Archive of Our Own

TOUCH THE SKY

This man has no name.

It is a queer thought, a wrong thought. He knows he has a name, as simply and instinctively as he knows how to breathe. He just cannot remember his own name. It is disquieting, but he forces himself to swallow that discomfort and just keep breathing.

It is difficult enough to keep breathing as First Mate Nolan pushes the wheelchair down the long halls and corridors. The world feels too big, too busy, and too chaotic to his eyes. His vision swims at the long, metallic halls marked by lavish, scrolling details like something from a rococo painting. The long, ornate curls and swirling patterns of leafs, vines, and shells are too much for his eyes to process. When he looks down, his eyes are assaulted by the colored blotches and spots of a metal, tiled floor coated in a patina of blobs of vivid blues, streaks of scorching orange-rust, and dabs of emerald greens here and there.

He sighs and looks down to his lap, to his hands. There lies something he can focus upon. His hands are pale, sickly looking things. They are knobby and bony, in a way that mirrors the rest of his body’s condition. Yet, they are his own hands, something real and honest, yet not dizzying like the rest of the halls.

The First Mate rolls the wheelchair into a round elevator with clear partitions to three sides and operates the controls at the side – a curious contraption that reminds the nameless man of the controls in old wheelhouses of ships. The elevator surges up, taking the breath from the nameless man. The First Mate smiles warmly, jovially even as the elevator rises swiftly.

The nameless man tries not to look at the First Mate. Something about the calm assurance of the soldier unnerves him. He wishes he could wipe that smug look off Nolan’s face, but he knows granted how weak and pliant his body is that such an act would be impossible.

Then, fortunately, the elevator shoots out of the darkness and into the light, revealing fluffy, cottony clouds on all sides with the clear windows. Those downy clouds tug at his heart, twisting a knife into him. The light is almost painfully bright, yet he cannot look away. He inexplicably misses the clouds. He crushes his eyes against the faint prickling of potential tears, forcing the emotion down. His vision blurs, but, then, the walls close in around the elevator once more.

The elevator continues upward before slamming to a stop. The doors open slowly, revealing a massive space lined on one side with towering windows and wreathed by consoles and workstations. The space is filled by bustling yet professional individuals, all dressed smartly in matching, grey, tailored uniforms. Gleaming medals and badges adorn the left breast of each, all individual. They are young and old alike, but each moves with purpose, addressing one another formally by last name. Somehow, the nameless man knows that this is a bridge of some sorts, the command center of whatever sort of vessel this is.

At the very center, there stretches a circular dais before the windows surrounded by display screens. As the nameless man stares, a distant, hazy image forms in his mind of a bald man with dark skin and an ebony coat stands with his back to him. A man with an eye patch, like some sort of ridiculous sky-pirate. His temple throbs, and the thought is instantly shattered and swept away.

A shaking hand reaches up and touches his left temple, finding the round device there, but the First Mate gently grasps his wrist. “Don’t.” Nolan forces the hand down, replacing it in the nameless man’s lap. “The neural-link implantation is still fresh and prone to infection, so it’s advisable not to bother with it.”

He nods numbly.

The First Mate smiles once more, practically beaming in a way that makes his charge squirm uncomfortably in the wheelchair before continuing along. The nameless man stares with wide, curious eyes, spying a matching device at the left temple of everyone in the room. He looks back to the First Mate and finds nothing there. It bothers him, but, again, he holds his tongue.

The First Mate takes his nameless charge to a tall, wooden door with elaborately scrolled patterns carved into it and knocks formally.

Nolan waits for a moment before a deep, authoritative voice bids, “Enter.”

The First Mate reverently opens the doors and pushes the wheelchair into a stylish office, complete with monstrous, mahogany desk before an oversized, detailed map of the world and a high-backed leather chair turned away from them. The light of the bridge illuminates shelves filled with heavy, leather bound books and trinkets locked away in glass cases. Then, the First Mate closes the doors behind them, shutting out the hustle and noise of the bridge behind them. The room goes still and quiet, while the light dims to a more comfortable level without the outside light.

