyes. She grabs hold of you before you can respond and hauls you to your feet.
>The pain strikes your chest like a sledgehammer. Your head spins wildly for a few seconds while your inner ear sorts itself out, and finally you keel over onto her shoulder.
>She shudders under your weight but holds firm.
>You glance over your shoulder as the two of you stagger out of the bay, catching a quick glimpse of the land falling away as the cargo door closes. 
>The guard swaps his magazine and turns his attention inward, and you notice a sizable dent in the handrail next to him.
>Right where you were.
>A few inches higher and whatever it had been would have been right through your heart.
>You do your best not to think about that as the door shuts behind you and you take to the corridors again, leaning generously on Whitney as you work your way back to your cabin.
>You’ve got a lot of questions, but you aren’t feeling particularly up to asking them.

>Whitney doesn’t take much care being gentle whens he hauls you off of her and onto your bed, nor being elegant when she collapses onto hers, but once the jolt of pain subsides, you swear you’re the most comfortable you’ve ever been.
>Most of your hearing’s returned, and the deep pulses and drones of Echo’s propellers envelop the two of you like a woolen blanket. The electric light in the ceiling glows a dull, sunburnt copper that’s just bright enough to read the posters on the wall, and somewhere far away you can taste a hint of petrol exhaust mixing with the smells of dust and rain. 
>Whitney lies on her back, her panting just loud enough to hear over the drone. She looks worn out, but her ears are at rest and the anxious twitch in her tail is gone.
>You couldn’t help noticing she’d been careful to make certain the door didn’t close all the way behind her, but if you’re honest you feel better knowing it can’t lock on you again too.
>She smiles weakly as she settles.
> “Bet when you were givin’ me all that lip this mornin’ you didn’t think I’d be carrying you back home that night.”
>The twinge of embarrassment in your throat suggests she’s absolutely right, but she doesn’t wait for you to say it.
> “Guess we make a pretty good team though, huh?” 
>Her smile broadens, then after a few seconds it goes slack again.
> “Thanks for taking care of me, by the way. I got us in pretty deep shit. You could have blown me off. Probably should’a. But you didn’t.”
>You consider that a while, silence falling again.
> “Sure, Kid, and I reckon we do.”
>She smiles again, and this time it sticks around a little longer. There’s still a question burning in your mind, though, so you stop her short of replying.
> “I’ve got to know though, why didn’t I get shot back there? What the fuck did you do?”
>She shrugs.
> “Wish I knew. He said there was a traitor on board, and the lock-up was about not getting sold out. Guess it didn’t do much good, but I can’t blame him much for thinkin’ it was us. What I don’t get why it changed anything when he saw me. He said we were on the same side, and I didn’t press my luck. Got the feelin’ he wasn’t bullshitting though. Reckon he’d have shot us otherwise, especially after what happened to his partner.”
> “Same guy?”
>She nods, a little sadly.
> “It was him. I ain’t sure, but I think he might have been cryin’ a little. That shit was fucked up, you know?”
> “Yeah, well, thanks for saving my ass. Pretty good thinking with the flask, too, though to be honest I thought you were going to pull out a vanity mirror. Guess you’re not really that sort of girl though, huh?”
>She recoils a little at that last part, muzzle pursing in a half-snarl.
> “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
>To your surprise she actually looks a little hurt.
> “Nothing, I just--”
> “Yeah, yeah; fuck you. And for the record, I do too have a vanity mirror.”
>She flicks it out of her pocket and makes a show of straightening the fur around her ears, glaring at you all the while.
> “Then why the flask?”
>She raises a white eyebrow.
> “‘Cause I ain’t fucking stupid? Perfect mirror’d have caught the light and flashed. They’d have seen us for sure. Flask’s good enough for an image but not polished enough to glint.”
>You..., would never have thought of that. 
>Actually, yeah, you wouldn’t have. You seize the opportunity to return her glare.
> “Well, clearly I didn’t think of that.”
>She considers that a second, then rolls her eyes.
> “Cap’n, I didn’t mean--”
> “Yeah, yeah; fuck you.”
>She rolls over and flicks the light off, leaving you alone with the sound of the rain and propellers.


Chapter VI, Midnight Feature

> “Anon?”
>Whitney’s right eye blinks open and flickers like a kerosene lamp in the darkness.
> “Anon, you awake?”
> You might have been half-way to sleep, but you doubt it would have paid off anyway. You’ve all but given up on that. There's still a hint of adrenaline residue in your blood, and it’s been tickling your nerves and waking you every time you get close. You aren’t sure how long you’ve been lying there, but it feels like weeks, and you don’t have anything to show for it but a series of strange and flighty dreams.
>Your eyes creak open the rest of the way. A dense but penetrable darkness greets you, its thickest regions warded to the corners of the room by the faint glow of the warmly-shaded icing lights filtering through the fog on the porthole. Rain still patters on the envelope, but only faintly. You can scarcely hear it for the omnipresent drone.
> “Yeah, Kid. I’m awake. What's up?”
>Her other eye flickers open and stares thoughtfully up at the ceiling.
> “I 'dunno. I just--,”
>She falters.
> “Just what? Can’t sleep?”
>She nods sleepily and turns her head to you.
> “Not for shit. Did a minute, but it didn’t last. You neither, though, huh?” 
> “No.”
> “How’s your bruise?”
>It actually hadn’t been too bad until she’d reminded you of it, at least so long as you didn’t try to sleep on your stomach. The tender ache doesn’t waste any time working its way back through your ribs now that you’re thinking about it again.
>Of course you’d be dead if the railing hadn’t caught the bullet, so it’s not like you can complain.
> “Fucking sucks. How’s your shoulder?”
>Her cot creaks and whimpers as she shifts onto her side and tugs at the collar of her nightshirt.
> “Looks like shit, but fur always makes gashes look like shit unless you do the whole shave-and-bandage thing, and fuck that. Don’t hurt that bad though, not since I doused it in alcohol. Shirt’s ruined.”
>There’s something curt and measured about her manner. You wouldn’t say you know her well enough to read her, even if you could make out her ears and whiskers in the darkness, but you do get the impression she’s avoiding something. You consider leaving the issue, but your curiosity gets the better of you.
> “If it ain’t the pain, what’s keeping you up?”
>She sighs through her teeth.
> “I--”
>Her head falls back to her pillow and she buries her muzzle into the fabric.
> “It ain’t your problem, Cap’n. I can handle myself. I’m fine; I promise.”
>Your heart twitches empathetically. The back of your mind finishes shuffling ideas and issues its prediction.
> “You, uh..., you ain’t seen someone killed before, have you Kid?”
>She winces, the shimmer on her eyes blinking out as she shuts them. 
> “Dead, yeah. Killed, no. Just keep thinkin’ about him is all. But it ain’t your problem. I’ll be fine in the morning; I can handle it.”
>Your heart twitches again, seizing on the image of that guy you saw stabbed in the alleyway by the docks when you were fifteen. You sit up on the edge of your bed.
>The air’s grown brisk and clammy overnight, and it makes short work of your boxers and nightshirt. You can’t help shivering a little.
> “That’s not nothing. Come on, we’re in this together; tell me what’s up. I could help. Really.”
>She shakes her head.
> “I appreciate you lookin’ out for me, but I’ll get over it. Really.”
>Part of you wants to listen to her, but your heart isn’t about to let that happen. Yawning, you roll to your feet and sit on the edge of her bed instead.
> “Kid....”
> She leaves her muzzle buried.
> “What happened to my rack being my space, huh?”
>A faint whimper stains the venom in her voice.
> “Give it a rest.”
>You set your hand on her shoulder; she groans under her breath.
> “That’s sweet of you, Cap’n, but I’m telling you I’m fine. Just a hell of a first day, you know? Like you said?”
>Her voice cracks a little at the end. You sigh and scratch at her fur a little.
> “Well this ain’t my first time, but my first time stuck with me a long time too. It’s okay for it to bother you; it’d bother anyone.”
> “Yeah? Well then it bothers me. So what? Leave me alone.”
>Those last three words actually sting a little, but you keep scratching.
> “Kid, in our line of work I’d wager this ain’t going to be the last time either of us faces this sort of thing. At this rate it ain’t likely the last time this voyage. It’s stressful shit, and it ain’t easy for anyone, but you don’t ‘gotta deal with it alone. Got it?”
>She flops onto her back.
> “Guess they aren’t kiddin’ about humans not being too good about midin’ their own fuckin’ business.”
>That stings pretty good too, especially because it’s clear from her voice that she’s serious.
>And shit, maybe you should listen.
>Maybe it isn’t any of your business.
>But she’s looking at you now, and it’s clear she’s upset. She’s fighting, and fighting valiantly, but the corners of her eyes glisten with tears.
>And she’s a stupid kid who doesn’t know what she got herself into.
>And you’re supposed to help, right?
>Like a proper partner? A proper friend?
>She’d have been there for you, wouldn’t she? 
>You’d have liked to think so.
>You swear under your breath and take hold of her paw, but she swats you away.
> “I said I can fucking handle it! Call me Kid all you want, but I ain’t ‘gonna let you treat me like one. This is my problem, and I’m sorry I fucking mentioned it. Maybe I’m new at this, but I’m your partner, and not your fucking charge. Leave me alone.”
>Those words again.
>Leave me alone.
>Her voice snaps again, but it doesn’t do much to dull their edge.
>There’s something familiar about them.
>You back off and let your hand fall into your lap instead. 

>You know that phrase. It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, but like the dance it takes you a second to place it:
>That evening watching the baseball game your Freshman year of high school, when you’d finally worked up the courage to ask Sarah, whom you’d thought a friend, to Homecoming, but she was sitting with some jock, and you’d only gotten as far as approaching before she drove you away.
>Leave me alone.
>Like she’d never even seen you before.
>Yeah, you remembered this.
>Rejection.
>Rejection like the first time.
>It hurts bad enough to give you pause.
>Enough to make you swallow and choke a little on the word “Sorry”.
>Almost enough to turn and go, but something stops you.
>For a moment you think it’s courage or a sense of responsibility, but it turns out you can’t take the credit.
>Whitney’s just got your hand pinned.
>She’s sitting up now, blankets pulled up around the waist of her baggy nightshirt and eyes dull in the shadows. 
>She doesn’t look nearly so rugged without all the thick flannel and the gun on her hip, but her fur seems to do a decent job of keeping her from shivering. She’s got your hand pinned in one paw and her forehead resting on the other.
>The anger in her seems to flicker and die. A heavy silence settles for a few long seconds, then she curses some weird Avalonian phrase you don’t understand.
> “I--, I didn’t fucking mean that. You’re just tryin’ to help, and it ain’t like you’re wrong either. I don’t have a lot of practice gettin’ looked after, is all. Ain’t ever been one to ask for help, and I ain’t used to being a burden. I fucking hate it, and I snapped. But that’s not your fault. Ain’t snapped like that in a real long time; ‘Dunno what happened.”
>Shame leaks into her voice as she speaks. She hangs her head and stares at the floor, ears flattening.
> “It’s okay, Whitney.”
> “No it ain’t. I’m laying here tryin’ not to be a burden, and I’m making a goddamn scene instead. Turns out I’m pretty good at being childish when I’m tryin’ not to be. Usually pretty good at stopping myself these days. Least I thought so.”
>She shudders and loosens her grip on you. You find yourself taking hold of her paw again.
> “You’re just stressed.”
> “That ain’t an excuse.”
> “No, but it’s an explanation.”
>That seems to satisfy her. She sighs and falls back against the wall.
>The truth is you really don’t mind. Odds are you’re going to embarrass yourself one of these days, and you’re glad it was her turn first.
>“Ain’t like I’m perfect either,” you add, seizing the opportunity to secure a little insurance for that eventuality, “Just so happens I’ve dealt with this particular thing before, and I reckon we ought to look out for each other. Got to fly together, after all, and that means we’ve got to trust each other, too. 
>She smiles weakly at that.
> “Yeah, well, while we’re not mentioning things about each other, could we not mention this?
> “Sure, Ki--”
>You stop yourself, probably a little too late.
> “You’d probably rather I just called you Whitney, huh?”
>She shrugs.
> “If tonight’s any indication, I could stand to get over myself. Call me whatever you want. But thanks. So are we going to play shrink, or what? Got one of those couches for me? What do you want to know?”
>Now that she isn't fighting you, you aren't so certain anymore. You know what you want to tell her, but not much in between. You settle on the first thought that comes to mind.
> “What is it you keep thinking about?”
>She seems to give that some thought, shutting her eyes and squeezing your hand a little in the process.
> “That it was real. It don't quite seem like it, but it was. The way he grabbed at the wound, how scared and hurt he looked, it was all so fucked up. I ain’t a little kid; I know this shit goes on; I’ known a long time. But it ain’t like seeing it in a picture. He was like, a real person, you know? Like us.”
>She hangs on the last syllable for awhile, hunting words.
> “I 'dunno. I'm talking nonsense, ain't I?”
>You think you know what she's getting at, at least a little.
> “It's not nonsense.”
>She squeezes you again.
> “I mean, he probably had fucking dinner plans he was looking forward to when he got off watch. He was right fucking there, and then he was gone. Just like that. And someone did it to him, and we don't even know why.”
> “Yeah. Yeah, I get you.”
>She relaxes a little and settles some of her weight onto your shoulder.
> “...and, and it's fucking selfish of me, and I swear I ain't a coward, but it could have been anyone, you know? You? Me? Fucking scary to think about, and every time I try to push it away it pops right back up. In that little I slept I had a fucking dream, n’....”
>She swallows, trailing off.
> “...but I'll be okay. I've got to be. Don't really know what you could say that would make it okay, but I guess I ought to thank you for tryin’. At least unless there’s some kind of trick to it, but I don’t reckon that’s so. You do get used to it though, right?”
>If there are any tricks, you sure as hell don’t know them.
> “I guess people just get used to it. Reckon we’ll have to.”
>She cocks her head.
> “You ain’t used to it?”
>God, you fucking wish. You suppose this is what it means to be the real deal, but shit, you could have died, and it would be a bold-faced lie to say you weren’t thinking about it too. And maybe you’ve seen someone killed before, but you sure as fuck don’t like to be reminded.
>Besides, between the Captain’s warning and the skirmish in the bay, your hopes for a peaceful voyage have been all but dashed. At this rate you might as well be shipping off to war.
>That was fine when you were high on adrenaline, but that didn’t last.
>Reality had been setting in pretty hard since then, little tendrils of doubt and regret rising up from the darkness to probe you for weaknesses.
>Maybe there’s not much for you back home, but you’ll be damned if you aren’t already starting to miss that little seaside town.
>And maybe you’re not cut out for this after all.
>You could have been a barnstormer, or joined the mail service.
>You could be camping out under the stars right now, not a care in the world.
>But no, you’d wanted to be a rugged hero, even though you knew it wouldn’t be like the movies. So here you were.
>But you were the real deal, and you could handle it, right?
>Truth be told, it would probably be weighing on you a lot heavier if it weren’t for her.
>You realize you’re leaning on her a little, too.
>She must have noticed, because she turns to you again, concern in her eyes.
> “What’s the matter, Cap’n? Ain’t what I said, is it?”
> “No.”
>A flash of consideration crosses her face, then conviction replaces it.
> “And it’s your first voyage, same as mine?”
> “Yeah.”
> “...you’re scared, ain’t ‘ya, Cap’n?”
>There’s a grim certainty in her voice that seems to make it ring even truer than it might otherwise.
> “Yeah.”
>To your surprise she actually seems to relax at that, and she slings her arm over your shoulder again. For a minute you get that warm feeling you did from the dance.
> “Well, I don’t reckon I could be a whole lot of comfort, but at least it’s both of us, huh?”
> “Yeah. And I appreciate it, Kid. Reckon we’ll be okay so long as we stick together.”
> “Here’s to trust, then.”
>For a second you think she’s going to go for the flask again, but she offers you her other paw instead, and you shake.
>Her grip isn’t as firm and certain as it was that morning, but it doesn’t seem any less ernest.

