carton of cigarettes.
“Eli wants to talk to you,” said Celyn. “He’s on the third deck, port side.”
Her arms uncrossed and her shoulder left the door frame.
“Wait,” he called out as she was about to leave.
“What is it?”
There was a pause.
“Why did you keep it a secret from him?” he asked
The tense silence sustained for a while before Celyn hung her head with a weary
sigh, presaging confession…
“A
little while ago, Eli and I had tried… something.” Celyn looked away as soon
as the confession was made. “It didn’t last long,” she added, quietly, and
fell silent again – the sort of silence that suggested there was more to the
story.
“Did the Commission find out?”
“No.”
“Why did you stop?”
“Do you have to ask?”
He rephrased: “Why did you start?”
She shook her head. “Not a damn clue,” she said. “I guess it’s like the
neuralists say... We’re born sick.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Another tense pause. This time no answer followed. There was an emerald
twinkle in Celyn’s eyes and a subtle smirk crept up the side of her face. She
stepped forward and reached her hand out over the wall opposite the bed. A
panel glowed and the seams of a recess appeared. The wall opened, revealing an
assortment of gear laid out like disjointed pieces of exoskeleton. “Get geared
up,” she said, turning away. “Third deck. Port side.”
The doors shut.
Upon closer inspection, he saw the gear in the wall-closet was all pristine,
marked with the blood red insignia of his caste. It was the same gear from the
wartech commercial he had seen the other day – another “parting gift” from
Malachi, no doubt.
His body moved independent of his will, instinctively piecing the gear together
layer by layer over his limbs and torso, until the elastic strips of black and
grey textile hugged him like new layers of sinew and his front, back and
limbs were panelled with a hardened shell. He squeezed his fist and an
exhilarating potential of strength filled his limbs like an elixir.
He stepped out of his cabin and was braced by the helter-skelter of a miniature
city within a roofed, cavernous space. The low rumble from the cabin amplified
tenfold. Moving platforms and automated walkways ferried hundreds of
full-geared martials up and across. Stocked armouries were being raided.
Overhead, the roof of the place was long and conically curved and the sky above
was as immaculate, azure, violet and amber as the heart of an open flame. A
fleet of Peryton soared at the carrier’s flanks, ushering them through the wild
blue yonder. Vague memories of being flown out to the warzones flashed through
his mind as the conveyor belt walkway ferried him along the fuselage.
From the descending platform, the earth below was hidden behind a floor of
cloud and the airborne leviathan plunged into the mist just as the platform
stopped. The glazed walls of the fuselage went snow white and the amber light
of sunset was swallowed away, reappeared, then disappeared again in abrupt
shifts.
He crossed the passage to the third deck, protruding out of the portside of the
airship. A large demi-dome of clear glass proffered a complete panorama of the
sunset sky. The deck was empty, all but for one solitary figure, standing at
the end, hands crossed at his back, sights set over the Earth.
“Evening commander,” greeted Malachi without turning.
He came up silently beside him. The opaque, black glasses glinted with the
light of the setting sun. The two men stood in silence for about a minute
before Malachi’s head slowly rotated toward him. “Sleep well?”
“No,” he replied, keeping his eyes forward.
“Nightmares, huh?” Malachi hummed and nodded slowly, then turned his sights
back to the
“Eli wants to talk to you,” said Celyn. “He’s on the third deck, port side.”
Her arms uncrossed and her shoulder left the door frame.
“Wait,” he called out as she was about to leave.
“What is it?”
There was a pause.
“Why did you keep it a secret from him?” he asked
The tense silence sustained for a while before Celyn hung her head with a weary
sigh, presaging confession…
“A
little while ago, Eli and I had tried… something.” Celyn looked away as soon
as the confession was made. “It didn’t last long,” she added, quietly, and
fell silent again – the sort of silence that suggested there was more to the
story.
“Did the Commission find out?”
“No.”
“Why did you stop?”
“Do you have to ask?”
He rephrased: “Why did you start?”
She shook her head. “Not a damn clue,” she said. “I guess it’s like the
neuralists say... We’re born sick.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Another tense pause. This time no answer followed. There was an emerald
twinkle in Celyn’s eyes and a subtle smirk crept up the side of her face. She
stepped forward and reached her hand out over the wall opposite the bed. A
panel glowed and the seams of a recess appeared. The wall opened, revealing an
assortment of gear laid out like disjointed pieces of exoskeleton. “Get geared
up,” she said, turning away. “Third deck. Port side.”
The doors shut.
Upon closer inspection, he saw the gear in the wall-closet was all pristine,
marked with the blood red insignia of his caste. It was the same gear from the
wartech commercial he had seen the other day – another “parting gift” from
Malachi, no doubt.
His body moved independent of his will, instinctively piecing the gear together
layer by layer over his limbs and torso, until the elastic strips of black and
grey textile hugged him like new layers of sinew and his front, back and
limbs were panelled with a hardened shell. He squeezed his fist and an
exhilarating potential of strength filled his limbs like an elixir.
He stepped out of his cabin and was braced by the helter-skelter of a miniature
city within a roofed, cavernous space. The low rumble from the cabin amplified
tenfold. Moving platforms and automated walkways ferried hundreds of
full-geared martials up and across. Stocked armouries were being raided.
Overhead, the roof of the place was long and conically curved and the sky above
was as immaculate, azure, violet and amber as the heart of an open flame. A
fleet of Peryton soared at the carrier’s flanks, ushering them through the wild
blue yonder. Vague memories of being flown out to the warzones flashed through
his mind as the conveyor belt walkway ferried him along the fuselage.
From the descending platform, the earth below was hidden behind a floor of
cloud and the airborne leviathan plunged into the mist just as the platform
stopped. The glazed walls of the fuselage went snow white and the amber light
of sunset was swallowed away, reappeared, then disappeared again in abrupt
shifts.
He crossed the passage to the third deck, protruding out of the portside of the
airship. A large demi-dome of clear glass proffered a complete panorama of the
sunset sky. The deck was empty, all but for one solitary figure, standing at
the end, hands crossed at his back, sights set over the Earth.
“Evening commander,” greeted Malachi without turning.
He came up silently beside him. The opaque, black glasses glinted with the
light of the setting sun. The two men stood in silence for about a minute
before Malachi’s head slowly rotated toward him. “Sleep well?”
“No,” he replied, keeping his eyes forward.
“Nightmares, huh?” Malachi hummed and nodded slowly, then turned his sights
back to the
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