The First Mate snaps to attention at his side and salutes primly. “Captain.”

“At ease, at ease,” a deep voice rumbles from behind the chair.

Nolan’s posture shifts, relaxing slightly while retaining a dignified respect for the stranger behind the chair. “Sir. I brought him.”

The chair revolves slowly, turning to face them. To the nameless man’s surprise, the man behind the chair – this Captain – is a shockingly old man. A white beard cascades from his chin before tapering into a tidy braid decorated with two small pearls. His face is marred by both old, faded scars and intense wrinkles. His eyes, however, are kind in a way that relaxes the nameless man.

“So I see,” the Captain says, nodding with approval. “Welcome, welcome son.”

The term ‘son’ further eases him.

The Captain stands, shaking as he does and moving with an awkward, disjointed motion as he rounds the desk to draw closer. “Welcome to the Nautilus II.”

“I don’t…..” he whispers, uncertain how exactly to finish that statement.

“Understand?” the Captain prompts. “I know, and I’m sorry. However, it was necessary.” The Captain gestures to his First Mate, and the officer swoops into action, hopping to the shelves for a leather bound tome while the Captain goes on, “You see, our history demands our discretion and secrecy. The Nautilus cannot be trusted to the hands of the so-called ‘civilized world.’’’

The nameless man shakes his head. “Impossible.” He looks to the First Mate and the Captain, uncertain. “That’s….. that’s a myth. A book. It’s not real.”

He knows this for certain. It strikes him as strange that he should remember the book Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and movies featuring bad acting and worse accents, but he knows this. He knows more about a fictional text than he does himself, but the nameless man takes comfort in remembering even this trivial thing and grasps it for all its worth.

The Captain smirks. “A clever ruse concocted by Jules Verne to conceal the existence of the Nautilus I by enshrouding it within the world of fiction.”

“Then just who are you supposed to be?” the nameless man whispers.

“Captain Nemo.”

The nameless man balks at the response, “Impossible.” He quickly runs the numbers, amazed that he recalls this but not his life. “That was written in… what? 1870? 1880? There’s no way you’re a hundred and thirty years old or more!”

He tries not to be amazed by his own memory.

The old man chuckles, his laughter a booming thing that reminds the nameless man of Santa, or perhaps a Viking lord. “No, no. Don’t be silly.” His First Mate draws close, opening the book and displaying the plating of proud, Pakistani looking fellow shaking hands with a somber, bearded gentleman before several schematic drawings of the submarine. “See. The first Nemo with Jules Verne.”

Indeed, when the nameless man looks closer, he spies the differences. Although the captain in the picture seems very much like the old man before him, there remains distinct differences. The man in the plating spans broader shoulders, while the man before him is more slender, frail. Their eyes are different as well. The man in the book has a more severe gaze, while the Captain seems softer somehow. They look different enough to be two separate men, but similar enough to be related.

“You see. My great-grandfather,” the old man says. “The first Nemo.”

The nameless man touches the page with a single fingertip. “Nemo destroyed the Nautilus.”

“Again, part of the deception. The first Nemo stumbled across something in his explorations; a pirate lord who sought to conquer the world – starting with the oceans and moving to land. Ker Karraje,” the Captain explains softly, slowly, as though speaking to a child or telling a fairytale. “The Nautilus, with its advanced technology and speed, drew the attention of the lord. He sought to hunt down the Nautilus and plunder her treasures. He swore to slaughter the crew and put the head of the first Nemo on a pike. The first Nemo fled, tried to hide the Nautilus. When that failed, he scrapped her, and a new Nautilus was born of the rubble.” The Captain stops there, looking down at the ground. “They hunt us still. They hunger for the technology necessary to have their war.”

The nameless man feels the words trickle from his lips. “The Red Flag.”