>Silence falls. The two of you stare out the window a while, watching the droplets of dew creep across the glass and letting the drone of propellers wash over and drown you. She leaves her arm where it is, her warmth driving away the worst of the dampened air. Your nose seizes up a little over having her so close, but you don’t pay it any mind.
>In time her ears and whiskers sag, and for a moment she seems to sleep, but then she jolts awake again and startles you out of your trance.
>She swears under her breath and yawns again.
> “Hey, Cap’n?”
> “What’s up?”
> “If we’re stuck sitting up together, you want to like, watch a movie or something? Ya ‘know, to get our minds off it?”
>The waver in her voice almost makes it sound like she’s asking you to prom. But fucking hell, that idea sounds wonderful. If only you were magic.
> “How do you reckon we do that?”
>She smiles, and for once it doesn’t look quite so forced.
> “Just a sec.”
>She shuffles the blanket off and rolls out of bed.
>You can't help noticing she doesn't have a whole lot on under that shirt, and make a point of glancing away while she rifles through her bag.
>When she emerges, it's with an intricate brass instrument a little bigger than a typewriter.
> “The fuck is that thing?”
>She sets it delicately onto the bed and starts fiddling with dials, looking more than a little self-satisfied as she works. 
> “Projector.”
>Holy shit, is she serious? You’ve never seen a projector that wasn’t taller than you were. You knew Avalon made some pretty weird shit; they were a favorite subject of speculation in Popular Mechanics magazines, but you tended not to put much stock in the claims. They’d famously met Europa’s rifled muskets with repeating arms in their brief war a century before, but little was known for certain about what they’d been up to since.
>Projectors, evidently. Even if such a device had existed in the Eastern Union you reckon it would have cost more than a house, but here it was in front of you.
>But come on, it can’t really be a full projector, right? Where would it even keep the film?
>You lean in to inspect it more closely, and Whitney whips out a slender knife. 
> “Hey Cap’n, you weren’t using the reading light on the table under the window, were ‘ya?”
>The fuck? You furrow your brow, though you feel a lot better now that her voice isn’t wavering so bad.
> “No, why?”
> “Perfect.”
>She reaches between her rack and the wall and retrieves a slender wire. Then she loops it in her fist and cuts it with a firm, sudden jerk.
>Guess you won’t be using that light later either. You resume your inspection while she whittles away at the jacketing around the copper.
>You still aren’t seeing any film reels, but you do find what you’re pretty sure is the object end of the device.
>At least you think those are lenses; for some reason there’s three of the fuckers, and they’re arranged in a compact triangle. They’re also some of the smallest lenses you’ve ever seen.
>Suddenly Whitney interrupts your marveling.
> “Might not want to look right at that, Cap’n. I'd also appreciate it if you didn't fog the lenses.”
>You glance up to see she’s braided the wire with another, somewhat thinner one that leads into a series of vacuum tubes. It’s a pretty clean job, too, or at least you think so. You can make sense of the magnetos in your engines, but beyond that electricity may as well be magic as far as you’re concerned.
> “Sorry.”
>She shrugs and goes back to work, slotting a cable from the projector into the tube assembly with an odd-looking plug.
> “How far away do you reckon that far wall is, Cap’n?”
>She gestures back toward your rack.
> “I 'dunno. Nine feet?”
> “Can I, uh, get that in DeciTails?”
> “Huh?”
> “Yeah, didn't think so.”
>She tabulates some quick math on her fingers, then works a scroll wheel on the machine.
> “Alright, let's see how bad we screwed that measurement up. Could you flip the switch for that light for me?”
>You stop yourself a little short of doing so.
> “You sure that contraption ain't ‘gonna explode, Kid?”
> “That's what the tubes are for. Rectifier and transformer.”
>You have no idea what those things are. You try to keep from making that overtly obvious, but she doesn't seem to have much trouble reading your face.
> “Just trust me, Cap’n. Shook on it, didn't we?”
>You had been thinking more along the lines of watching each other's back and not keeping too many secrets as opposed to whatever this Tesla shit was. At least she's jacketed the copper she exposed with a bundle of tape. You're not sure how much that helps, but it does make you feel better.
> “Aw come on, Cap’n. We were in a gunfight, this ain’t nothin’. It won't bite, I promise.”
>There’s a hint of that whimper again. You force back your cautious mind and bury it. She needs this.
> “And you done this before?”
> “Plenty.”
>You sigh.
> “Alright.”
>The switch snaps under your finger and the transformer tubes slowly come to life with a dim copper glow.
>So far you haven’t heard any bangs or smelled any fire. You sit down beside Whitney again, and she flips a toggle on the machine.
>A low whir starts, slowly at first, and then faster. The base of the device issues a series of squeaks and whimpers and then a high-pitched whine, and suddenly the far wall sputters to life with a hazy, distorted glow. Ripples of static march across it in narrow rows, and then suddenly they snap together and--
>Holy fuck, it's in color!
> “Mhmm,” Whitney confirms, suggesting you’d made that exclamation out loud, “well, sorta. The colors are pretty fucked up, so either you suck at estimation or I suck at math. Just a sec.”
>It actually takes you a second to notice what she's talking about, but you start to see it as you stare. The colors are washed out and stained with red, green, and blue ghosted outlines, as is the screen itself.
>She fiddles with the dial a little more though, and the ghosts slide together and sharpen up into a logo.
>Antex Thermionics.
>Port Dyson, Avalon.
>Gold lettering on a teal and black seal.
>Holy shit it's vivid.
>You'd heard about experiments with color in moving pictures, but you'd always assumed it was just a novelty and doubted it would catch on even if it could be made to work reliably.
>The image jumps and shifts to to a watercolor painting.
>Yeah, color is definitely not just a fucking meme. This thing could produce an entire movie like this? You could get very used to that.
> “What do you want to watch, Anon? Got a few you might recognize, but you guys don't record in color. We've colorized a few, but they don't look nearly as good as the real thing.”
> “Mostly westerns on both counts, I take it?”
>She smiles sheepishly.
> “All the hollywood movies, and about a third of the Avalonian ones. Got to imagine it’d be pretty weird for a union guy to see a western with anthro actors shot in Avalon though. We're used to it, but I won't make you.”
>Actually, you're rather curious now that she mentions it. Not much about Avalon makes it across the ocean. Seeing one of their movies would be a hell of a thing, especially if it meant to depict you.
> “It's fine. Just put on your favorite; I trust you.”
>She gives you a skeptical look, face half-lit in the glow from the projector.
> “Really?”
> “Shook on it, didn’t we?”
>Her ears flick nervously, but she’s grinning.
>“Okay. You don’t got to like it though; You want somethin’ else, you tell me. Might have to watch it in black and white, is all.”
> “I’m sure it’ll be fine, least so long as your taste in movies is better than your impulse control.”
>She narrows her eyes and dramatizes a snarl.
> “Fuck you, Cap’n.”

>After a minute or two of rifling she emerges with a slender, gray box.
>You can’t make out its features in the darkness, but if that’s a film reel somehow, it’s fucking tiny.
>No bigger than a book.
>Whitney fiddles with it for a minute, then with something on the projector. The latter spits out a cash register sort of mechanism with a ringing sound to match, and then swallows the gray box thing whole.
>You give up the last bit of hope you had for understanding what the fuck is going on here. Whitney seems to notice, and, to your annoyance, take a good deal of pleasure in noticing.
> “Magnetic tape,” she chirps, “Ain’t an engineer, but basically they print the tape with instructions that tell the projector how to draw the images instead of the actual images. Guess you can fit a lot more instructions than you can pictures. Ain’t ‘gonna lie, that don’t make a lick of sense to me, but....”
>The projection ripples again, then refreshes to a slow pan across a dry-looking expanse of desert. In full motherfucking color. Holy hell if Popular Mechanics could get their hands on this thing.
> “...pretty neat, huh? They only came out a couple years ago. Probably spent more than I should snapping one up, but here we are. Reckon if anything was going to vindicate this purchase, it’d be tonight.”
>She shifts a little as the title and credits roll, making a show of finding space for her tail but edging up to you in the process.
>The Sheriff Marty Wales
> Starring Josey Robins
>You don't recognize any other names, not that that's surprising.

>It’s a decent movie, actually, though she’s right about the actors being a bit bizarre. Now and again the backgrounds get a little obvious too, but you can overlook that. It’s not like shooting on-site would have been an option. 
>The content itself isn’t so far removed from a hollywood production as you were expecting.
>Maybe a little cheezier in places, but in others it might actually be more serious. Avalon doesn’t skimp on themes regarding loyalty and betrayal. It seems they have a bit more of a stomach for violence, too.
>Whitney actually looks away once or twice. You suppose that adds up, but she still seems to take exceptional zeal in the revenge scenes.
>The story, close as you can tell, follows the travels of the eponymous sheriff and the Cherokee partner he picks up along the way.
>The latter is portrayed by some sort of hyena. You’re not sure if that’s racist.
>It’s engaging enough, but it does drag on awhile. By the top of the second hour you’re fading.
>It seems like Whitney might be too.
>At some point she’d inched closer to you again, or maybe it was you that had done it.
>You’re resting heavily on each other now and the blanket is pulled over and around the both of you.
>It might have been a little awkward had the day been better, or if you weren’t so goddamn tired, but as it was they couldn’t have paid you enough to move. 
>She’s warm and soft, and you’ll be damned if she doesn’t make you feel secure,
>If she doesn’t make you feel like you belong.
>You ain’t belonged in a very long time.

>Whitney’s asleep by the beginning of the last act.
>Josey Robins, or whatever his character’s name was, is helping his family defend their homestead with a pair of six-guns.
>Well, it ain’t really his family. They met on the road. He saved someone’s life; someone saved his, and as they went on, they sort of adopted each other.
>Something about it makes a lot of sense to you. You reckon you might have been able to place it if you weren’t all but asleep yourself.
>But it feels correct, and only more so each time he puts a bullet through the head of someone who sought to rend them apart.
>And you'll be damned if your arm hasn't found its way around Whitney's waist, and her head onto your shoulder.
> And if it doesn't feel pretty correct, too.
>You could be like them, couldn't you?
>A sort of family?
>You ain't ever really had a family.
>Didn't really think about it much either, at least not 'till now.
>You hadn't thought you needed one, but what if you were wrong?

>Then the screen flashes and the audio pops, hisses and dies.
>The change in lighting shatters your trance. For a few seconds you try to cling to the splinters, but they float away before you can get a grip on them and melt into the static on the screen.
>The fuck had you been on about, anyway?
>Some sort of sappy shit you don't quite remember.
>Not that it seemed wrong; it didn't.
>Just not so profound as it had when half your mind was sleeping.
>You shake some of the mist from your eyes and rub at your forehead with the ball of your hand.
>Your ribs ache, your head aches. Your eyes ache. Your arms ache.
>Fuck you, you're tired.
>At least now you might have a shot at sleeping.
>Whitney's passed out on you shoulder, snoring quietly.
>Her ears are resting and her tail is still. Her muzzle hangs open a little, lips parted along a shallow, contented smile.
>Poor kid deserves it; she's been through a lot today.
>You both have.
>She plays tough, but you know the truth.
>Christ do you know the truth.
>And you know you feel better with her there beside you, but you can't stay forever.
>You give her waist one last reassuring squeeze and set about planning your escape.
>This is her rack, after all.
>Her space.
>And as much as the back of your mind is screaming at you to stay, you don't belong here.

>But she'd sleep better if you stayed, wouldn't she?
>You know you would.
>She's right, though, even if she apologized. You're her partner. You owe her a little respect.
>So you lean forward and guess at the switch that turns the projector off, then shift her weight to your arm and lie her down as gently as you can. She shifts a little, but doesn’t wake.
>A bittersweet vacuum seems to open up between you as you let her go.
>It tugs at your shirt as you sit up.
>Oh yeah, the blankets. It’s fucking cold out here.
>You wouldn’t be overstepping your boundaries to tuck her in, would you?
>She must be cold. You’re fucking freezing.
>So you throw the blankets over her, probably with a bit more precision and delicacy than you meant to.
>Trouble is, now you’re close again, and the tug is even stronger.
>Your cold, dark rack sulks in the far corner, looking almost impossibly far away.
>You could slip under the blankets yourself, you know? Just for a little while?
>It looks awfully warm and comfortable.
>The closer you get, the more the feeling tugs at you.
>It tugs until you collapse and slide in beside her, and warmth washes over you like a tidal wave.
>It just feels so fucking right. With your back to hers, it feels like the two of you are untouchable.
>You could take on the world pressed together like that.
>It might be difficult; it might be frightening, but if you were scared all you had to do was press a little closer.
>And so long as you fought, you’d never end up like that poor bastard in the cargo bay.
>Maybe she was a stupid kid. Maybe she didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into. And maybe you were projecting more than a little. But now you had each other, and whatever happened, it would be okay.

>...you should go to bed.
>But what if you didn’t?
>What if you stayed right where you were?
>What if you just slept?
>Here.
>With her?
>What if you belonged?
>You try to give that fair consideration, but you don’t get very far before the warmth and the sleepy drone of the propellers crawl up and swallow you.


Chapter VII, Mountain Dew

> “Uh, Cap'n?”
>You wake slowly, your mind’s eye stumbling over the last few images of a pleasant dream.
>Where the fuck were you again?
>In bed, yeah, but something’s different.
>Your nose is stuffed. So goddamn stuffed that you’re breathing through your mouth.
>You’re looking at the wrong wall, too. The one with all the posters.
>That’s supposed to be on the other side of the--
> “You okay there, Cap’n?”
>Oh, shit.
>You remember all at once.
>Shit. Shit. Shit. You’d fallen asleep, hadn’t you? No wonder you were so fucking comfortable. What’s happening? Is she pissed?
> “Look, Anon, this is real cute ‘n all, but I need you to let go of me so I can go pre-flight.”
>She shifts, and you notice you’re embracing her rather tightly about the waist. Waves of panic and embarrassment break over you in series; fortunately she’s looking the other way.
> “Aaaaanon....”
> “Yeah. Uh, Sorry.”
>Hastily you release your grip and tuck your arm beside you. 
>Whitney yawns, flops onto her back, and then tosses the blanket away. A crisp, dry draft flows in and startles the last of the sleep from your head.
> “Mornin’, by the way,” she offers, smacking her lips a little as she buttons the oil-stained shirt and slips her sheepskin jacket over a shoulder. 
>You can’t help groaning a little as she steps out of the light and the glare from the window finds its way directly into your eyes.
> “Mornin’ Whitney.”
>She flashes a smile as you sit up.
> “Take your time, Cap’n. I’ll see you on the flightline.”
>Before you can reply she mocks a salute and dodges through the door, tail whipping around the corner behind her like a kite’s.
>Damn, she seems chipper. You’d done a once-over for holes in the facade, but she actually seems genuine.
>You cast off the rest of the tacky quilt and ease onto your feet, stretching your back for all it’s worth and clearing your nose a little.
>The air bites you a little less as you acclimate, and less again as you rub your eyes and pull your jeans on. Even the metal floor isn’t terribly cold under foot.
>...maybe today won’t be so bad. You are underway now, and Whitney’s spirits are rubbing off on you a little. You still don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but at least it’s starting to seem like you’re on the right side of it.
>Besides, it was awful nice of her to get the airplane ready for you. There was nothing in the contract that said she had to do that. She was your partner, free and clear; you even made the same money. It did make you feel pretty captain-ey though, watching her scurry off like that. You can’t help wondering if that was why she’d done it.

>The sun shines brightly in the porthole, and from behind the glass a clear, blue sky beckons you eagerly. You can’t help smiling a little to yourself as you lace your boots.
>It really could be a good day, couldn’t it?
>Surely they happened at least occasionally, and you reckoned you’d already earned one. Maybe you’d even get some answers.
>You shoulder your jacket and fish a few sticks of jerky from your bag, then stop a little short of leaving.
>Whitney really didn’t need to play servant to you. It’d felt pretty good, but you do feel a little guilty that you’re the one taking it easy after how tough last night must’ve been on her. You really ought to return the favor.
>You’ve never been much of a cook, but you throw a few slices of some of the nicer lunchmeat you brought along from home between some stale-ish bread and call it a sandwich.
>Better than nothing. Besides, you’ve got another idea. An idea your aching ribs are quick to get behind.
>You jam a stick of jerky between your teeth like a cigar and strike out.

>Hangar B is busier today. No fewer than four airplanes are staging, fuselages shimmering gaily in the shady mid-morning light that streams in through the rear hangar door. A stiff but fragrant breeze howls down the runway and stirs the peaty smells of appalachia in with the sweet and sour flavors of fuel and oil.
>It’s a cold breeze, but a dry one, and it rolls harmlessly past your jacket without doing much more than stirring up the fleece. 
>Whitney, who’s leaning against your airplane and exchanging some sort of banter with Tucker “Whirligig” Riley, grins when she sees you.
>It might be confirmation bias, but you’re pretty sure there’s a little shimmy in her tail too.
>She shoves off of the fuselage and turns as you approach.
> “You’re late,” she mocks, “Three minutes. Tsk tsk.”
>You muster a chuckle and lean casually beside her, then glance over once you’re pretty sure the other pilot’s out of earshot. You pat her on the shoulder.
> “You, uh, you feelin’ better, Kid?”
>Her smile flattens and one of her ears twitches a little, but she gives you a firm, shallow nod.
> “I’m okay; thanks for askin’. Don’t really want to think about it right now, if'n ‘ya don’t mind.”
> “Understood.”
>You follow up the shoulder pat with another one and present her with the sandwich. Her grin snaps back.
> “For me? Aww, thanks!”
>She doesn’t waste any time wolfing it down. When she’s finished, she pats the engine cowling with a paw.
> “We’re lookin’ ship-shape here. One of the cowl screws was loose and the windows needed a little cleanin’, but I took care of that.”
> “Ready to head out, then?”
>She smirks sheepishly.
> “I could use a little help loading the Ma Deuce. Any luck and we won’t need it, but it pays to be careful.”
> “Thought you were a pro or something.”
>She shrugs.
> “Ain’t fired belt-fed. Sue me.”
> “Then I’ll show you before we start up. Anything else?”
>She shakes her head.
> “I’ve got the right tie-down if you’ve got the left.”
>You shoot her an encouraging look that she doesn’t seem to know what to do with.
> “Know what? My fucking chest still hurts like a motherfucker. You take the left chain.”
>She furrows her brow as she considers what you mean, then her face lights up, and a cheshire cat grin spreads down the length of her muzzle, teeth bearing generously.
> “I was hoping you’d say that; You won’t be disappointed! I promise!”
> “Reckon I won’t be. She’s your ship today; just let me know what you’d like from me, Captain Latham.”
>You take care to put some extra emphasis on that last pair of words. Whitney beams wildly, and then in the second you look away to switch sides you find yourself seized in a short but firm embrace.
>Pain shoots through your body, but you stifle a yelp and do your best to focus on her touch instead.
> “You’re the best, Cap’n.”
> “Sure,” you squeak.