“Yes,” the Captain nods sincerely. “Now you’re seeing it. The Red Flag.” He strolls back to the desk chair while the First Mate replaces the book upon the shelf. “My great-grandfather passed both his title and his enemies to me.”

“It’s just….” The nameless man rubs his forehead, a dull headache forming behind the device at his temple.

The old man gives another knowing smile, the sort that tells wisdom beyond years. “I know. A bit much to take in, yes? I sometimes get…. overzealous with new crew. It isn’t every day that someone else joins our cause.” He looks to his First Mate and gives another gesture, nothing more than a flick of his wrist. “We should see you settled.”

“Yeah,” the man murmurs, looking down.

“A name, then, yes?” Captain Nemo thinks for a moment, considering the many options before him. “You were found in the most unlikely of times, fished from the very belly of the beast and in the most harrowing of circumstances. Yet, here you are. We shall call you Harrow.”

The nameless man – now dubbed Harrow – nods, moving on autopilot now. There is nothing else he can do, lest of all when the name sounds alien and strange to him. Harrow. He does not feel like a Harrow, but it seems to please the Captain, this man who holds his life in his hands.

“Well, then, First Mate Nolan, if you would escort Recruit Harrow to his bunk.” The Captain looks fondly upon the newly christened Harrow. “Training starts tomorrow. You’ve got a big day ahead of you, and I expect great things from all of my crew. Welcome to the war, Harrow.” The Captain turns his gaze back to his First Mate. “Dismissed.”

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Nolan wordlessly takes Harrow back down to the bowels of this strange craft by way of great glass elevator. By now, the clouds beyond the glass panels have taken a dark tint, as though the razor’s edge of a storm has caught up with the vessel. The storm brews and swells about them, the clouds darkening more and more by the minute. Harrow looks out to the clouds that mirror his own, jumbled emotions.

Something stirs in the clouds, something darker than the storm that disturbs the gossamer veil about the skirting of the cumulonimbus. Harrow peers at the shadow moving in the haze, but spies only a shadow. It is a large thing, with wide wings gliding through the clouds. Harrow can see no more, no details to discern what sort of aircraft it might be.

He looks to the First Mate, but Nolan sniffs almost derisively. “Should be packing in before the storm hits.” Nolan shakes his head and spits, “Can’t afford to lose another.”

Harrow says nothing. The abrupt bitterness to Nolan’s voice has surprised him, as has the admission. Harrow almost instinctively files the notion, the thought that they have lost crew and recently.

It underscores that he has impossibly fallen into a war that he knows nothing about.

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Harrow’s quarters are small and impersonal. The cramped, windowless space is only slightly larger than the narrow bunk, little more than a niche amid storage cabinets and drawers of darkly stained wood. The bunk is dressed by bland, plain, overly starched linens, and a flat pillow. There are no pictures, no decorations, nothing save a single, plate mirror with a humble, metal frame. Only two lamps of old, elaborately wired bulbs– one on the wall and one illuminating the bunk – light the room with basic controls at their fixtures and nothing more. It is the sort of featureless quarters to be expected of military service.

After Nolan deposits Harrow on the bed and bids him to get some rest, the new recruit spends some time just lying there and staring up at the underside. Prior occupants have scored their name into the wood above. Harrow reads them each in turn, turning the names over in his mind and considering if any of them seem real. Robbins. Curran. Arronax. Tirres. There are more, countless names. He wonders which names are the creation of the Nemos and which are actual identities.

He tries to sleep, to rest, but he cannot. It seems ill-fitting. Harrow is tired, very tired, but he cannot sleep. Nor can he move. His muscles simply refuse to bear his weight properly.

Instead, Harrow reaches to hem of his thin, hospital garment top and pulls the fabric up to expose the thing set in his chest. A distant part of Harrow’s mind whispers that the device should frighten him – as should the obvious mutilation of his body. However, Harrow is not afraid of the glowing thing, nor horrified by the mass of scars about the exterior seam where his flesh meats cool, unfeeling metal. He knows that this is an arc reactor, no more harmful than an ordinary battery, but he cannot place how or why such a thing came to be implanted in his body.