>You could swear the airplane is even smaller from the right seat. It takes a little doing to find a place for your right arm, especially since you’re going to have to work the yoke with it, but with a little determination you get your seat position set in the space of a few minutes. 
>Whitney takes her time fiddling with the height adjustment crank, though, so you try to get used to this whole right seat thing.
>You’ve never actually flown right seat before, and so far you don’t like it.
>Gone is your nice, big-gauge layout, replaced by a bulky radio stack, more fuses than you care to count, and a smattering of auxiliary readouts scarcely bigger than silver dollars. 
>It would be tight enough that you could use her gauges, only some genius at Eastern - Aerodyne had thought it would be a good idea for their needles to sit a full goddamn centimeter off of the gauge face, and so the parallax is so bad they’re practically useless.
>You really are going to have to trust her with this thing, aren’t you?
>The reality of that sinks in more and more while she clicks her way through start-up, making generous use checklist taped to the window and brushing you periodically with her shoulder when she reaches for things.
>Come on, she’s got more stick-time than you do. Relax.
>Maybe you would if you could at least read the goddamn airspeed indicator. As it was, you felt more like you were strapping into a rollercoaster than an airplane.
>But today’s going to be a good day, right? 
>You muster a grin as she finishes with the electrical system.
> “Got a brief for me, Captain Latham?”
>Part of you had been hoping to catch her off guard the way Ol’ Steve always tried to catch you, but she doesn’t even bother looking up from the checklist.
> “We’re over western Kentucky. Echo wants us on the outer perimeter and keeping an eye out for anyone who looks like they might be scoping us out. The rest of the lot are staying at her flanks in case we miss anything. Skies clear. Temperature’s at fifteen centigrade, dew point seven. Two-niner, niner-four on the barometer. Weather deck’s saying we’ve got some moderate chop, but I reckon we’re too heavy to be bothered much.
>The part of you that had been hoping for more of sheepish Whitney tingles with disappointment, but you do feel a little better knowing she’s on top of things. You’re less sure you like the whole scouting-ahead thing, though.
> “Sounds like a nice way to say we’re a wild weasel,” you sigh, your good-day hope dwindling a little, “You nervous?”
>Whitney shrugs. 
> “Thought you guys had things pretty nailed down out through Kansas at least. Should I be?”
>You answer her shrug with your own.
> “Ain’t ever been out this far west. Reckon we’ll just have to be careful.”
> “You ain’t ever been in a dogfight before, have you, Cap’n?”
>A shiver runs down your spine. You dig up as much confidence as you can find and dump it into your voice.
> “I’ve practiced some maneuvers. I know how in theory, but--” 
>To your surprise, that of grin of hers comes back as strong as ever.
> “Well, you’re in luck.”
> “Huh?”
> “Because I have.”
>She grins so goddamn wide you’d have sworn she was yawning if it weren’t for the expectant gleam in her eye.
> “You fucking serious?”
> “Technically!”
>You can’t decide if you wish she’d drop that shit-eating grin. It’s almost enough for your ego to wish for somber Whitney again, but there’s definitely something intoxicating about this version. 
>It’s that everything-is-possible feeling, like the first dip in the river after the ice melts, or the first bolt of a new project.
>Like the first airplane you ever saw fly.
>You forgot how fucking good that feeling was. Better than goddamn sex.
> “Technically?”
> “Technically. Now how’s about cranking engine one for me?”
> You can’t think of anything to say, so you nod, pull the leather back, haul yourself up onto the wing, and set to cranking.

> “Contact!”
> “Kaun-tacht!”
>Another shiver works its way down your spine as you drop the starter, but it’s warmer this time. 
>There’s just something about the way she shouts that call, something so familiar. Somehow it sounds like Spring.
>And the engine jolts and churns and sputters.
>Then it roars a second,
>Then it clatters.
>Then it misses. And clatters, and misses. And clatters, and misses.
>And stops. You’re going to have to crank this fucker again. Dammit.
>Whitney peeks up over the leather, looking sheepish again afterall.
> “Son of a bitch flooded.”
> “It’s a bit temperamental. Fuck the checklist; try starting with the mix at cutoff and advance while it’s cranking. Be quick about it, though.”
> “Quick. Gotcha.”
>You start cranking again.

> “Contact!”
> “Kahn-takt!”
>Jolt, churn.
>Jolt, churn.
>Bark, clatter, roar.
>The prop wash works its way straight under your collar even as you flip it up. You suppress a shiver and scuttle to the other wing.

>Crank.
> “Contact!”
> “Kahntakt!”
>Jolt, churn, bark, clatter, roar.
>She’s looking confident as ever by the time you climb back in again.
>Any hesitation she had was gone with the churning of the prop wash, and it’s almost as if she were never nervous at all.
>She’s got the yoke seized in one paw and the throttles in the other, her eyes locked on the engine gauges. An air of cool confidence settles into her fur, smoothing out the tufts, pricking her ears, and leaving her tail slacked beside her.
>You can’t help feeling the tiniest splash of envy seeing her so collected; fortunately she gives a little before too long.
> “Hey Anon?”
>Somehow her voice is just as rich over the headset intercom.
> “What do ‘ya need, Captain Latham.”
>She rolls her eyes conspicuously. 
> “For you to quit that, for one. Reckon you wouldn’t know, but you’re making me blush every time you pull that shit. Call me Whitney. call me Kid, whatever. But, you keep callin’ me Captain, it’s going to go to my head.”
> “And what else?”
> “V-speeds?”
> “Ninety knots for best angle of climb, One-twenty for best rate. Stall at sixty-six, and one-thirty-two maneuvering.”
> “Anything else I should know?”
> “She processes pretty bad when you pull her tail off the ground, so be ready on the rudder.”
>Whitney nods dutifully.
> “Gotcha.”
> “And keep an eye on the manifold pressure. Back the throttles out once we’re free and climbing.”
> “Wilco.”
> “Ever launch from an airship before?”
> “Nope! Reckon I come in shallow, make a quick job of lining up, and make sure I don’t let the wind get under the wings, yeah?”
> “That’s about it.”
> “You’ll catch me if I fuck up, right?”
> “As best I can. Ain’t like I’m an expert.”
>Her tail twitches once at that, but she stills it again.
> “Yeah? Well let’s see if Papa was bullshitting me when he said I was a natural, then, huh?”
>She edges the throttles forward. You grab your seat frame for all you’re worth and wave nervously to Tucker “Whirligig” Riley as he saddles up his smart little biplane.
>Flank escort. That fucker’s got an easy day ahead of him.
>You suppose this is what you get for showing up with an airplane with some range to it.

>Whitney taps the brakes and you jerk to a stop just shy of the runway, the first of the wind noise licking at the canopy glass like seafoam.
>She glances over at you, confidence eroding a little further.
> “Hell of a headwind, huh Anon?”
> “That’s the idea.”
> “Alright. So I’ve got the yoke turned ‘round so the ailerons hold the upwind wing down. I’m going to ease the throttles in, pin the tail as hard as I can, kick it around, then lift the tail up as I finish coming on with the power. Makes sense to me. That’s what you did, right?”
> “That’s it.”
>She mimes the throttle movement, kicks at the rudder, and works the elevator.
>And then again, mouthing the steps to herself.
>And again.
>She swallows and sighs.
> “You want to at least, you know, follow me on the controls?”
>You set a finger on the yoke and get your feet ready to kick the rudder, though frankly you doubt you’d know any better what to do with it than she would.
> “Alright. She’s all yours though, got it?”
> “Got it,” she barks, smoothing out a patch of fur, “I can do it.”
>And then the sleepy rumble of the engines trips and bursts into a roar.

>The airframe dances as the wings bite the wind and the tail comes around so fast that your head knocks against the window pane.
>But then she’s straight and stomping on the rudder, 
>and then tail comes up and the walls crawl by, and then roll by, and flash away behind you.
>The wheels thump over the threshold and that sick sinking feeling pours into your gut as the nose drops, rolling hills spreading wide and green out in front of you.
>Suddenly fifteen hundred feet is very close, seventy knots very fast, and the back of your mind remembers that it doesn’t like heights so much.
>But then you’re level, and then clawing your way into a climb, the air fresh, clear, and firm under your wings.

>Whitney trails off of a deranged howl and gasps for air.
> “Holy shit! I think that might be my absolute favorite thing I’ve ever done!”
>Her teeth shine like ivory in the sun glare on the canopy, her eyes and whiskers bright and laughing.
>Her throttle paw shoots down and squeezes your hand so hard you swear she’s going to break it.
> “The way the world just spreads out before you like that? The way you jump off and there ain’t nothin’ to catch you but the horizon? Fuck me, Cap’n; I ain’t ever felt so free!”
>You try to return some of the squeeze, but you can’t get a whole lot of leverage the way she’s got you pinned.
> “You did good, Whitney.”
> “Good? I didn’t even shimmy! It was right down the middle, through and through!”
>She hangs as she finishes the last word, almost as if you’d caught her stealing table scraps.
> “I ought to shut the fuck up before I brag myself into an early grave, huh?”
>You nod, trying not to look too pedantic.
> “Like my instructor always told me...,”
> “...there are no old, bold pilots,” you finish together.
>Her manic grin tames, those big-ass ivory canines sheathing slowly behind her gums.
> “You human lot say that too, huh?”
>You shrug.
> “My instructor did. Don’t know where he got it.”
>Whitney leans back in her seat and glances over to you as the vertical speed indicator settles down.
> “Okay,” she yips, “My turn. The most useless things are:....”
> “The altitude above you, the runway behind you, and a quarter second ago.”
>She matches your shrug.
> “We always said ‘tenth-of-a-second’ and added ‘the air in your fuel tank’, but I guess something makes it across the water, huh?”

>You’re pretty sure she levels out at 3,500 feet, but it’s difficult to say. You’d never set the barometer on your little backup altimeter, and aren’t in a hurry to admit you forgot.
>Last night’s rain is long gone, and the sky spreads so stark and empty before you that you have to strain to see the horizon. A fresh, cool breeze churns through the cabin vents and stirs the air, it washing so clean it actually keeps your nose from stuffing.
>Echo’s falling away now. The yawning hulk of her envelope shrinks until she looks like a sleek, silver toy. Out the left window she dangles as if from fishing line, bobbing with the shivers of turbulence that brush across your wings.
>And then you break off, leaving her to slide from the window to your seven o’clock.
>Then it’s just the two of you, alone with the throb of the engines.

>Time wears on awhile, the sky clear and empty, and the cabin silent. 
>The sun is just a little off your six o’clock, but by the top of the second hour it’s high enough to leak in through the eyebrow windows. It casts bright patches of light across the glare-guard and cooks the leather until you can smell the oils. 
>It’s a strange smell: half sweet, half bitter and rotting. You’ve never been able to put your finger on whether or not you like it.
>Eventually you catch yourself skirting the edge of a half-formed dream and jolt back to reality.
>Whitney unzips her jacket and spreads the lapels out to her shoulders. Then she pays you an understanding glance.
> “Don’t worry, Cap’n, you didn’t miss anything. There ain’t shit, not for miles.”
>You shift and press your face against your window, looking back as far along the tail as you can.
>You can certainly see what she means. There’s nothing to see but forest and little plots of farmland, and no one to share the sky with save for the handfuls of little black birds that flit about the trees below you.
> “Where’s Echo?”
> “Reckon about a hundred miles East by North East, assuming they haven’t changed speed or direction. I could give you a better bearing, but I’d have to do a little math.”
>You shake your head and rub your eyes, surprised to find a little sleep in them.
> “Hundred miles, huh, even with them following us? Didn’t realize I actually fell asleep; how long was I out?”
> “About forty-five minutes. And that’s a hundred miles, give or take fifteen or so. I haven’t been in contact for a good half-hour, so that’s extrapolated from a pretty old measurement. They asked us to keep quiet unless we found something. Just in case anyone was listening in, you know?”
> “Yeah.”
>Suddenly you remember something that makes you wince.
> “Hey, they didn’t ask where I was, did they?”
>She smiles deviously. 
> “That weather guy did. I told ‘em you were messing with the radio equipment in the back.”
> “Thanks, Kid.”
> “What, you think I was going to sell you out?”
> “Well, you could’a woken me. I didn’t think we’d see anything nearby either, but they are payin’ me for this job same as you. It was nice of you getting the airplane ready, but we’re partners proper. You ain’t my servant, and I ain’t a worthless sack ‘a shit.”
> “Yeah, well..,”
>She cocks her head, hesitating.
> “...you were kinda’ cute laying there, and it feels good to have a passenger fall asleep while you’re flying, especially bumping around the way we were. Besides, I reckon it’s my fault for keeping us up so late last night.”
>There’s actually some regret in her voice.
>Shit, was that what this was about?
>A little bit of guilt sinks into your hand and it flops down onto her paw again.
> “Hey, don’t worry about it, okay? Just glad you’re doing better.”
>She stifles a yawn herself, stroking the yoke with her paw.
> “I’m flyin’. I’m always better flyin’. Can’t get cornered. Can’t get locked in. No matter what happens, you ain’t ever helpless. Don’t know about you, but that goes a long way for me. Certainly helps that everything’s so damn pretty all the time.”

>Somehow she’s still smiling, even as the miles drift by toward the Kentucky border.
>Toward the Western border of the Eastern Union proper, and out into her wilder territories.
>You grimace a little.
> “I’d like it better if we weren’t a goddamn weasel.”
>Whitney grips a little tighter at the yoke.
> “We’re about to cross the border, ain’t we? This river?”
>The meandering strip of brown-blue water that’s been in advancing from the middle-distance slides under the nose and out of sight.
> “Yeah. That’s it. We’re in Louisiana territory now.”
> “I mean, it can’t really be that bad, right? No one would build farms anywhere near the border.”
> “I ‘dunno, but I’ve heard reports of pirates further East than this, and we got attacked in our own damn port. You said you’d been in a dogfight before; you, uh, want to tell me about that?”
>Her spirits falter, but she clings to them.
> “Ribbon games. You hitch a paper streamer to the airplane and chase each other, and the streamer breaks real easy if anyone touches it. Team with the longest streamers at the end wins the day. I was in a league, actually. We weren’t the best ever, but we did alright for ourselves.” 
> “Sounds dangerous as shit.”
> “Oh, absolutely. Dad hated it, but he was a racer, so he couldn’t really say anything. I scared him real good a couple of times; bet it really put things into perspective when I told him I was going to go do this.”
> “Got any stories?”
>Her laugh crackles flatly over the intercom. 
> “Oh boy, do I. Let’s see--.”
>She stops dead. The color drains from her voice, leaving it flat and serious.
> “Contact, one o’clock low.”

>Your heart sinks into your gut and your nerves electrify. 
>Holy shit, this might actually be it. This might really be fucking happening.
>You’re the real deal, and you might be about to do the real thing.
>You can do this.
>You hunt the horizon between twelve and two, suddenly very glad you aren’t alone. Then there’s something soft in your hand, and you realize you’re squeezing Whitney’s paw again.
> “ One-thirty, moving oblique. You see ‘em, Anon?”
>You hunt harder, and then a little frantically. The sky still looks empty.
> “Two o’clock, moving to three.”
>There’s some urgency in Whitney’s voice now. She pulls her paw free and points a nail through the window.
> “Three-thirty. What’da we do, Cap’n?”
>Then you see it: a spot of canopy glint against the rolling green and the faint silhouette of wings stealing over the forest.
>Camouflage. Not even flat green, but proper goddamn camouflage. Adrenaline leaks down the back of your neck like a melting ice cube.
>Has he seen you? 
>You don’t think so. He’s holding course, and now you’re behind his eyebrow windows. 
>Of course, it could be a trap.
>But you suppose you’re here to find out.
> “Should I get on his six? We’re ‘gonna lose him in a sec. Give me somethin’ Cap’n. Please.”
>You swallow the lump building in your throat.
> “Do it. Let’s see where he goes.”
>Whitney rolls into a steep bank and that sinking feeling comes back as she lets the nose slide down. Your altimeter unwinds swiftly, popping your ears as you cross the two thousand foot mark.
> “Reckon we ought to get under him, Cap’n? We could see him a lot better against the sky, and he wouldn’t see us even if he’s got mirrors.”
>The lump comes back while you consider that. She’s right, but he looks mighty low to you, probably to keep someone from doing just that. You’ll be real close to the trees.
> “I can do it, Cap’n. The way he’s headed, there’s a decent chance he finds Echo. We can’t afford to lose him, and I ain’t keen on letting him know we’re here.”
>Neither are you. 
>She starts to shallow her spiral, but you shake your head.
> “You’re right. Do it. And let me know if you want to trade.”
>She smirks a little as she pushes the dive back in.
> “What, turn it over to you as soon as the fun starts?”
>You doubt she’s being completely genuine, but you’d be lying to claim it wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted to hear right then.
>A little geforce tugs at you as she pulls out of the dive, fresh speed sending you skimming out over the trees and up your target’s six o’clock, the leaves so close you can see them dancing in the wind.
>It must be at least a hundred feet, but as you settle into a valley you’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel like you could lean out the window and drag your finger through them.
> “You know we’re fucked if we lose an engine right now, right?”
>Whitney nods grimly.
> “Reckon we are.”

>You’ve been shadowing for nearly an hour now, and your target’s white belly still dangles steadily in your eyebrow windows.
>Whitney carves through the valleys with a slow, easy grace that’s difficult not to trust, and after awhile you’d turned away from the greenery whipping by outside and settled to scanning the radio.
>So far there’s been nothing to hear save a Kentucky AM station that peeked through the static maybe twenty minutes ago.
>You’re almost starting to doubt your assumptions. This guy hasn’t been flying any kind of a search pattern. He could be anyone; camouflage would go just as far hiding from pirates as it would being one.  
>But you’ve plotted Echo’s course a few times now yourself. Seventy miles, give or take a few. And definitely closing fast. 
>Much further, and he’ll be in visual range. 
> You can’t shake the feeling he knows exactly what he’s looking for, and has at least some idea of where to find it.
>You’re going to have to find out one way or the other pretty goddamn soon.
> “Hey, Whitney.”
> “Was’up?”
>She doesn’t so much as flick a whisker when she speaks, eyes flashing periodically between the valley and your target with sharp, mechanical focus.
> “We’re going to be in visual range inside twenty minutes. We’re going to have to deal with this.”
> “I know.”
>This time there’s no mistaking the mounting uncertainty in her voice. You wish you had a plan to reassure her with, but so far you haven’t come up with much. There’s no telling what he’s going to do once he knows you’re there. Part of you wants to stay on his six and wait for him to try to call someone with Echo’s location, but it wouldn’t be hard to miss the call, and there was no saying if you could down him in time even if you caught it.
>You decide to give her the best you’ve got.
> “I’ve been thinking we could try to bait him. We could break off and climb, then fly out ahead like we never saw him. Maybe draw him off far enough.”
>Whitney bites her lip.
> “We’d have to turn our backs to him. And then we’ve still got to make our way back to Echo.”
> “Yeah, but we’ve probably got more fuel to burn than he does. We could also just call up Echo and tell them what’s up, but then, if this isn’t on the up and up, we’ve almost certainly got a fight on our hands. It’s your call, Captain Latham.”
> “My call? Is this some kind of test, Anon? Because I’m thinkin’ now ain’t the time.”
>You shake your head eagerly.
> “I just don’t want to make it alone.”
>She curses under her breath.
> “Yeah. We’re supposed to look out for Echo, and I didn’t come out here to do half a job. Let’s fucking do it. Reckon I better get on the gun, huh?”
>You stop just short of agreeing, though it takes you a second to remember why.
>She’s got the stick time on you, and the ribbon games....
> “You good on a mounted gun?”
>She shrugs.
> “I’m good with a regular gun. It’ll have to do.”
> “I mean, I could--”
> “No.”
>Her voice is stern and convicted, and you can’t help being taken a little aback. Your spine electrifies all over again. You hadn’t realized it, but you must have been hoping she’d say yes. Maybe you’d even assumed she would.
>But you’re not getting out of this, are you?
>A strange, numbing fear spreads through your face and hands as if the capillaries in them were icing over.
>But you’d signed up for this, And what the fuck kind of a partner would you be to throw her to the sharks? It’s your airplane, like she said. What about that guy you’re supposed to be? What happened to him? You ain’t a coward, right? You hadn’t thought so.
> “Anon, I don’t know this airplane like you do. I don’t speak her language yet. I don’t know what she feels like when she’s about to stall; I don’t know how much creaking in her wings is too much; I don’t even know if she has fucking aerobatic carbs. I appreciate your faith, but it’s not a good idea. Trade with me.”
>You put on your best brave face and suppress an uneven sigh. You can do this. It wouldn’t be right to make her, and she’s right. But shit, she at least has some idea of what she’s doing; the most aerobatic thing you’ve ever done is fucking spin training.
> “You sure?”
>Her muzzle twists into a grim half-snarl.
> “You made me captain today, and I’m telling you to fucking trade.
>You nod, and she softens a little. 
>You’d done your best to look like you were just being practical. She must have seen right through you though, because she sets a paw on your shoulder.
> “You’re ‘gonna do fine, Cap’n. I’m not going to let him crawl up your six; I promise. We’re going to be okay.”
>The radio smooths out any uncertainty in her voice, but you can’t help noticing that reassuring paw of hers is shaking pretty bad.
> “We’re going to be okay...,” she breathes again, shutting her eyes.
>You get the impression she didn’t mean for that second one to transmit.
>Then she goes so quiet you could swear you can hear your ears ringing over the engines.

>Frustration joins the anxiety in your blood, or maybe it’s disgust.
>Fucking really? 
>You’ve got nothing to say? She needs you; you did enough damage hesitating the way you did! 
>Come on, you’ve got to give her something!
>You’ve got to be who you’re supposed to be.
>But then the radio pops as she pulls her headset jacks, and it’s too late.
>You turn to squeeze that shaking paw instead, but she’s already hauling herself through the aft bulkhead.
> “Godspeed, Cap’n,” she shouts over the engine roar as her tail slips out of sight.
> “Good luck, Whitney,” you call, but there’s no chance in hell she could have heard you.

>So you slide your way back into the left seat and wrap your hand around the yoke, index finger settling onto the transmit button, and middle cuddling up to the trigger guard. 
>No more than a week ago that little cockpit was your whole life, but for some reason it feels awfully cavernous without her pinned awkwardly against you. 
>Lonely cold leaks back in through the windows and warrens, and you zip your jacket the rest of the way. Fifteen long, rusty seconds creak by, your stomach souring with each. Finally the radio pops again and comes alive with a flutter of wind noise.
> “I’m in position, Cap’n. Tailgun’s hot.”
>She pauses, and even over the radio you can make out a little bit of a whimper.
> “Hard to believe this is real, ya’ know? Some days my Ribbon team and I really cleaned up. Fuck, it felt like we were invincible. But this ain’t ‘gonna be like that, is it?”
> “I don’t know, Whitney.”
> “Yeah. Trouble is, I’m pretty sure I do.”
>The radio clicks out with a hollow pop.
>It’s time. 
>You advance the throttles, take a deep breath, and steady your voice.
> “Echo in the blind, Squawking Bird. Contact on my position. Fifty miles west by southwest, closing. Intentions unknown. I’m going to try to draw him off.”
>Any luck and your little camouflaged friend wasn’t monitoring the right frequency to catch what you said, but there’s a good chance he still knows you transmitted something, and that means he knows you’re there. 
>And now he’s sliding by.
>Whatever’s coming, it’s on now.
>You flip up the trigger guard, just in case.
>And then down again, and back up.
>And again.
>Fuck, Whitney isn’t kidding.
>Not a one of them feels real.


Chapter VIII, Fight’s On

>You're out ahead now.
>He hasn't shot you yet, which you suppose is probably best, but you're already starting to wish he would.
>Trouble is, now you can't see him. You can’t see anything, or know anything Whitney doesn't tell you. The tension is so thick it seems to make the propellers chug, and you can’t do a damn thing but wait.
>But her gun hasn't started barking either.
>So the seconds tick by, sky clear before you and engines rattling in your ears over the thud of your heartbeat.
>And on the thirtieth second, you ease into a shallow, climbing turn.
>He’ll either follow or he won't. You can't decide which you'd rather.

> “Got eyes, Whitney?”
> “Seven o’clock high! Nothing yet!”
>It takes you a moment to pick the words from the wreckage of her wind-mangled voice, but you manage.
> “Keep me posted, Kid.”
> “Wilco, Cap’n!”
>She goes quiet, but the transmission stays open. Wind tears over the circuit, growling and gnashing in your ears like some sort of scavenger.
> “Captain? Captain, he’s turning. He's following us.”
> “Good. Keep an eye on him.” 
>It is good, right? It was your plan, wasn't it? And it was working.
>But what about the way her voice trembled just then? Or the way your hand shakes on the yoke?
>If he's taking the bait, why does it feel so goddamn wrong?
>You wedge the throttles another quarter inch into their stops. The manifold pressure needles leap like crickets, and the engines churn just a little harder. Another knot fights its way onto the indicator.

>A minute passes, and then five more.
>There’s nothing but the rattle of engines and the whistle of air around the windows;
>Nothing but a bright, beckoning horizon.
>It’s almost like he isn't even there.
>Like he’s not back there watching you dangle in his gunsight like a fucking christmas ornament.
>It’s almost like you could forget;
>Like it could be like any other day, or even a good one, like you said it would be.
>All you have to do is pretend. He’ll see there's no airship. He’ll break off. It’ll be like nothing ever happened.
>But then there’s the radio.

> “Captain?”
> “What is it, Kid?”
>She holds the key again, the wind folding and tearing around her.
> “He's gaining, Captain. It's slow, but he's gaining.”
>There’s no mistaking the fear in her voice; it drips from the trailing syllables like rotten milk.
> “Captain?”
> “What?”
>You spit the word like a broken tooth.
> “If, uh, if something happens to me, you'll tell my father what happened, won't you?”
>Another mound of dread drops onto your shoulders and buries you a little deeper. You feel it crushing your lungs when you gasp for air.
> “Whitney--”
> “But just the good parts, yeah? Like, if I scream, you can leave that out, ya’ know?” 
> “Just shut up! Okay?”
>A quiet second drips by.
> “Okay, Captain. I, uh, I've got your six. I promise.”
>The radio goes dead, and probably your heart too.
>The strange emotions flooding your mind dry up all at once, and then there’s nothing. 
>Just a numb, tepid sort of terror that seeps through your veins like mercury.

>Ten minutes.
>If Whitney's numbers are good, Echo is somewhere at your 4:30, moving perpendicular.
>You haven’t taken a breath in as long as you can remember, and somewhere deep in your chest your heart twitches and seizes on your blood as if it were drowning in it.
>You suppose this is what it means to be afraid.

>You wouldn’t have to go to war, your uncle had said. Indeed, you hadn’t had to.
>But somehow, here you were anyway.
>Because you were the real deal, or something.
>Yeah.
>But you can do this. You’re not pretending, no matter how much it feels like you are.
>It’s working. He took the bait. You’re just flying an airplane. It’s like any other day. A good one, even. Just don’t panic. Everything will be fine if you just don’t panic. 
>You’ve drawn him off of Echo. You’re a hero. For the first time in your life you’ve done something real and valuable! The whole hangar will pat you on the back and buy you drinks. You’ll help Whitney out of the gun like a proper fucking gentleman and hold her hand until the latent fear drains from her voice, and you, it’ll be like you were never scared at all.
>It’ll be okay.
>You’ll be that guy you’re supposed to be.
>It’s just a matter of--

> “Captain! New bogey! Seven o’clock, high! Same paint! He’s diving; I--, I think he’s--”
>Suddenly the bark of the Browning shatters that little world of yours like so much fine china. The blood flash-freezes in your veins, and for a long, sick second, there’s no actual fear at all.
>It’s just you and the airplane. 
>She dances to the beat of the bolt as it cycles. You can feel it in the rudder; you can feel it in your spine.
>It thuds and clacks over the roar of the engines in somber, angry notes.
>There’s something on the radio, too. A sort of yell.
>You’d like to think it’s a battle cry, but there are tracers outside now. They swarm past the windows like fireflies.
>Something strikes the airplane, and then something else, and three more after. They snap like whips against the metal and carve awkward, fleshy channels from the wood and fabric. The airplane shivers and yelps beneath you, and suddenly you’re sure that yell was a scream.
>And you should do something. You have to do something! What would Ol’ Steve have done? What about the man on the silver screen? 
>You had thought that, in the heat of the moment, you’d know, but you didn’t, and the tracers only come faster and brighter and thicker. He’s diving on you. You swear you can almost hear his engine.
>And what about her? 
>The last notes of that scream are ringing in your ears, but the yoke still shivers with the chatter of the Browning.
>You jam the elevator down, and your assailant blows past you, guns chittering like rabbits’ teeth.

>The engines cough, but then they bark and roar again, and then they start scream.
>The air tears at the wings and windows with a sound like a banshee’s howl. The altimeter spirals in dizzying loops. Your stomach is probably playing your ribcage like a fucking xylophone, but frankly you can’t feel it anymore. 
>He’s out ahead of you of you now, and hauling ass as he pries his way out of the dive.
>You’re losing him fast, but a fine, white mist spouts like a cataract from his starboard wing.
>It’s funny. It’s not even you who shot him, but you can already feel another instinct taking over.
>An angry, predatory instinct.
>You haul on the yoke, and the bones in your spine slam back together. Air spills from your lungs as the muscles in your chest bunch around them, and the whole of your mind and body seems to strain and creak like a deck plank.
>But he’s slower across the window now, and then he’s sliding the other way.
>Sliding into your gunsight as if it were a pitcher plant.
>So you pull, and pull harder as you come level again.
>Harder, even as the airframe creaks and the wind jerks and buffets over the wings.
>Almost there. Another inch. Just enough to lead him. How much do you have to lead anyway? 
>At this range it can’t be much.
>The inch creeps its way in, and you pounce.
>Your wings come to life like firecrackers and the airplane shivers flatly.
>Your tracers leap gaily into the air, but they’re short, so you pull a little harder.
>Harder, even as your airspeed starts to drain.
>And somewhere the Browning sets to thudding again, but you can scarcely hear it over the crackle of the main guns. 
>The wings skip like rocks on the faltering wind. The tips strain to fall and dig but you hold them steady with a dance on the rudder.
>The tracers nip at his horizontal stabilizer. Just another half a degree....
>But then he breaks.
>He rolls right and peels off toward the horizon again.
>You ease the elevator and go for the rudder, but he’s got a lead on you. You’ve got to catch him, and that means you’ve got to pull, so you pull.
>The wings strain and skip again, but it’s just a little further!
>You balance them on the rudder like a pencil on your finger and ease another degree onto the elevator, but then the starboard wing falls.
>It catches the air like an anchor and drags the tail around, and now you’re upside down and you can feel the rudder sliding further and further away.
> The trees twist sickeningly beneath you, but then it’s out with the throttle and stomp on the rudder! At least this you know how to do!
>But the nose comes around again, and then again after that. 
>You can feel him getting away, even as you reign the yaw and force the nose down.
>The spinning stops. You catch your breath and dive for airspeed, your target sailing away and up into the eyebrow windows.

> “Did ‘ja get ‘em?”
>She’s gasping like a landed fish, but that voice is about the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard. You blow a sigh of relief as you drag the nose back to the horizon.
> “You okay, Kid?”
> “Think so, Cap’n. He tore us up a little, but I ain’t hit. You?”
>You glance around for bullet holes and swab your chest to make sure that warm, wet feeling is sweat and not blood.
> “I’m okay, Kid.”
> “Yeah, well I’m pretty sure I tagged him. Did you get ‘em or not? I can’t see shit.”
>You slide into a climbing turn, keeping the vapor trail in the corner of your eye.
> “Afraid not, but I’ve got an eye on him. How many are there?”
> “Count two so far. Other guy’s lining up on our eight. Try not to give him such a fucking clean shot this time, yeah?”
>The relief that’s been working its way through you recedes in a torrent and leaves you hollow. Damn shame; you’d been getting to like it.
>You steepen the bank a little, and then the Browning starts barking all over again.
>He’s got speed on you. No chance in hell you’re going to turn out of this.
>You yank the elevator straight up instead. The wings buffet and skip, but before one can fall you jam on the rudder.
>You seem to hang in the air a second, time grinding by like a rusty worm gear. The Browning fires, pauses, and fires again. Another net of tracers sweeps by. Two more meaty thuds and a whip-crack, but then the wing falls. This time you catch it. Now the trees are rushing to meet you again, but the fighter sails by and swoops out of view.
>The Browning spits a few more tracers. The wind whistles, then rushes, then roars.
>Shit, the trees are close now. A thousand feet at most, and maybe less than that.
>How far did you dive anyway? Too fucking far. You’re hauling ass now: three hundred knots and climbing. Easy on the elevator. Two G’s, then three, and even four. The wings issue a slow, tired groan and your lungs fold limply over your diaphragm, but then the nose is level again and you go skipping out over the treetops, the leaves flashing green and gold beneath you as you ease into another climb. 
>You’re real close to the deck now, and they have the high ground.
>Whatever you do, you’d better not fucking spin. 

> “Cap’n, I got a third bandit! Nine o’clock, high! He ain’t divin’ on us yet, but I reckon he’s making ready. Possible fourth on his wing. That was some fancy fucking flying there Cap’, but we’ve been had! I ain’t sure we can keep this up.”
>Four airplanes? They must have been on you all along. No wonder you’d felt so fucked. 
>You should be terrified, but it seems like your adrenal gland gave up on that awhile ago.
> “Hang in there, Whitney. I’m going to drop Echo a line, then we’re going for the fucker at two-thirty. We’ve just got to keep them on the defensive.”
> “I’m hangin’ ‘Cap. Just wasn’t planning on becoming an ace today, is all.”

>The radio sputters silent again. You seize the moment to gasp for air and rub some of the disbelief out of your head with the back of your thumb.
>This is real.
>It’s real, and you aren’t dead yet.
>And your job is done. You’ve sprung a trap and drawn them off; Echo’s got all the time in the world to prepare, scramble airplanes, and intercept.
>You hope it’s not cowardice to pray they fucking hurry.
>Glancing to Whitney’s navigation figures in the co-pilot seat, you tap the radio.
>Maybe all your panting will disguise the fear in your voice.
> “Echo control, Squawking Bird. Engaging four bandits seventy miles west by southwest: Single engine fighters, woodland camouflage, no identifying markings. One’s hit and leaking fuel. We can probably keep ‘em busy but we need support. Squawking Bird, seventy miles west by southwest, requesting immediate support!” 
>Your thumb slips from the button and the transmission cuts out. You wait with baited breath, listening to the radio hiss over the tumble of the engines while the seconds stretch out like salt water taffy.
> “--aking bird? Sq--king --rd, report!”
>You don’t have any trouble picking the weather man’s voice from the broken signal. He sounds a little more frantic than you’d like, but as far as you’re concerned he might as well be Jesus himself. You throw him another prayer. 
> “I repeat, Squawking Bird is seventy miles west by southwest, engaging four bandits. Do you read?”
> “--ead you, Bird. We’re enroute. What’s your status?”
> “We got tagged pretty good!”
>You can’t quite hold the urgency out of your voice.
 > “Understood, Bird. Support’s on it’s way. We’ll leave the light on for ‘ya.”
>The transmission cuts. The needle of your radio compass springs to life and settles to your two o’clock. 
> “Alright, Echo. I’ve got you to my zero-six-zero at sixty-eight miles. Reckon they’ve got you too. Probably just what they wanted all along.”
> “Don’t you worry about that. Take care ‘a yourself, Bird; ya’ done good.”
>You don’t have to be told twice. 

> “Didn't hang us out to dry, did they?”
>Whitney’s voice makes you jump so hard you kick the rudder. It’s soft but steady.
> “No. Echo’s navigation beacon is up and we’ve got escorts on their way. Thinkin’ we hit our bandit and then see about meeting ‘em halfway, huh?”
> “Okay, Cap’n, but between you and me, I hope they fucking hurry.”
> “They’ll hurry. Still got eyes on our friends? Don’t feel shot yet; what are they up to?”
> “Watchin’ us like fuckin’ vultures. We ain’t puttin’ up much of a fight, and they know it. Hell, I wish they’d just dive already; give me somethin’ to do.”
> “Scared?”
>She pauses a second, wind noise taking over again.
> “Ain't you?”
>You squeeze the yoke as if it were her paw.
> "Better fucking believe it.”
> Her microphone crackles. You cross your fingers that it was laughter and not just the wind.
> “Yeah? Well you sure sound it.”
>You force a half-smile.
> “Well tell ‘em I was cool and calm the whole time, and I won’t tell anyone you screamed.”
> “Deal.”