Nothing about any of this feels right, not a damned thing. Harrow knows this without his memory. He feels as though he is being pulled along invisible strings, directed to a goal that is not his design nor lies within his grasp. It grates on his nerves, especially when he notes that without an understanding of their intention there is nothing he can do to regain any semblance of control over his life. Harrow resolves then that he will play along, for now, move to their tune long enough to learn their goals.

Harrow rests his palms upon the reactor and, only then, can he sleep.

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A voice startles Harrow from his sleep. “Recruit Harrow. It is 6 A.M. Time to rise.”

Harrow jumps awake, gulping for breath in shock at the voice before groaning at the mention of the time. He looks about and finds the glowing, red haired woman at his bed. He knows she is not real, and, by the appearances of the room, Harrow knows she has no business being there.

“How?” he demands, almost angrily. “There’s nothing to project you in here.”

“Of course not,” the shimmering woman responds. “I am being projected through direct connection to the optic and cochlear nerves through neural-link implant. The process allows for direct connection with ship’s operating systems without the need for additional comms devices.” The image dips her head. “The direct cranial nerve projection also prevents espionage and cultivates a more personal relationship with the operating system through personalized settings.”

Harrow frowns, his brow knitting at the queer familiarity of this conversation. “Personalized settings?”

“Naturally. For example, I am designated Nimue by default, but you may change this option if desired.”

The words ring in Harrow’s ears, and he asks listlessly, “You’ve told me something like this before, haven’t you?”

The program nods. “In a manner of speaking. You previously encountered a generic template of this interface in a holographic projection in the medical unit. This instance is projected directly to you through the neural-link, allowing for personalized user modifications. Do you wish to alter my designation in your settings?”

His frown deepens, but Harrow shakes his head. “No. No, it’s fine.”

A part of Harrow questions why he should be so understanding with the intrusion of an artificial intelligence to his own mind.

“Excellent,” Nimue declares with a demure smile. “As previously stated, it is time to rise. Apprentice Rabbit will be here within 48 seconds for breakfast, sanitary needs, and physical therapy.”

As the artificial woman finishes the statement, there comes a rapping at the door to Harrow’s quarters; she vanishes from Harrow’s vision at the sound. Before he can even say a thing, the door creaks open and a youthful male face peers in. He is young – no older than seventeen - and pale, with wide blue eyes and a shock of thin, blond hair atop of his head pulled back into a braid. Small, scarlet beads dangle from the tie to his hair, and a gleaming neural-link shines from his left temple. He offers an awkward wave before barging in, carrying a steaming bowl. He stands on gangly limbs in faded, navy blue coveralls too large for his thin frame.

Harrow audibly groans now. “Let me guess? Rabbit?”

“Got it in one,” the young man replies. “Hungry?” Harrow’s stomach answers for him, growling deeply; Rabbit laughs. “Guess so.”

Rabbit offers him the bowl – which turns out to contain a bland porridge – but his arms shake too much to grip the dish or the spoon. To his shame, the whelp of a boy has to feed him by hand. Fortunately, Rabbit says nothing of the matter but babbles on near incessantly about topics that never hold Harrow’s focus long enough to recall. He is professional and almost detached from his actions. It is not much porridge, but Harrow’s stomach feels uncomfortably bloated and full in no time at all.

When finished, Rabbit simply announces, “Bath, yes?”

Before Harrow can utter a word, Rabbit scoops him up and deposits his wasted body back into the same wheelchair from the day before. The young man pushes him swiftly through the winding corridors and dizzying lengths of halls to a massive, communal bath with long rows of steel tubs in a line beneath tall windows letting in the predawn twilight. It initially takes Harrow by surprise, but, upon further consideration, of course there should be a communal bath. This is a military group of a manner of speaking. Rabbit swiftly strips him of his hospital style garb and helps him into a tub filed with warm water before a shred of embarrassment can even threaten to strike.