> “Right. Ready, then?”
> “They ain’t ‘gonna be eager to let us take back any high ground. They’ll be on us as soon as we make a move.”
> “Reckon so.”
> “Yeah, and I reckon I’d rather fight to the death than wait for it. Let’s show ‘em we ain’t just sharkbait.”
>There’s a hint of steel in her voice, even as it trembles. You savor it as you firewall the throttles and raise the nose again.
>The altimeter’s winding, but it’s just like she said. The first two aircraft break and roll into a dive. 
>You’d thought you were getting used to it, but your stomach ties itself in knots all over again.
> “Whitney, we’ve got--”
> “I see ‘em, Cap’n.”
>There’s a grim certainty in her words.

>It’s strange. You could swear you’re fucking dreaming.
>They’re diving on you again. Diving fast. 
>They dive until their tracers leap and spray in showers around you.
>They dive until you can count the muzzle flashes rippling up and down their wings.
>Here come those sick, fleshy thuds again, and the ring of denting metal.
>Here comes the chug of the browning.
>They’re close, and coming right at you.
>So close you could almost look them in the eyes, or shoot them there if only you could drag the nose a little further.
>The tracers only get thicker.
>Any one of them could kill you; you suppose it’s only luck that they don’t.
>But they’re head-on this time, so it’s you in the crosshair.
>You instead of her.
>You’d hoped that, in the heat of the moment, you’d be glad that was so. You’d also been terrified that you wouldn’t be.
>But here you are, maybe about to die. Maybe probably. And you’ll be damned if you aren’t fucking thankful.
>Just like you thought you should be.
>Like the man in the moving pictures. 
>And this time you actually have a little airspeed to play with.
>It’s not much, but it must be more than they bargained for, because now you have the room to drag your crosshair where you need it.
>So you drag it and squeeze the trigger, and in that strange, hazy, glacial second, you know exactly what it feels like to be the Sheriff Marty Wales.

>You’re on the far side of a hammerhead by the time you come to your senses, vision swimming and flashing with pulses of blood.
>The engines belch over the ringing in your ears, and a damp, icy wind shrieks through constellations of holes and cracks in the canopy.
>You’re freezing cold, and a distant, aching pain shouts from somewhere in your left shoulder.
>Are you hit? You’d like to know, but you’re not sure where you’re going to find the time to check.
>The lead aircraft is back in your eyebrow window, and this time he’s trailing thick, black smoke. The trees are right in front of you again, and rushing to meet you as fast as ever.
>And there’s something else, too. A voice.
>Whitney.
>She’s screaming your name.

>You try to pull on the yoke, but the pain barks and snarls and kicks you onto your back again.
>You gather yourself and reach with the other hand. You manage to snag it, but it slides limply into your lap.
>It takes nearly a second for that to register amid the cacophony filling your mind, and the instant it does, you wish you’d just died without figuring it out.
>This can’t be real. Not on your first sortie. It can’t just be over; not like this.
>But you pull and push and then pull again. You pull until the yoke threatens to tear from the panel, and still the nose doesn’t do so much as jostle. 
>And then you know it’s got to be real.
>The elevator control cable’s been shot clean through.
>You’re low, in a dive, and you have no elevator. The trees are big and green and fast now. They seem to reach up from the Earth to swallow you.
>Your mind and body flash with horror, but it’s gone as soon as it came.
>Then it’s like you’re feeling everything and nothing all at once.
>You are going to die like this, and so is she.
>...poor kid.

> “Anon! Anon, can you hear me?”
>Suddenly an old, familiar weight slides into your gut.
>At first you think it’s just fear taking hold of you, or maybe death itself, but then the trees start to slew by.
>They slew faster and faster. The wings groan and shudder above you, but then the horizon comes around again and they quiet their whimpering.
>Somewhere in the corner of your eye you catch that thick, black plume as it falls away beneath you, twirling like a maple key until it’s swallowed by the trees.
> “Holy fuck, Anon! Holy fuck, I was sure we were ‘gonna die!”
>Whitney’s crouched awkwardly beside you, the steel gone from her voice and her eyes wild and wet with terror and tears. She’s shaking like a chihuahua, but she’s got the elevator trim wheel seized in one paw, and in the other, the yoke.
> “I’ve got ‘er Anon, now talk to me! Where, and how bad? Can ‘ya tell?”
>You wedge your foot into the floorboards and hike yourself back up in the seat. Your shoulder screams at you again; you grab hold of it before you can gather the breath to speak.
> “Well what is it? You hit or what, Cap’n?”
>She swats your hand away, not waiting for your reply. Her eyes widen as she pulls your jacket lapel back.
> “Fuck.”
>A shiver ripples through her fur.
> “Fuck. Anon, you think you can still keep hold of ‘er? Elevator’s fucked. We’ve got trim, but I reckon they’ll be on us again ‘afore long. We ain’t ‘gonna be doing any fancy flying on a goddamn trim tab. We’re a sitting duck. I can’t take over. I can’t leave the gun; they’ll kill us for sure! I--”
>Finally you gasp for air, burying the pain as far in the back of your mind as you can get it.
> “I can fly.”
>She drops the yoke, then squeezes your hand as you trade the trim wheel. Her eyes flash in the sun as she turns to you, retinas wet and sparkling.
> “Tell me we’re ‘gonna be okay, Cap’n.” 
> “Huh?”
> “Just tell me we’re going to make it out of this. Please. It don’t have to be the truth; just tell me.”
>You flinch and grip her a paw a little tighter. Your mind is a blur at best, but you fight to assemble the words.
> “Whitney, you just saved our li--”
> “Tell me, Cap’n! Please!”
>If she’d been trying to keep herself from crying, she certainly isn’t anymore.
>You swallow a frog in your throat.
> “We’re ‘gonna be okay, Kid.”
>She nods silently, then slips free.

>Tributaries of hot, sticky blood creep their way under the collar and cuff of your undershirt. They smear like syrup on your skin as you drag yourself back to the yoke, but already you can feel the pain dulling behind a fever-like chill. 
>You’ve been in shock before. You couldn’t have said you missed it, but right about now you suppose it’s the best thing you can hope for. 
>The last thing you need right now is pain.
>The trim wheel is meant to hold the nose still, not move it around, It doesn’t unwind the way the yoke does, and flying with it feels like you’re making suggestions at best. 
>Two, then three times you chase the bobbing of the nose as the airplane porpoises beneath you, and even as you wrangle it, you can’t quite bring yourself to feel in control. 
>One turn too many and you might not have time to dip out of a stall.
>One turn too many might kill you, and so might one too few.
>But Whitney’s slid back into the turret collar, and already the weight shift has the nose bobbing all over again.
>You suppose it’s probably best not to think too much. There’s nothing left to do but fly.

> “You okay up there, Cap’n?”
>She speaks with a loud, raspy pant and a voice that trembles like pudding. 
> “I’m okay, Kid. What’s our status.”
> “It’s..., it’s bad, Cap’n. Right wing’s torn half to hell. The aileron’s flopping ‘round like a wing-broke crow and we’re pissing fuel. Cut crossfeed if you ain’t already, and for the love of god, please tell me there’s still fuel in the other tank.”
> You hadn’t had time to check. You glance over, and suddenly your throat runs dry.
> The needle’s dancing like a drunkard, but even at its highest it scantly reads more than a quarter tank. 
>It’s something, but not much. Not for two engines. Not for long.
>You swallow again and fight for confidence.
> “We’ve got fuel, Whitney.”
>You suppose that isn’t a lie, but it sure as hell feels like one.
> “Right. Well, I’m sitting on about eight hundred rounds back here. Ain’t a lot, but I reckon it’ll have to do. Not like we got a lotta’ options, ‘ya know?”
> “I know, Kid. We’re bolting for Echo now, just as fast as we can.” 
>You double check the radio compass; to your relief there isn’t much correction to be done.
> “How far?”
> “‘Bout 50 miles. Reckon our angels will be here ‘fore long.”
> “Hope you’re right, Cap’n. That was a hell of a kill you made, and I’d sure like to make it through this to buy you a drink.” 
>Another frog forces its way into your throat and makes you swallow again.
> “Really wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Kid.”
> “Yeah, well they’re already comin’ about. ‘Gonna be on us again any minute.”
> “We’ll make it. Just be ready.”
> “Better believe I am, Cap’n. Just ain’t trippin’ ammo.”


>You force the throttles in and shallow the props until they scream against their redlines. The temperature gauges soar and another couple of knots wind onto the airspeed indicator. It’s not much, but at this point you don’t need much. The escorts can’t be more than twenty miles away, and maybe as few as ten. A knot could make all the difference. 
>The trouble is the bandits squaring up behind you, and two of them are still high enough to dive.
>They’ll catch you for sure, and this time you won’t be able to do anything fancy.
>They’ll settle in behind you, and when they find their mark, they won’t lose it.
>Then the only thing between you and their tracers will be Whitney and hers.
>You suppose she knows that as well as you do.

> “Hey Kid, how you holdin’ up back there?”
> “Reckon about as well as you, Cap’n.”  
> “Can't say that inspires a lot of confidence.”
> “Don't reckon it does. Ain't ever been scared like this, but I ain’t ‘gonna freak out on you. I swear.”
> “Hey, I didn't--”
> “Yeah 'ya did, and I don't blame 'ya. But I’m with ‘ya to the end, Cap’n. Really. Still lookin’ to make it out of this.”
> “Just checkin’, Whit. I trust you.”
> “Trust you too, Cap’n.”
> “See you on the other side then, huh?”
> “Reckon so.”

>The trees are closer than you’d like, and they sweep by startling fervor. Beneath you the airplane bobs, swerves, and shimmies through the air like a sick and listless dolphin. Your hands and tailbone shake with the shiver of the wind as it falters over the tears in the wing, and in the throw of the yoke you can feel the shattered aileron dead and dragging.
>It’s a strange, sick feeling, like that time you fell from the ladder in the barn and that bone in your leg broke clean through your skin.
>You even hadn’t felt anything, but you’d looked and seen your shin bent back so far you could have passed for Avalonian yourself.
>Your stomach had seized right then. The blood hadn’t seeped through the denim of your jeans yet; hell, you’d scarcely processed what happened, but you saw it, and felt an emotion you’d never felt before. You’d only ever been able to describe it as feeling wrong. Not painful; not frightening. Just wrong. 
>Then you’d never felt it again. 
>Not until today.

>But now that wingtip dips and drags just the way your shin had, and even with the throttle firewalled, it seems you can do nothing more than crawl.
>It’s funny: No matter how much Ol’ Steve had liked to talk that way, you hadn’t quite started personifying the airplanes you wrenched on or flew. Even Whitney seemed to do that, but you’d never thought to call your pretty little hunk of grease and aluminum “she” the way he had. It had always struck you quaint before, but an eager surge of wind gut-punches those torn and bleeding wings, and suddenly you’re sure you can hear Her scream.
>You grip the yoke a little tighter and stroke its curves with the blunt of your thumb.
> “It’s gonna’ be alright sweetie. Just hold on a little longer for me, okay?”
>You suppose it doesn’t mean anything, but you’ll be damned if she doesn’t seem to straighten up a little.

>Echo’s close enough to see now.
>The grey of her skin shines faintly on the horizon, beckoning you.
>From here she’s no bigger than a grain of rice, but still she looks like salvation. 
>You can’t see the escorts, but they must be close. 
>They’d better be, because at this rate you might not have much longer. 
>One of the higher bandits dove a minute or two ago. He must have been lagging behind though, because it wasn’t quite enough to catch you. 
>He’s trailing by maybe a mile now, but he’s certainly gaining, and his partner is keeping pace further above. 
>No doubt that one could catch you right now, but you suppose he’s holding off until he can split your attention.
>Waiting to draw your tailgunner’s fire so his partner can put a bullet through her.
>But you aren’t going to let that happen.
>The thought of it sends anger spilling through your blood until you swear you can feel it frothing.
>She deserves better than that.
>God knows how, but you aren’t going to let him touch her. 
>The man on the silver screen wouldn’t.
>Marty Wales wouldn’t. 
>And you aren’t so worthless yourself, are you?
>You’d shot one down. Maybe killed him. 
>Anon and Whitney don’t just roll over and die--.

> “Hey, Cap’n?”
>You cling as hard to that train of thought as you can, but you can feel it slipping through your fingers.
> “What’s up? They on us?”
> “Reckon it won’t be long now, but that ain’t what I mean to say.”
>You aren’t sure what to expect anymore, but there’s something in her voice you can’t bring yourself to ignore. You steel yourself for it.
> “Shoot.”
> “Listen, I get what you were sayin’, and I ain’t lookin’ to talk doom. We got a minute here before this all gets decided, though, and while we got it, I just wanted to say I ain’t sorry I signed up.”
> “Wha’cha mean?”
> “‘Gonna level, Cap’n, I ain’t sure what I was expecting. Guess I thought I’d be able to handle it when the time came; guess maybe I am. But I meant what I said before. I reckon we make a real good team, and I want you to know that, whatever we’re about to do, I’m glad we’re ‘gonna it do together. They could’a paired me with anyone, but they paired me with you, and that means the world to me. We ain’t known each other long, but I’m proud to call you partner. Thought you ought to know that.”
>You draw the breath to rebuke her, but the words fall flat in your mouth. You cast them off and squeeze the yoke again.
> “Me too, Kid.”

>Silence falls like a sack of potatoes. 
>You’re back in the cockpit again, whistling wind tearing away the last few grains of whatever you’d been trying to focus on.
>The fear doesn’t waste any time inching back up your spine. Already you can feel yourself hanging in their sights again, the bores of their machine guns digging into your back like cougar's claws.
>Your heart is getting ready to trip over itself again, but this time something freezes the terror before it can grip you, and it falls away in shards.
>Whitney’s laugh crackles over the radio like a raven’s.
> “‘Gonna be kinda’ awkward once we’re on the far side of this, ain’t it?”
>You suppose it probably is.
> “Believe me, Whitney; I can’t wait.”
> “Won’t be long now,” she chirps, “I’m about to get back to work.”
>You don’t get a second thought before the Browning rings out again.


>The tracers come, but they’re different this time. They’re slow now, and they arc past you in sparse, sloppy trajectories. They seem to fade in and out as your pursuer weathers Whitney’s fire, but this is only the beginning.
>The wind rushes and the seconds tick. On the horizon you catch the glimmer of a canopy. It’s close, but not close enough. For one last time, you’re on your own.
>A new set of tracers sails in from above, and you tighten your grip on the trim wheel.
>The other is diving on you. Whitney can’t shoot two targets; he’s gunning for her.
>Then you feel it again. The anger. It comes back in like a bore tide and surges through the strange, disparate tidepools that have been gathering in your mind, and suddenly it’s very clear.
>This is it. All or nothing.
>You’re not going to let them hurt her.
>You flick the trim wheel as hard as you can and send it sailing. 

>The nose bucks and rears like a bronco beneath you, and the world falls away at once.
>Your stomach slides back onto your spine and your shoulder shudders. The sky spreads its maw for you, and as you flop onto your back, it seems to swallow you up in the blue.
>You hear the sickly thud of an impact, and then the scream of an engine as it passes, but now there’s nothing in the windows but daylight as pure and clear and cold as glacial melt. 
>It washes through the tattered windows and churns around you, stirring papers, pens, and maps as you cross over the apex and gravity fails them.
>You fall limply into the top of your harness and your shoulder screams in agony, but now and it’s just you and the guy behind you. 
>No fancy flying your ass.
>The both of you are dangling inverted by the last few knots of your airspeed, but now there’s only one of him. His partner was moving far too fast to follow you, and now he’s sailing right off to meet your escorts. You’ve only one target left.
>Whitney can shoot one target.
>So now you’re hanging there like scraps of meat, torn between the bright, blue sky, and the teeth of the land beneath you.
>He must have a shot, because tracers dance like embers all around you.
>And Whitney must, because the browning clanks and thuds with the fast, steady rhythm of an angry blacksmith.
>And you wait, seconds passing as slow as your airspeed.
>You wait as the wings falter and the nose drops.
>You wait as the trees come around in the windows again, and as you fall forward against the harness.
>You tap your finger to the rhythm of the gun, and you wait.
>All or nothing.

>Now the trees fill the window again. They’re big and close and coming fast, but you need speed and that means diving. You flick the wheel back and the nose dips back on itself. It’s almost far enough to throw you back the other way, but you catch it, and as the airspeed builds you flick it around again.
>Another buck, and a shimmy as the wings strain on the wind.
>A low, desperate groan rings in the metal as the nose struggles for the horizon.
>The trees are so close you could touch them. If you make it it won’t be by much.
>The gun fires. The wings shake. The engines rattle and pound and so do your heart and head.
>All or nothing.
>The trees swing by, and then they fall away again. 
>You scramble back over the trim wheel before it can pull you into a stall and kill you.
>You spin it, the nose dips, and then you’re climbing shallow and gaining airspeed.
>There’s something on the radio, too. 
>A shout.
>An angry, desperate, exhilarated shout.
>Even over the radio it rings as clear as a bell:

> “I got ‘em Cap’n! I fucking got ‘em! Eat shit you son-of-a-bitch!”
>As far as you’re concerned, those words are fucking poetry.

>She’s beside you again before you know it.
>Her eyes are wild and her fur matted. Her tail is seizing like a dying snake, and she’s shaking so bad that she misses the yoke the first time she reaches for it.
>Still she settles as best she can, then reaches a paw your way to take the trim from you.
> “I’ve got ‘er, Cap’n. I’ll put her back on the deck; don’t you worry.”
>For as much as her voice still shivers and stumbles, there’s a certainty in it you can’t help but trust. You let yourself collapse back into the seat.

>You feel your shoulder now. You feel it a lot. 
>It screams at you loud enough you have to fight to stay quiet yourself, and then loud enough that you can’t quite manage. 
>She glances your way when you yelp, but the airplane bucks and calls her back.
> “Well, it don’t sound like you’re passin’ out on me yet.”
>There’s some humor in her voice, but it’s bogged down in enough concern that you can barely hear it. You grit your teeth.
> “Reckon not.”
> “Ain’t dizzy, are you?”
>You hadn’t thought to check, but at this point you doubt you could tell anyway.
> “I’m fine. Just fly, okay?”
> “I’ll be gentle.”
> “That’s real sweet of ‘ya Whitney, but forget about me. This’ll be your first time landing on an airship, won’t it? Worry about that.”
> “Only two fewer than you. Have a little faith, Cap’n.”
> “You’ll be doing it with a trim wheel.”
>She shrugs.
> “Didn’t say it was going to be easy to be gentle; just said I would be. Now talk to me, Cap’n. How you feelin’? Reckon anything’s broke?”
>Your shoulder feels like a truck hit it, and blood smears your skin as thick and sticky as rotten jam. Somewhere in the distance the nerves in your arm sing like cicadas, but their buzzing is muffled and far away. 

>You’ve been shot. Actually shot. With a bullet from a gun. You'd never thought it would happen to you, but you suppose nobody ever does. 
>So is it as bad as you thought it would be? You aren’t sure.
>You’d have liked to have been one of those guys who goes the whole battle without realizing he’s been hit, or, better yet, one of those guys who goes on fighting like nothing happened because he has a job to do.
>You suppose you’re doing your best, but the truth is you’re frightened. 
>It can’t be that bad, right?
>Surely it can’t, but still your mind calls up the image of that poor sap you saw stabbed in the alley, and the way he clutched at his wound and bled all around his fingers just like you are.
>Maybe he thought it wasn’t that bad, right up until his eyes had rolled back. You hadn’t wanted to watch, but you’d been too scared to turn away.
>You fight the thought out of your mind, but for every ounce of adrenaline that leaks out of your blood, another dose of anxiety bubbles to the surface. 
> “I ‘dunno. Collar might be broke. Shoulder hurts like hell; arm feels kinda’ fucky, too.”
>She must have heard it in your voice, because she releases the trim wheel and sets her paw on the back of your hand.
> “That was some good fucking flying, Cap’n. Reckon you saved my life more ‘n once today. Thought they could make quarry of us, but we fuckin’ showed 'em, huh?”
>You give in and let yourself squeeze her paw a little. The fear takes a few steps back.
> “We sure did.”
> “Told 'ya we make a good team! Now hang in there, okay? Won’t be long now.”
>You suppose it won’t, because suddenly Echo’s great gray skin slides in and fills the eyebrow windows, and the cockpit falls into shadow. The airplane thumps over the border of Echo’s wake like a set of railroad tracks, and then the air is rough but steady.

>Meter by meter you edge your way to the hangar, and then finally the wingtips pass the threshold and you find yourself inside. 
>For a few long seconds you hover unsteadily between the walls. They seem a lot closer than they do when you have your hand on the yoke, but, even as the wind shudders over the torn, bleeding wings, Whitney's paws are steady and sure. 
>Maybe it's the shock talking, but in that moment she’s a work of art. 
>The light filtering in from the front of the bay paints the white in her fur in copper and goldenrod, and the trim wheel rolls under her claw with expert, easy grace.
>The both of you would die if she screwed it up, but you know she won’t.
>Every move she makes is as firm, confident, and delicate as a surgeon’s. 
>Every line of her muzzle and every tuft of fur is sharp, beautiful, and poised.
>You don’t know how, but she’ll do what she said she’d do.
>Somehow, despite everything, she’ll set the both of you down like she’s been doing it all her life.
>She’ll even be--
>The world explodes with a bark like a walrus, and your spine slams back together again. 
>You reach out to brace on the panel, but your arm shrieks with pain, and then shrieks louder as the left wing dips and throws you into your seat restraint.
>There’s an impact then, and then a crack of thunder and a horrible, angry roar.
>Hangar whirls into a blur around you. 
>The props scream and the tires squeal. 
>Even in the chaos you can feel meaty tentacles of wind snaring your wings, and hear the grinding of metal as they drag you back along the deck.
>Whitney jams the throttles and the props pulse and churn and clatter.
>But then something changes.
>They falter over still air and drag you forward.
>Suddenly you’re free from the wind rushing over the runway, and then she’s caught the spin with a jam on the rudder.
>Suddenly the rush is gone, and then the grind and roar.
>And you limp into the hangar bay on rough and squeaking wheels.
>The engines cough and shudder to a stop, and Whitney collapses into her seat, body limp and quivering.

>The silence is heavy with the engines gone, and exhaustion settles over you like a lead blanket.
>You slump back into your seat and listen to the quiet sobbing of your wounded airplane:
>The steady trickle of fuel onto the deck.
>The tired ticking of overheated engines.
>The whimper of hinges limp in their travel.
>You find yourself stroking the panel with your good hand.
> “I’m sorry, girl. I did the best I could.”
>The airplane doesn’t reply, but something squeezes your arm instead.
> “You okay, Cap’n?”
>You wiggle free and take hold of Whitney’s paw yourself.
> “Yeah. You?”
>She locks eyes with you, but only manages half a nod before her gaze tumbles to the floor.
> “I’m real sorry, Anon. I tried to set her down real nice and neat, but I guess I wasn’t slow enough. I thought I was being careful comin’ in hot like that, but the wind took her as soon as the wheels touched. She started porpoising and-- and I tried to keep ‘er from stallin’, but when I was goin’ for the trim wheel she started rollin’, and I--.”
>Something snaps in your mind. Your shoulder feels like someone’s driving nails into it, but you twist in your restraints and throw your good arm over her, then pull so tight that her sentence trails off with a squeak. 
> “Thanks for flyin’, Kid.”
>And you aren’t sure why, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to let go of that wind-torn fur.


Chapter IX, First Time for Everything

> “So are you two making out or something? Because I could come back if this isn’t a good time.” 
>You haven’t known him long, but you’d know Tucker’s voice anywhere. 
>He was at least your age, and maybe older, but somehow it seemed like he’d hidden away in a tree house and adulthood had passed him right on by. 
>There was an energy in his words you hadn’t heard since those long summers down by the river, fishing, swimming, and sneaking beer and cigarettes; and a cadence in them that rang as loyal as it did naive. 
>You’re sure as hell glad to hear it, even if the comment sends a worm of embarrassment sneaking past the dying fear to tickle the base of your spine.
> “Hey, Tucker.”

>The canvas top peels back and Tucker flops over the window frame, bright, blue eyes wide with excitement.
> “That was really somethin’! I broke off to escort you in, Anon. I saw everything! Two kills! One for each of 'ya, huh? How's it feel?”
>Your nerves might be worn bare, but that wild grin of his is infectious. Bit by bit the dead fear falls away like drying mud, and suddenly you're smiling too.
>You really had done it, hadn't you?
>You'd been through a fight, and you'd won! You'd won against the odds!
>He reaches his hand to you, and you shake it as heartily as you can manage.
> “Guess it feels pretty good.”
> “Hell yeah, it does. You really showed those pirates what-for! Now come on, guys, drinks on me!”
>He seizes on the handshake to haul you up, but you stop him before he can.

> “Hold up, Tucker.” 
> “What?”
> “I'm shot.”
> “No shit. You look pretty good for being shot. Where 'ya hit?”
> “Shoulder.”
> “So you ain't about to die on me, then? Sweet. Well I'll grab a ladder for 'ya and help you outta’ there. What about you, Whitney? You okay?”
>She doesn't say anything, but she squeezes your wrist and nods an affirmative. 
> “Well don't you lovebirds get too crazy now. Back in a jiffy.”
>Tucker flashes another grin and ducks out. 

>Silence settles again, but not so oppressively now that you’re holding her. Your shoulder throbs and the wing drips, but drop-by-drop the dread leaks from your lungs until you cough, wheeze, and finally breathe again.
>Whitney's still got your wrist. You can feel her shaking, and so are you, but the putrid dread is gone.
>You squeeze a little tighter, and dig your fingers into her jacket as if it were her fur.
> “Sure you're okay, Kid?”
> She nods hastily. 
> “Don't mind me, Cap’n. I ain't hurt. Just got a little worked up, is all.”
> “That was some quick thinking and good shooting back there. Be dead in a heap of metal right now if it weren't for you.”
>She smiles.
> “Reckon that's so. Fucking better have been, too, given I'm shaking like a little puppy. Make for a hell of a coward if I didn't have anything to show for it.”
> “You clearly ain't a coward, Kid. I saw what happened out there; wouldn’t have blamed you if you panicked, but you didn’t.”
> “Yeah, yeah. Just rather not be seen like this, ya’know? Got this image in my head where I step out there all proud and regal and regale everyone with stories of our heroism. I know that probably ain’t how it usually goes, but I’d like to do better than complete nervous wreck.”
>You return her grin and pat her shoulder.

> “Me too, but I guess we’ll do it together.”
> “You won’t tell anyone I screamed, right?”
> “Don’t look at me, Kid. I heard a battle cry.”
>She shuffles a little closer and sets her head on your shoulder, then she smiles, perhaps a little wryly.
> “Thanks, Cap’n. And you were cool and composed throughout the whole thing. Didn’t so much as whimper when they hit ‘ya. ‘Course you’ll have to put on a good show for the medic if you ‘wanna sell that one. Won’t be able to hold your hand or nothin’.”
> “Shut it, Whitney.”
>She laughs, her face brightening.
> “You don’t sound so bad. How’s it feel?”
> “Worse by the minute.”
>The laughter drains form her voice as quickly as it came. When she speaks again, it’s the softest you’ve heard her.
> “Shit, Cap’n. Bleedin’ bad?”
> “Sure is a lot of it. Ain’t dead yet, though.”
>She presses a little further into the crook of your neck.
> “Well, I ain’t a doctor, but I’m here no matter what. You got that?”
>She wrenches her arm free and takes your hand in her paw.
>Maybe it’s her touch, or the way she says it, but for the first time since you took off this morning, you actually feel secure. 
> “Thanks, Kid.”

> “Okay, okay. Break it up, you two.”
>Whitney yelps and shoots Tucker a look, but her grip on you doesn't waiver. He just shrugs.
> “Doc’s on his way. Can 'ya stand, Anon?”
>You're pretty sure, but you shuffle your feet to make certain.
> “Stand, yeah. Climb, probably not. But between you and Whitney....”
>He nods, grin softening.
> “Alright. You ready?”
>He reaches you a hand again; this time you take it.
> “Let's get it over with.”
>Whitney pats your shoulder.
> “Right behind 'ya, Cap’n.”

>He pulls. Your shoulder screams. You probably do too.
>But then you're over the edge.
>Then on the ladder.
>Then the ground.
>The blood drains from your head, and your balance goes with it. Your nerves dull and your muscles twitch, but, true to her word, Whitney's back under your arm and supporting you before you get the chance to stumble.
> “I gotcha’ Cap’n.”
>You're glad she does.

> “So what's it like, being shot?”
>You come to your senses lying supine on a stack of ammunition boxes, your head on Whitney's lap and Tucker standing over you. He’s slouched a little, and favoring a shoulder as if he were leaning on something. His right hand is hooked in his pocket by the thumb, fingers tapping uneasily at the denim of his trousers.
> “Well how ‘bout it, Anon?”
>Whitney shoots him a bit of a glare. He seems to notice, but the truth is you feel a little better hearing him make light of it. You shuffle through a plethora of incidents buried in your memory and build the best comparison you can.
> “Like getting hit with a sledgehammer that's also a branding iron. Can't say I recommend it.”
>He winces visibly, shifting his weight to the other foot, and then the other shoulder.
> “Newest guy on the ship, and you got the best story already, huh?”
> “Reckon we do, Tucker. Look forward to tellin’ it.”
>He nods.
> “Well, I’ll see you then, Anon. In the meantime, it’s back to work. Doc’ll be about here; don’t let ‘em keep ‘ya too long.
>He pulls his flying cap back down over his dirty brown hair and trots off, pausing a few paces out to throw you a sloppy sort of salute.
> “And careful with the pain meds; we’re still getting drunk tonight!”
>Then he’s gone, eager footsteps echoing through the hangar until an engine roars to life and drowns them out.

> “So, what’ll it be, Cap’n?”
>You sigh, a bit of embarrassment rising to meet the pain. 
> “I'm fine, Kid. You can let go.”
>She drops your hand.
>You hate to admit it, but it feels awfully empty without her.
>But you’re the real deal, ain’t you?
>So you crack your knuckles, grit your teeth, and haul yourself back up, hiding the howling pain behind a false grin and clenched fist.
>She sidles respectfully to the far side of the crates and wraps her tail around behind her. Then she draws her flask and drains the remainder in a long, drawn-out gulp.
> “Hell of a day. Tough to imagine getting used to this, you know?”
>Her whiskers twitch as the liquor hits her, then they sag like cattails.
>You shake your head.
>“Can't be like this all the time.”
> “Between you 'n me, Cap’n, I fucking hope not.”
>She starts to say something more, but the snap of a door latch interrupts her.
> “So which one of you is shot?”
>The ship’s doctor bares a few teeth in a grin he must have rehearsed in a mirror, the antiseptic sheen of his canines startling against the charcoal of his coat.

>He's a wolf, you think, but a scrawny one. He moves with a gait caught somewhere between confidence, anxiety, and a primal sort of fascination; his unkempt fur sifting over the collar of his sharp, white coat, and tail dragging along behind him like a horsehair cable. A pair of silver spectacles perches on his muzzle and makes beady, insectoid images of the amber eyes behind them. There’s a false sort of order to it all that rubs you the wrong sort of way. It might have been enough to scare you a little, only you were sure you could have decked him as easy as the wind blows.

> “The human?”
>His eyes light up and the edges of his muzzle curl, and as they do you can’t help a few crystals of ice forming in your blood.
> “My lucky day,” he chirps, gesturing to the blood stain starting to soak into your jacket around the shoulder, “You’ll, uh, have to pardon my excitement; I'm sure it sucks. It’s just that I never got a good look a human before.”
>Suddenly you aren't quite as used to the idea of being shot as you were a minute ago. Your heart crawls back into your throat, only to tear itself halfway between fear and sympathy.
> “It’s no big deal, just hurry, okay?”
>Whitney casts you a knowing look, but stays mercifully silent.
>“Right. How would you rate the pain?”
>The doctor pauses and pops the latches in his briefcase, then looks back up at you from behind the lid.
> “Research,” he explains, suddenly timid, “so be honest.”
>You shake your head, a little frustration joining the anxiety.
> “I 'dunno, man. A lot? I'd really rather cut to the chase, if it's all the same to you.”
> “Sorry, sorry. It’s just, well, I’ve been writing a dissertation, and--.”
>Whitney casts him the same glare she did you before leveling her gun the door lock. His muzzle shuts faster than a mouse trap. 
>His eyes are a bit more apologetic when they meet yours again. This time he produces a pair of bulky sheers, and then finally bends over you.
> “Jacket's ruined anyway.”
>He sets to cutting, humming a tune you don’t quite recognize as he works.

>It's nothing at first, but the longer you sit there the more the pain starts to get to you.
>And maybe you are a little dizzy, now that you think about it.
>But you're psyching yourself out.
>You know you are, but the longer he cuts the more your senses seem to swirl. 
>The pain’s pretty bad now. It breaks over you in waves, each set pressing a little harder than its predecessor.
>But that’s a good thing, right?
>You’re pretty sure. 
>But then he’s done cutting, and you yelp as the jacket falls away.
>He leans in then, squinting as he gets close. His breath is hot and sticky on the wound. It makes you almost sick to feel it, and sicker as you catch sight of the blood pooling and drying there in the reflection of his glasses. 
>It was hard to imagine, having your insides laid bare to the world like that. Despite the pain, you could scarcely believe they were. That had been good enough before, but you hadn't had a good look at it before. Now you had. If whitney were still holding your hand, you'd probably have crawled into it and hid, but for now you look away and count the seconds.

> “Aw, that’s nothing. Tagged the bone, but nothing scary. 'Gonna have to poke around a little to see how bad the fragmentation is, though.”
>That doesn't sound like a lick of fun to you, but you're already drunk on relief.
> “Just, uh, be careful, okay?”
>You drop your head back on the ammo boxes. This time it lands on a folded towel. The doctor comes back with a prod and forceps, looking a little more at ease with the tools seized in his paws.
> “Uh, maybe squeeze or bite on something; I ‘dunno.”
>He shrugs, and you look away. It's not five seconds before you feel him dig in.

>It's about the strangest thing you ever felt, someone picking at you like that. It’s like peeling a scab again and again, each little tag running a little deeper than the last until he's forging into you with all the rhythms, twists, and jerks of a bird picking at carrion. You can feel the metal deep inside you, probing somewhere nerves were never meant to feel. But if you don't think, and you don't look, it's almost like it isn't happening. You look to Whitney instead; she replies with a good-natured wave.

> “Okay, yeah. It's chipped, not broken. Got some bone shards in here we've got to deal with though. And the bullet, too.  Looks like a .30 caliber; lucky you. Wanna’ keep it?”
>Damn right you want to keep it.
> “You got it out already?”
> “Nah, not yet. Trust me; you'll know.”
>Somehow the warmth of the laugh in his voice makes it all the more chilling.
>He goes back to digging. You’re almost used to it, only the next tug feels like he thrust a broken bottle in you and twisted. Had you been ready, maybe you wouldn't have screamed. But you weren’t ready at all. He pats you on the shoulder.
> “Thought we’d start with the bad one.”
>He's at it again before you can reply. 

> “Say, this bruise here isn't from today, is it?”
>He prods the bruise from the cargo bay with his off-hand, the dominant one still pecking at you like some sort of corvid.
> “No.”
> “Looks like armor trauma; like you got shot in a plate or something. That so? You pick that up in the raid the other day?”
>You weigh your options.
> “Reckon I did, yeah.”
>He just shrugs.
> “These things seem awful attracted to you for a new guy. Think Ol’ Noah might have it out for 'ya.”
>Another pull. This time it feels like he broke your collar like a goddamn wishbone, but you manage to contort the latter half of the scream into some sort of expletive.
>Your eyes open in time to catch him bouncing the mushroomed bullet in his paw before letting it clatter to the tray.
> “Don’t worry, I won’t ask. Whatever’s going on, I guess they want to keep it quiet. Kind of freaks me out, but Cap’n Walker’s a good guy. I don’t think he’d steer us wrong.”
>You swallow the pain as he digs back in.