As Rabbit scrubs him gently but quickly with a natural sponge and a fruity smelling soap, Harrow looks down to the tub of water, to his own reflection. The man that stares back is a stranger to him. His eyes seem tired and haunted. His hair is long and unkempt, and his beard matches, with an irregularly that suggests previously groomed facial hair. Harrow does not like himself looking so mussy, and he wonders if he always felt that way.

“You’re a quiet one,” Rabbit muses timidly as he soaps Harrow’s hair.

Harrow shrugs.

Rabbit continues to speak. “I get that. Most are quiet when they first join up.”

Harrow smirks. “You, too?”

Rabbit purses his lips. “I suppose.” He nods more firmly now. “Yeah. Most people take time to get themselves sorted out.” When he is finished rinsing Harrow’s hair, Rabbit asks, “Like a shave?”

Harrow’s focus sharpens strangely, fixing on the boy angrily for but a moment before nodding. The boy means him no ham, no insult. He is only trying to be nice. Harrow reminds himself of this when Rabbit takes an antique straight razor to his jawline and scrapes along, following the line of Harrow’s face and the hint of previous facial hair.

When Rabbit is finished, he shows Harrow his own face in a small pocket mirror, and Harrow studies himself curiously. He does not look like a “Harrow.” He looks vaguely refined, with sculpted features accentuated by the neat goatee. He appears to be a somber man, with his pale, milky skin and tired eyes, but he does not seem so gloomy to be a “Harrow.”

“Better?” Rabbit questions. Harrow nods, unable to say anything more, and Rabbit beams. “Thought so.”

As Rabbit plucks his charge from the tub, Harrow watches as others stream in for the bath, men and women alike in neatly pressed uniforms. He knows he should not be offended or embarrassed, but he is. They are proud, lean, and athletically built. Each is trimly built and groomed, while he is weak and sickly, his limbs wasted by….. he has no idea what.

“Just in time,” Rabbit mutters as he finishes drying and assisting Harrow with dressing. “Shift change.”

As Rabbit pushes Harrow from the room, an unsettling quartet enter. Four men. They have a different bearing than the others. They stand taller, prouder. They wear all ebony. They are tanned and muscular, but they move with a cool grace. Each wears their hair long and in elaborate braids like the Vikings of old. And, to Harrow’s wonder, each has a single, black feather plaited into their hair. They are true warriors hewn from muscle and sinew as though forged for the task, among soldiers trained but not molded so perfectly. Even they bear the neural-link at their temple, a seeming requisite for the crew.

Rabbit gives them a nod as they pass but says nothing. He takes Harrow to a long, vacant gym lined with glass windows that stretch from floor to ceiling on one side. The pale, freshly waxed floor gleams in the morning light, shining like liquid. Various bits of exercise equipment and mats break the perfect veneer, but they seem old and worn, antiques colored flat black and covered in battered leather like something from an old movie. There, in the blessed silence and abandon, Rabbit works Harrow through his paces, helping him stretch and begin to work the stiff, weedy muscles until he is sweating, aching, and panting heavily like a dog.

For his youthful appearance, Rabbit is a stern taskmaster, pushing his charge hard and goading him on when Harrow nearly cracks. It forces Harrow to give the kid more credit than he had initially. Rabbit is suited to this sort of work. He is clinical and friendly when necessary, but tough when needed. He seems to know when to push and when to allow Harrow to lax.

At around midday, Rabbit allows him a break, and Harrow just lies there for several minutes, huffing and puffing as he considers the boy. He is exhausted, absolutely and utterly. Yet, upon recounting their work, they have done little to nothing. All Rabbit has done to him is dragged him through several stretching and breathing exercises. Harrow wonders what has happened to his body to cause such wither and waste.

Finally, when he is able to breathe, Harrow rolls onto his back and stares the young man in the eye. “What’s your deal anyway?”