> “You know ‘em?”
>The doctor nods, eyes flashing a bit warmer.
> “Been shipping with him since I got out of the Army. Paying for school that way. Almost done now, though.”
> “And you trust ‘em, do ‘ya?”
>This time it’s Whitney’s voice cutting in, which you can’t help resenting a little. You’d been appreciating the distraction. 
>The doctor nods firmly.
> “This your first trip?”
>She shrinks a little.
> “Yeah.”
> “Notice how you sleep full nights and not in four-hour shifts, and eat pretty good while you’re at it? Well it’s not like that everywhere. Not even on Avalonian ships. Been some strange places under Walker; doesn’t seem he’s got much a taste for the routine. But he takes care of his own, and I’ll be damned if I ever hear another airship captain call me ‘sir’. Does usually brief us, though, no matter how crazy. Don’t know what he’s got planned this time. But whatever it is, he’ll have a reason.”
>He pulls again, but this time the pain actually subsides on the trailing edge of the jolt.
> “Right. Just have to wrap you up, and you’ll be on your way. Careful drinking; it’s an anticoagulant.”
> “Huh?”
> “You’ll bleed more. Shouldn’t kill ‘ya or anything, but you’ll notice.”
> “Right.”
>The doctor trades his forceps for some sort of chrome device you swear he must have pulled out of a comic book. It looks like it ought to shoot lasers or something, but he cocks the contraption as casually as you might a cap gun.
 > “You’ll feel a pinch,” he says, and then he thrusts it into your shoulder.
>It’s a hell of a fucking pinch.
>And so is the next one.
>And the one after. 
>But he presses on with a casual indifference you can’t help but admire, and down your wound the little shots of pain march like stubborn ants.
>Click-snap.
>Click-snap.
>Click-snap.
>It’s not so bad.
>Not once you’re into the rhythm.
>And then it’s over as quickly as it started. 
>He pats you on the shoulder again, this time with some finality.
> “It’s Anon, right? And Whitney?”
>You nod and lift your good arm. He shakes it.
> “Well ‘grats on losing your foreign object virginity.”
> He slaps the bullet into your still-open hand.
> “Enjoy your trophy. Try not to rip the staples.”

>A peculiar sort of silence settles in the doctor's wake, and, from beneath the dulling pain, you feel your senses begin to sharpen again.
>Whitney's quiet now.
>She hunches like a gargoyle at your feet, arms folded to rest on her thighs, and eyes cast down but somehow far away. She's settled a lot since the landing, but even now you catch a faint tremble in her paws and whiskers.
>Then the door shuts, and finally she looks up at you.
> “You okay there, Cap’n?”
>She flashes a shaky smile. You sling your feet back to the ground and roll gently up to sit.
> “I’ll live.”
> “Good, ‘cause I don’t reckon I can quite carry you.”
>She stands and extends a paw to you.
> “Can you walk okay?”
>You take the paw gratefully.
> “Think so.”
>Your head spins as she pulls you up, but once you’re standing it steadies again.
> “Yeah, I’m okay. Need a goddamn shower, but I’m okay.”
>Whitney nods.
> “You’re telling me. A shower and a drink.”

>The walk back to the cabin passes in a stumbling, sickly blur. Your mind resonantes with muted tones of pain, thrill, and nausea, and your feet seem to flop like springs beneath you.
>It was like getting off a tilt-a-whirl you’d been dared into riding drunk.
>You knew that because you’d done it once.
>It had been a stupid fucking mistake. 
>And Sarah, the girl who had been your kind-of-sort-of date, ditched you when you threw up on her.
>But Whitney doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
>She’s kept hold of your hand, and you get the sense she wouldn’t let go of it for the world.

>You’re pretty sure it’s for her sake as much as yours, but you can’t quite make out what she’s feeling. The shaking’s gone now, and her eyes are dry as fossils. But the usual life you’ve come to expect from her seems only to flicker across her like worn-out neon.
>Her eyes are stern, and muzzle stoic. Her ears hang limp at half-mast. 
>She grins sometimes: A prideful, radiant grin. 
>But then the moment’s gone, and each little flash seems to drown in a sea of uncertainty.
>Hell, maybe you do know what she’s feeling.
>Poor kid probably feels just like you.
>It’s more than just the pain and lingering shock. It’s an exhausted sort of confusion that buzzes across your brain like radio static, and drowns your thoughts in the din.
>It begs you to make sense of it, but you aren’t even sure where to start.
>So you walk, and you start at the beginning.

>You’d played your share of Army back in the day. Even carved yourself rifle from an old sycamore limb.
>Everyone was a hero when you played army. Even the fallen felled platoons with their ‘dying breath’, and then went home at night with the rest of you. 
>You never told anyone, but sometimes you wondered what it was really like.
>You wondered: if it really happened to you, would you run?
>You stop just short of the door and squeeze her paw.
> “You know what, Kid?”
>She cocks her head, tired eyes twinkling.
> “We didn’t run.”


Chapter X: Prom Night

>It’s dusk by the time the alert’s cancelled, and from the porthole you watch as the last flight of escorts melts into view along the horizon.
>You’ve since showered, and traded your bloody undershirt for one of your smarter articles of flannel. 
>It’s not much, but you aren’t sure it’s supposed to be.
>What do you wear to celebrate a first kill? 
>You didn’t know, and neither did Whitney.
>But she’d called you handsome when she’d seen it, and that was good enough for you.
>So now you're kicked back on the little wooden desk chair, legs crossed and resting on your bed, and book pinned open between your thumb and index finger.
>Treasure Island.

>You'd brought it along more as a sort of luck token than anything else. It had been a gift from your father, as your uncle told it, and you'd read it at least ten times over the years since he'd first read it to you. By now you probably could have recited it from memory. 
>You reckon that works out pretty good, though; you're really only playing at reading. 
>The worn-out cover and the crease of the softened pages are rough and familiar in your hand, and right now you need that more than anything. 
>There's certainly plenty to think about.
>The fight;
>Not running;
>The parachutes you didn't think to look for, but don't remember seeing.
>And they deserved it, didn't they?
>Of course they did. They tried to hurt you. They tried to hurt her.
>And this wasn't crime and punishment, it was survival.
>Yeah, you knew all that.
>But you sure are thinking about it, and, if the quiet rush of water from the shower is any indication, so is she.
>Frankly, you wish she'd hurry.

> “Evening, Cap’n.”
>You jolt up from your book as if you’d been dozing. 
>A pale, blue twilight has settled over the room and washed the gold away, but it’s still plenty bright for her fur to glisten where it’s damp.
>She’s wearing flannel too, now: A red-chequered shirt parted at the collar and first and last button. 
>It fits a little tighter than it needs to, and in places that suggest she might have meant it that way.
>But her eyes tell a different story.
>They’re enough to make you stand and reach a hand to her, and when you do she collapses into your healthy shoulder, and you find yourselves snared in each other’s arms.
>She buries her face in your chest. 
>You bury yours in kind.
>And then squeeze.

>Her fur melts in your hands like beach sand.
>It's thick and warm and smells like summer, and you only seem to sink deeper as you hold her there.
>Deeper, until you lose yourself in the hints of salt and oil, and the thick, humid heat of her breath across your collar.
>For a long second, it's enough to forget everything that just happened.
>Enough to forget where you are.
>And then to forget everything, until there's nothing but the throb of her heartbeat against yours.
>And you feel again the way you felt when you danced with her:
>Somehow this is where you belong, and who you belong to.
>This stupid fucking kid who thinks she’s John Wayne.
>You hold a little tighter.
> “I’ve got you, Whitney. No matter what.”

>She snorts at that, and reality falls back on you like snow from a pine bough. She shoves you back to an arms length with an incredulous sort of grin and throws a careful punch to your good shoulder.
> “Yeah, yeah; you too, Cap’n.”
>The same paw drops back to your hand and forces a shake.
> “Told ‘ya I’d do right by you.”
>Embarrassment nips you, and you shake your head.
> “Look, Whitney, you can forget the stupid shit I said the other day. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
>She just smiles.
> “Not too shabby yourself, Cap’n. I reckon we’re both pretty well proven, whether you like it or not.”
>She pulls you back in for another quick hug.
> “But thanks. It means a lot.”
>You part again. 
> “About the fight, though. You, uh, doing okay?”
>She flinches, but finds her smile.
> “‘Wanna get fucked up and not think about it?”
> “Sounds like a plan to me.”

>The lounge looks different at night.
>The lights are bright, warm, and cheery, and the windows sparkle with scattered traces of civilization that burn like tea lights below.
>It’s quite a bit busier, too, but you only recognize a few of the faces.
>You never really made an effort to get to know the others. You suppose you regret that, but you hadn’t relished the idea of being a rookie. It was harder to say or do something stupid if you kept to yourself, and you could be a bit more careful about what version of you they met when they finally did. In your defense, you reckon you did a pretty good job of that.
>Still, now that their eyes are on you, you feel like a disappointment of a mysterious stranger.

>You had gathered a little about your squadron over the preceding days, but it honestly might have been easier if you hadn’t. Maybe then you could saunter in feeling like you’d earned your place there. As it was, you weren’t so sure.
>There was Tucker, of course. He wasn’t so bad. Just a big kid with a goofy grin who was either foolish or experienced enough that it seemed impossible to scare it off him. You knew him well enough, and his manner put you at a sort of ease. That hadn’t stopped you gawking at all the silhouettes painted under his cockpit, though. The kid was an ace, plain and simple, and the others seemed to only get more intimidating from there.

>Most were veterans of some form or another. As mercenaries at least, if not from the air corps.
>Like Kaz.
>Sure, you doubted his real name sounded nearly as cool as the one he’d managed to convince everyone to use, but you sure as hell weren’t going to ask. 
>Unlike Tucker, it was plain he had more than a few years on you, and, by the looks of it, many of them had been in one service or another. Even now he wore an old, well-patched Eastern Union army duster, and made no effort to hide the skeletal apparatus mounted where his right hand must once have been.
>He's got a friend, too: a tall, pale fellow with soft features and a build as thin as a rail. He was the more gregarious of the two, at least when he was drunk, but spoke with a thick accent you struggled to place. He’d been a foreign soldier before, and a good one by the sound of it.
>That was about all you knew, though, and now that you’d walked in, the both of them are paying you a lot more attention than you’d have liked.
>But you were the real deal.
>You both were; you’d proven it. 
>So you find yourself a confident-looking grin and slip onto the stool beside them, doing your best not to cast any awkward stares or glances.
>Whitney settles too, and with and impeccable calm that just about drives you up the wall. She doesn’t waste any time fishing a bottle from behind the bar, though, and she gulps the bulk of her glass the second she’s got it full.

> “Hey kid, heard you got tagged. Where at?”
>It takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize it’s you Kaz is addressing. You scramble.
> “Uh, shoulder, sir.”
>It probably would have taken a good five seconds for you to realize you just said “sir”, but Whitney's laughter gives it away. Kas manages a bit of a snort and gulps what you guess was a mouthful of whiskey.
> “Fuckin’ hell, kid. This ain't grammar school.”
>He offers a gruff, leathery hand.
> “Kas McCallister.”
>You take it and throw everything you have behind the weight of your shake.
> “Anon.”
>He kicks off the bar and rolls the stool around to face you, eyes incredulous. 
> “Bull fucking shit. What are you, fucking mafia? Or did you get that from that book about the submarine?”
>You flinch.
> “Just a nickname that stuck. Never did go by anything else.”
>Whitney's got your back, so you draw a little bit of courage.
> “Same as you, I reckon.”
>He shrugs, face softening again.
> “Fair. Welcome aboard, Squawking Bird. Been awhile since we had any new blood.”
>He motions you aside and leans across to Whitney. 
 > “And you, lass?”
> “Whitney Latham. It’s a pleasure.”
>This time he grins.
> “Been awhile since we’ve had one of your sort, too.”
>Her ears perk.
> “The crew’s been together awhile, then? Even the mercs?”
>She’s quick to ask, but you’re relieved not to hear any accusation in her voice. 
>Kas nods.
> “You two are the first since Tucker; reckon he shipped with us three or four years ago, now. Eager kid, and a good pilot, too. Me? I ‘been here near a decade.”
>He pauses and takes a generous swig from his whiskey, then sets it down again with a rap like a door knocker.

> “Niko, too. He shipped with us during my first voyage. Ain’t that right, Niko?”
>The foreign man grunts and raises his glass.
> “Ten years already? Fucking hell.”
>There’s that accent again: thick, but soft and rounded. Like someone put a spaniard through a tumble-dryer. 
>He stretches and stands, then slides behind the bar himself. Before you know it, you’ve got a whiskey shoved in front of you.
> “Drink, Veli! Like your partner!”
>His weight shifts to a shoulder and he leans up against the bar, casting you an expectant look until you raise the glass and swallow a mouthful yourself. He grins then, and then wider as Whitney shoots another. You catch yourself smiling too.
 > “Aye, you’re with us, now! And when you meet a girl in a bar, you tell her you’re a fighter pilot! It works, Veli. Every time.”
>Whitney huffs a little and bares a few competitive teeth.
> “Yeah? Well, what if she’s a fighter pilot too?”
>Niko laughs and tops off her glass.
> “Then she won’t accept anything less, now will she?” 
>She chuckles: A sweet, birdlike laugh that tugs at your heart like well-set fishhook. She chases it with another swig.
> “No, she won’t.” 
>Now you’re grinning like an idiot, even as your heart skips a few beats to flutter.
>She really is something, isn’t she?
>This whole fucking thing really is something.

>It isn’t long before the night starts to blur. 
>You’re on your third glass; Whitney’s on her fourth. The whiskey churns warmly in your veins, and the brazen glow of the lightbulbs seems to melt and smudge like butter. 
>You’re standing now, arm locked and resting on the rim of a billiards table.
>It’s not much of a game. 
>Whitney, lacking either your foresight, vanity, or both, had accepted a game with Niko. 
>It couldn’t have started more than a few minutes ago, but you’re already having trouble seeing the solids for the stripes.
>Somehow she's still got a predatory sheen in her eyes, though, even as the cure ball slips neatly past the five and into the corner pocket.
>And she's talking, too.
>Telling a story that involves a lot of wild gesticulation, and wearing a grin so broad that whiskey leaks in big, golden drops from the corner of her muzzle whenever she pauses to shoot or drink.

>Her voice is loud and chipper, and her words free of the weight the day had piled on them.
>You’re listening to her. 
>Hell, you might be listening more intently than you ever have to anything, but your mind swims anyway.  
>It’s something about some stupid shit she and her brother had done when they were kids. How they’d gone hiking or hunting or something, and decided to save time on the way back by lashing a raft together and taking a rough-ass river back down the mountain they’d climbed. How she’d insisted her knots kicked ass, and there was no way in hell anything would tear that raft apart when she was done with it. And then she told all about the water, and the rapids, and the rocks; and just how wrong she’d been.
>You’re trying to listen, but you keep staring into her eyes and watching the light and shadows play across them, and thinking about how you’ve never heard someone laugh so hard about needing so many stitches. 
>Love and loyalty drip like honey from her words.
>The way she talks about her brother,
>Her parents.
>You never had anything like that, but somehow, the way she tells it, you aren’t jealous. It’s captivating. 
>Or is it just the way her eyes shine when she smiles, or how her canines slip vampirically past her lower jaw?
>And why hadn’t you seen any of that before? Why hadn’t you heard it?
>Maybe you had.

>Sometimes you wish you could be more like her.
>Just a little bit wilder. Enough to know what to do with an adventure when you got one.
>Maybe she was making a fool of herself, but she was also playing pool, and laughing and talking with the guys like she’d always been there.
>Like a hero in a moving picture.
>You were a hero too, weren’t you?
>A fighter pilot?
>Niko had said so.
>And if it was a movie, what would you be doing?
>You have a pretty good idea what.
>The eight ball sinks, and a new feeling clamps down on you: a strange mix of elation and nerves.
>But this feeling you’ve felt once before.

> “Hey, Kid.”
>She leans on her cue and pivots to face you.
> “Hey, Cap’n. Next game?”
>You cool your voice as best you can and take her paw in your hand.
> “How ‘bout a dance?”
>Your heart slings up your throat to gag you, but her eyes light up before it can.
> “You mean it, Cap’n?”
>You aren’t sure how to reply to that; thankfully she doesn’t give you the time.
>You’re in the middle of the room before you know it, and she’s already hit the Victrola.
>This song you know in an instant.
>You’d know the drumbeats anywhere.
>They mean you’re going to be in it for a long haul, but somehow, in this instant, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
>Her paws are firm in your hands, and her eyes locked on your own.
>The horn cuts in, and she takes you away.

>It’s nothing like last time.
>It’s fast now; twice the speed at least, and her eyes are bright, honest, and locked on your own. 
>This time her feet are fast and sure, and the music rattles your brain the way the guns and cylinders had. 
>You don’t have much form, but somehow you don’t feel you need it.
>You take the lead.
>A spin first, and a tug after.
>A wave that rolls from your shoulder and snaps taut at your fingertip.
>And your shoulder cries out from beneath a sea of whiskey, but you don’t care to listen.
>It isn’t so different, is it?
>It’s nothing but force and motion, so the tempo picks up and you throw her around a little harder.
>Beneath your shoulder this time, then back to the tip of your palm and taut again, taut and straining, like the wings on the wind, 
>Only this time she pulls you through to her.

>You should have been surprised, but you weren’t, and the tension slacks as you slide her way.
>But you sling past her, and then taut again.
>And past, and taut.
>And past, and taut.
>Just hard enough, and harder still as your hearts and the drums beat faster, but not enough to slip.
>Not enough to stall.
>But then it’s pull and twist all over, and this time she breaks from your fingers and spins on her heel to lock eyes with you, shirttails fluttering about her waist like streamers.
>But you’ve got the time still, and so does she.
>It’s locked in the span of your feet as they strike heel to toe, and as they kick at the ankle twist from the knee.
>It’s faster than you ever knew or thought you could, but the strikes are firm and stable just the same.
>The horn swoops in, and you reel yourselves back together.
>Your hands clasp, and it’s away.

>Pull.
>Spin.
>Faster still, like you’d never stopped.
>She drags you close, eyes burning and teeth flashing in the room lights as they whirl around you.
>That predatory gleam again.
>The music lurches, and she leaps.
>It’s funny.
>It’s almost like she doesn’t weigh anything at all.

***

>Midnight's passed, and you're hanging on each other like a couple of tree snakes. 
>Whitney had wanted to go for a walk, and somehow, suddenly, so had you.
>So the two of you left the music behind, and now you found yourselves alone, heads swimming through the reef of girders and tension lines that weave about the pectoral catwalk at midship.
>It's quiet here.
>The engines drone, but you've heard them so long they may as well be your heartbeat.
>And dark, too, save for the moonlight glow of work lights in the upper rigging, and the bands of lime-green tritium that mark out the path ahead like breadcrumbs.

>Somehow the swaying of the catwalk doesn't bother you so much tonight, nor the maw of shadow below.
>It's the booze, maybe, or maybe perspective, or even the way your arm wraps around hers to clasp at her paw. 
>Whatever it is, it's good enough for you. 
>Even as she turns and the catwalk narrows and climbs beneath your feet.
>So you walk, and bask in the solitary company as you pick your way into the backwater of Echo’s metallic sinew.
>You’re lost before you know it, but her pace is steady and purposeful.
>You’re happy to follow.
>What else was there to do?
>Sleep?
>There wasn’t a chance. 
>You’d never had a day like today.
>Never had these feelings; Not all at once.
>They seem distant now, but you can feel them churning eddies in the ebbing tide whiskey. 
>You aren’t sure what to make of them, but you know you don’t want to be alone.

> “We goin’ somewhere, Kid?”
>You’ve made your way high into Echo’s dorsal structure, far from even the midship engines. There’s nothing here but the steady rush of wind. You’re the first to break the silence, and you feel a sort of trespass now that you have.
> “Reckon. Ain’t gettin’ all bothered on account of the height again, are ‘ya? You got a handrail.”
>She stops short and turns, checking you over her shoulder. You’re a little surprised to find concern in her eyes. And something else. Something self-conscious.
> “I’m alright.” 
>You stop beside her and lean casually on the opposing guidewire, wishing immediately that you hadn’t as it bows under your weight.
> “I was in a dogfight today. I think I can handle airship rigging.”
>She smirks and sets a paw on your shoulder.
> “Yeah, you’d think.” 
> You shift back and set your own on her hip.
> “Yeah. So where ‘we headed?”
>She turns back and sets to walking, a little less confidently than before.

> “Well, you see, there's somethin’ I wanted to show you, Cap'n. A sort of secret.”
>You wake up a little.
> “You learn something about all this?”
> “Not like that. More like, well, you ever have a treefort, Cap’n?”
>You had. It hadn’t been much to look at; just a few planks in an unassuming tree in the forest behind your uncle’s place. But it had been yours. 
>She nods at that.
> “Me too. Gotta’ have a sort of dominion, ‘ya know? Somewhere that’s just your own. Somewhere to sort out problems that ain’t nobody else’s. ‘Course you swear you won’t tell nobody, and you make your best friend swear, ‘n ‘fore you know it you’re fourteen, ‘n up there passin’ around some booze you snuck to all your buddies like it’s a speakeasy. But you know what I mean.”
>A twinge of nostalgic jealousy nips you in the shoulder, but you’re pretty sure you get the picture.
> “Yeah.”
> “Well, it’s like that. You see, ‘fore you came aboard I was doing some snooping. Turns out Echo’s got a real fancy meteorology package. All electronic. Humidity, pressure, wind direction, everything. Evidently the thing even detects thunderstorms a ways out.”
> “How the fuck does it do that?”
>She shrugs.
> “Electromagnetic somethingorother. Beats me. Point is...”
>She reaches for the ceiling and pulls. Something pops, and a narrow hatch swings down before you.
> “...the old weather observation deck’s a ghost town.” 
>She scurries up like a sort of tree squirrel, tail whipping over the rim and out of sight.
> “C’mon Cap’n. It’s really somethin’ else.”
>Her voice echoes back as if from under a bridge.
>It’s funny; she’s right.
>Something about the scene makes you feel twelve again.
>You can’t help a bit of a grin.

>The far side of the hatch greets you with darkness, and a frigid draft.
>The wind is louder here. It sings in the warrens and guidewires, and stirs currents that spatter like sea spray at your hands and collar.
>You shuffle forward a little and hunt the darkness for a wall, but she pats you on the shoulder and finds your hand again.
> “This way, Cap’n. Your eyes’ll adjust in a minute.”
>But you don’t have to wait.
>A few staggered steps and you stumble out of the metalwork, then suddenly it’s like you just up and jumped off the ship altogether.

>The sky’s as black as record finish.
>All about you mounds of coffee creamer cumulus shine rich and milky in the light of a sand-dollar moon, and stars so thick you could paint with them. 
>You’ve never seen so many. Not hiking, not flying, not ever.
>They seem so close, its as if you could reach up and drag fingers through them.
>Like you could sift them through your palm and feel on your skin all the space and depth and bonds between them.
>You reach out, and it’s the icy glass of a broad, shallow dome that greets you.
>But tonight it feels like you just touched the face of God.
>Your hand falls limp and drops to her shoulder, and before you know it you’ve pulled her tight.
>Her eyes dig into yours, and you lose yourself in them.
>She just squeezes back.
> “Told’ja.”

>The room fades in like a photo negative. 
>It’s not actually that big, though the dome could have fooled you.
>It stops at shoulder height, and after that it’s just a couple desks; chairs; and old, brass instruments bundled up in a nest of sheet aluminum.
>The whole thing couldn’t have been much bigger than your room at your uncle’s place, and the wall panels are weathered and, in places, loose enough to rattle.
>Wind booms and breaks like surf across the arch of Echo’s back just beyond them, but somehow, in that little hut, you feel safe.
>Maybe it helps, the way you're clinging to each other:
>How it feels as her nose bumps against yours;
>The stars in her eyes;
>The heat of her breath on your neck.
>The man on the silver screen would kiss her.
>But you don't kiss her, and she pulls away.

>  “They had me on with the work crew 'fore I had a partner. Six to a bunkroom, Cap'n. Six. Was going crazy without somewhere my own. ‘Til I found this.”

>You nod and she beckons, and the next you know she's pulled you down into a nest of old jackets bunched up in the U of a desk to the aft.
>You sit, but she stands again and hunches over a hatch in the wall.
>Then she throws it wide.
>The wind barks and your ears pop, but then the churning settles to a low and steady howl, and there's nothing between you and the sky at all.
>Then the jackets rustle, and she’s beside you again.

> “Really somethin’ else, isn’t it? It’s so calm down in the guts and gondolas you could almost forget you’re flying, but I don’t like to forget.”
>You fish her paw back out of the jackets and give it a squeeze.
> “Kid, it’s incredible. It’s--”
> “Like how you imagined?”
>It's startling how neatly the words fit.

>She smiles slowly and shuffles closer until her hips and shoulder rest against yours.
> "I thought so. Well, was it for you? Family? Stories? Or were you just born this way?"
>And you smile too, remembering.
>The heat-lamp warmth of the spring sun on your skin.
>The rustle of the wind stirring the meadowgrass.
>The sky, sharp, blue, and clear.
>You were six. A smart little biplane was ambling across the sky like a chicken picking at seed, and suddenly you could be anywhere and anything you wanted. 
> "It was just a mailplane. Don’t know what happened. I’d seen it before, but that day I looked up and saw magic."
> “And when you went flying, Cap’n, did you find it?”
> “Well, yeah. I think so. I mean it was a lot of work, and you get sidetracked and all, but sometimes--” 
> “It’s exactly how you imagined.”
> “Yeah.”
>Her head flops on your shoulder and comes to rest there.
> “Just checking.”
> “For what? Faith?”
>She sighs.
> “I ‘dunno. It’s just, when you’re six, you don’t usually dream about fighting for your life, ya’ know? Me? I always ‘been like this. Father, too, so I guess it’s blood. But today you and I went up there and traded bullets with some folk.  Don’t know about you, but I got scared I was ‘gonna die, you know? First time in my life I ever wanted down.”
>You squeeze harder.
> “You’d better believe I was. Terrified. You were there, Kid. I panicked. Plain as day. Would have gotten us both killed if you hadn’t gotten on the trim the way you had. And I know I should’a known. Should at least have tried to do something. But I just freaked. Got hopeless. ‘Dunno what’s wrong with me...”
>She breaks your grasp and shifts her paw to your chest.
> “Hey, that ain’t my point. Don’t beat yourself up, okay? We did good. But we got put through the ringer up there today, Cap’n. That’s kinda’ why I came here. Wanted to make sure nothing changed. Make sure it was all still beautiful. And it is, Cap’n...”
> She hesitates a little longer than you’d have liked.
> “Don'cha think?”
>You hadn’t really thought about it. The adrenaline had burned away the details, but snapshots come when you look for them:
>The gleam of the sun in your opponent’s canopy.
>The depth of the sky in the loop. 
>Even the strain of the metal, and the courage that coursed in the howling engines.
>And you knew what she meant.
>You’d wanted down too.
>But you’d lived, hadn’t you?
>And the part of you that came back wanted back up more than ever.
> “As beautiful as ever, Kid.”
>She buries her face in your neck.
> “Good.”
>You throw your arm around her waist and hold her there.
> “It’s okay to be scared, Kid. It don’t make you a quitter.”
> “Thanks for sayin’, Cap’n, but I don’t mean to be all somber. Reckon we got reason to celebrate, and besides, it’s hardly the only reason I brought you here.”
>There’s a quick tug at your chest and collar. The whiskey sloshes in your brain, and the both of you flop back into the jackets.

>The stars in the dome are as bright as you’ve seen them. Even lying down the jagged backs of the Ursas are simple to pick out against the murky backwater of the upper Milky Way.
>It’s a friendly sight, and somehow warm, even as the midnight wind licks frost onto the glass. 
>It had been a big day, and now it was over.
>But still, there they were.
>Same as always.
>And so were you, close as you could tell.
>Maybe lighter a bit of blood, but there.
>It's almost hard to believe. 
>Not that you don’t feel any different; you do. But you had imagined it would be like how you imagined growing up would be: you’d wake up one day and molt the life you’d been living an old snakeskin. But you’d grown up and hadn’t molted. Maybe you thought it was waiting for something. If that were so, you’d have figured today would have done. But the hour’s late, and you still don’t feel anything peeling.
>Just a steady ache in your shoulder, buzzing in your mind, and the soft folds of her shirt where it bunches against you.
>She's so quiet.
>So calm.
>Part of you is still pacing in circles.

> “Hey, Kid?”
> “Mhmm?”
> “If not just for the beauty, why else’d you bring me?”
>There’s a long pause, then a bit of a sigh. You can’t quite see her beside you, but you can feel her lips purse as she hunts for the words.
>Finally she pats you on the hand.

> “Hey, so, this might sound kinda silly, but bear with me, okay?”
> “Of course.”
>She swallows.
> “Right. So, back in the day, sometimes my brother and I would get together with some friends and we’d go down to the shore at midnight and watch the waves roll in. And it was usually a sorta’ party, you know? But we'd always get quiet, and talk real different. Dunno why, but I felt like I could say things there you just wouldn't anywhere else. And not even ‘cause you were keeping secrets, but like you didn't even know those things 'fore you came. Almost like they washed up in the surf or somethin’. Went all the time for all kinda’ reasons, and today I reckon we got plenty.”
> “You reckon we got secrets?”
>You half-expect her to flinch, but she answers plainly and flashes a devious grin.
> “I reckon I mean to find out. And don’t make me ask you to play Truth or Dare. It’d be real childish and embarrassing, but I’ll do it if you make me.”
>You take a bit of pleasure in giving her the laugh you can tell she’s crossed her fingers for.
> “What do you want to know?”
> “How ‘bout your name? You know, your real one?”
>There’s a hint of unease in her voice. 
>You’re not sure why, but you feel it too.
>When you told people nobody called you by your real name, you meant nobody. 
>Not your friends, bosses, or instructor,
>Not even your uncle.
> “Kid, I’ve been ‘Anon’ so long that I--”
> “Hate to tell you this, Cap’n, but that don’t sound as cool as you think it does. I call you ‘Cap’n’ for a reason.”

>You smile, but hesitate.
>You are going to tell her, aren’t you?
>Surely she’s earned it.
>Surely you owe her.
>But the words feel fake on your tongue.

> “Really? And how does it sound?”
>She snorts. That probably should have stung a little, but somehow you’re grinning.
> “Like you’re a cowboy in a penny dreadful. How’d you wind up with it anyway?”
>Part of you’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. You’d thought it was a big part, but, now that she has, you don’t seem to mind so much.
> “Just kids being kids. It’s stupid.”
>Her smile dulls. With sympathy, you think. Or maybe regret.
> “Yeah?”
> “Yeah.”
>The silence drags on a few seconds, and then a few more as you come up with the words, but you relent. Part of you had wanted to tell the story for a long time, only nobody had ever made you.
> “There was a whole load of confusion while I was moving into my uncle’s care after, well, you know. I was five or six and didn’t really understand what had happened. It was my first year of grammar school, and I guess the teacher had my Uncle’s last name down for mine on the roster since he’d been the one to enroll me. ‘Course she decided I was ignoring her when I didn’t answer the roll call, and being belligerent when I tried to correct her after. Wound up getting my knuckles whacked, being stood up in the corner, the works. It was a hell of a production and I don’t exactly blame the kids for laughing like they were, but after that I was the weird kid who didn’t know his own name.”
>Her smile’s since faded, and she’s set her paw back on your hand. A few seconds drift by in the wind noise. Her voice is delicate when she speaks again, but something about it makes you feel understood.
> “Sorry. I didn’t realize it had to do with what happened.”
>You flip the paw around and take hold of it yourself. 
> “It’s no big deal, Kid. Sounds worse than it is. Honest.”
>She whimpers faintly.
> “Don’t know what I’d do without my dad.”
>You shrug.
> “He’d been at war a few years by then; I was barely talking the last I saw him. I wish it could have been different. Uncle was pretty broke up about his big bro; the way he told it, he must have been one hell of a guy. But I guess I don’t really know what I’m missing, you know? 
>She relaxes, and so do you.
> “I guess.”

>Time rolls by slowly, the both of you staring into the stars. Finally she speaks again.
> “And you just let ‘em all call you ‘Anon’? Just like that?”
>You scratch at the paw a little.
> “Reckon I probably fought it for awhile, but I barely remember. Come ten or so and I’d adjusted a bit, and the rest of ‘em had figured out I was also the only one without a curfew or rules or any of that. Before I knew it I was wearing that no-name brand as proud as any. When the time came to sign up it seemed a fine name for a flying mercenary. Good and mysterious.”
>Her smile is back, so you ease up on the scratching.
> “Better than that “Screamin’ Eagle” callsign of yours, I’ll give you that.”
>You’d been planning on forgetting that. It makes you wince.
> “I hadn’t thought about it. I panicked.”
>She elbows you.
> “Yeah, well, between you and me, I like ‘Squawking Bird’. I reckon it suits us.”
> “Me too.”
>The silence rolls back in, but then she jabs you in the side again.
> “Hey, you’re not getting out of it that easy.”
> “Hm?”
> “Your name, Cap’n. Spit it out. Mystery plays a lot better in the movies.”
>You try the words again; this time they come a little easier.
> “Daniel Epson.”
>It’s the first time you’ve heard the name in years, and it rings in your head like a church bell. You’re quick to find words to drown it out.
> “...at your service.”

>She grabs you by the shoulder and makes you face her.
>She’s grinning ear to ear.
> “Pretty.”
> “Please don’t parade that in front of the guys.”
>She ruffles your hair.
> “Don’t worry, Danny-boy. You’ll always be ‘Cap’n’ to me.”
>Next thing you know she’s wrapped her arms around you and rolled you onto your back.
>You’re nose to nose again.
>The man on the silver screen would kiss her.
>But you don’t.
>She sits up in your lap.

> “Ya’ know, Cap’n, Sober Whitney’s more responsible, but between you and me, I don’t think she’s quite as honest. There’s a lot we don’t say that we probably should, ‘n it shouldn’t take booze to make us, but it does. I reckon that’s why we invented it.” 
>She rocks a little on her hips, grinning.
>“...So, while I’m still a little drunk...,”
>There’s something intoxicating about the moment.
>Her weight, firm on your lap.
>The honesty in her eyes.
>The loyalty in her voice. 
>Equal parts safe and enthralling.
> “...I want to tell you that, crazy as these past few days have been, I wouldn’t trade ‘em for anything. I’ve been on a team before, Cap’n, but I ain’t ever had a partner, and I reckon the feeling is one of the best there is.”
>Your heart beats faster with every word and flash of starlight in her canines. 
>Faster as she rocks on your lap and leans into you, planting a paw to either side of your head.
>Faster as her breath splashes in your face like a bull’s.
>It’s enough to make you feel faint, and your words are whispers when you find them.
> “So, those things you said when we thought we might not make it....”
> “You’re damn right I fucking meant them! Didn’t you?”
>Her eyes sharpen like cutlery.
> “Well, yeah! I--”
>You’re cut short by the clamp of her jaw around your own. It’s strange and awkward, but your brain flashes like a pan of gunpowder. Strange, but you let her lean in closer, and closer still, and then grab her by the waist and pull her down.
>Pull tight, until the both of you are tied together.
>Tighter, until your hearts seem to touch.
>Her nose is warm and wet on your cheek, and you’re the man on the silver screen.
>You’re the Sheriff Marty Wales.

>When she breaks off, it’s like waking up from drowning. 
>Your head spins.
>Your vision swims.
>She sits back up to straddle you again, her tail thrashing against your shins.
> “That was reason number three. I thought we ought to get it out of the way.”