“Same as anyone else, I guess,” Rabbit responds with a half-hearted shrug. “I was too young when I joined up for the Cap to let me serve anywhere but in Med.”

Something about the word ‘Cap’ rings strangely in Harrow’s ear, but, before he can consider the matter any further, the neural-link burns at his temple. It is a strange, buzzing sensation accompanied by a faint warmth singing into the back of his brain. Harrow bites his lip until the feeling passes and files the thought away for later.

“Doc Tate’s been teaching me.” Rabbit pauses, his eyes going unfocused for a moment; Harrow realizes he is likely seeing and hearing a private communication through the artificial intelligence known as Nimue. “Right.” The kid looks at him and smirks. “Speaking of teaching, you’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Best get some lunch and a quick nap before I pass you off to Cirrus.”

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After a bland lunch of clear broth and all too short of a rest, Cirrus invades Harrow’s life and personal space. Cirrus is a loud, big, bumbling fellow who drones on and all while making wild gestures with his fat, stumpy fingers. He is younger than Harrow, yet not as young as Rabbit. He is not tall, but he is broad and barrel chested like a lumberjack. His hair has been shorn short, leaving only a fuzzing of dark scruff there.

He talks too fast for Harrow. A part of his chest constricts at the thought, an alien displeasure at being unable to follow Cirrus, but he forces it down. It matters not anyway. Cirrus hardly seems to care.

Cirrus, it seems, is his tutor in all things related to this new life of his, beginning with a brief explanation that his reports will go to the Captain who will assess a position for Harrow before launching into a verbose tour of the Nautilus II. As Cirrus narrates in a never-ending babble, he pushes Harrow about the many corridors and halls, up elevators and down, through the vast vessel, leaving Harrow dizzily calculating the overall size of the ship. They pass through long bunk houses, weapons collections, store houses of food and supplies, the galley, the mess hall, recreational halls, the infirmary, studies, laboratories, and libraries filled to the brim with books – even a domed, lush garden.

It does not escape Harrow’s notice that, for all the many rooms and halls, Cirrus has shown him nothing of the engineering – the inner workings and guts of the vessel. It is a curious omission for a man who seems to savor spewing every detail of the vessel. Harrow files that in the back of his mind.

He forgets that entirely when Cirrus brings him out onto a long balcony stretching out over the clouds. He gasps then – honestly gasps. Harrow’s imaginings of the Nautilus is as a submarine vessel. As such, he has assumed that the vessel has been upon the surface of the ocean this whole time. However, beneath them spans what seems miles of pillowing clouds, fluffy and white. They are flying, suspended almost effortless in the sky.

Cirrus smiles knowingly and almost boastfully. “I know. Impressive, yeah?”

Harrow nods slowly, reaching out with a shaking hand to the smooth, brass railing to peer over and into the white. “Yeah.”

“Expecting something different?”

Harrow gives another nod. “Something like that.”

“Yeah, everyone does,” Cirrus brags, leaning up against the rail before spitting over. “Makes for a grand impression.” Now Harrow pays attention as Cirrus expounds upon the matter. “The original Nautilus was a seafaring vessel, a submarine of grand proportion and caliber. When the first crew fled the Red Flag, they scrapped her and took to the sky. Thought she’d be safer up here as a floating fortress.”

An unbidden thought tingles in the back of Harrow’s mind. A floating fortress. He can see it, almost clearly. It is an air-craft carrier, a long, blocky thing, angular and grey unlike the warm curves and copper tones of the Nautilus II. It is a thing of military use, utilitarian in design along, without the refined craftsmanship of the ship Harrow now occupies. He recalls notes on turbines, failings of design and changes, alterations for a more reliable mode, less prone to damage upon intake of foreign objects. Curiously, Harrow cannot fathom how he knows of such designs, yet the neural-link remains silent at his temple.

“She’s a marvel, if you ask me,” Cirrus breathes tenderly, respectfully, staring out at the mist about them.

“It’s not moving, is it?”

“Nah,” Cirrus replies quickly. “Stationary for the time being.”

Facts, figures, and equations swirl through Harrow’s mind referencing various aircrafts and aerospace engineering, and he finds himself blurting out questions in rapid fire. “Single or multi-turbine? How does it maintain altitude without risk of low-g condition?” He breathes deeply and finds the air fresh and thin, but not overly so, peppered with the smell and taste of the ocean. “What altitude are we at? What’s the minimum safe altitude rating? Any idea the max ceiling on this baby?”

Cirrus laughs, slapping Harrow on the back so hard that it jars his teeth. “Ah, the Captain said you’d be all over the engineering. He had it on good word you’d be a whiz at it.”

“On who’s word?”

Cirrus blanches, sputtering at the question. “Oh, no one’s in particular.”

It is a lie, and a piss-poor one at that.

Cirrus launches into a discussion about the craft and her dimensions, leaving out vastly more important information about her operation until Nimue appears in Harrow’s vision and announces that dinner will be ready shortly. Cirrus returns him to the cabin, still flustering oddly where Rabbit awaits with dinner and a change of clothes. Rabbit helps him with a boring, pale soup of what tastes like potatoes before helping him into a softer bed clothes and leaving him for the night.

That night, he sleeps deeply and dreamlessly, too tired from the day’s exertions to do anything more.

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Harrow wakes some hours later, in the dark of the night. Nimue blinks into his sight, along with a series of robin’s egg blue numbers counting upwards. 02:51:16. The time, he recognizes. He immediately gags for some reason at the bright numbers projected by the neural-link, which hums disapprovingly on his temple.

He growls through clenched teeth as he struggles to keep from vomiting, “Get that damned clock off.”

The numbers vanish, and Nimue apologies serenely, “I am sorry. Default user settings include time display upon abrupt waking to orient users in the event of an emergency.” Nimue closes her eyes. “I have adjusted your personal user settings.”

“Thanks,” Harrow mutters, regrouping.

Nimue vanishes from his sight, leaving him alone in the darkness once more. He finds himself impulsively reaching to the arc reactor set his chest, tapping his fingers upon the central disk. The arc reactor feels solid and comforting, reassuring beneath his touch.

While Harrow touches the arc reactor, he muses on the influence of the neural-link in his day, the uncomfortable tingles and burning whenever certain topics and thoughts broached his mind. Harrow knows the crew is concealing things from him, much more than what had been so simply explained to him by the few crew of the Nautilus that Harrow has met. Nothing adds up. It perplexes and vexes the man.

Harrow knows then that he must find his own identity, and the neural-link which has purged his memories are the key. He suspects that anytime Harrow stumbles across a thought to trigger the neural-link, the device is continuing to work to isolate these memories.

He sits awake for a time, running through as many male names as he can think of that might be his own without triggering the link before falling back to sleep once more.

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Each day bears the same blueprint. In the morning, Nimue rouses him from his slumber shortly before Rabbit arrives with breakfast. After that, it is time for a bath followed by physical therapy. Then comes lunch, a brief rest, and more tutoring from Cirrus about the history, function, rankings, and physics behind the Nautilus II; Harrow is a quick study, learning with ease and questioning to the limits of Cirrus’s knowledge. Harrow finds he knows more about engineering, aerodynamics, and meteorology than a person might think possible. Then comes dinner. Almost immediately afterwards, Harrow is asleep within seconds of hitting the pillow. His dreams are filled with visions of the sky, clear and blue beneath him as he soars through the clouds, drawing strange tears from him. He always wakes for a bit in the middle of the night to consider the many names which might be his own before sleeping once more.

The days proceed like this for the better part of three weeks without incident until Harrow presses himself beyond Rabbit’s recommendations. He forces himself up, off the wheelchair and to his feet. His muscles scream and protest shrilly, shaking and quivering as Harrow hoists himself up. He remains upright for but a second before collapsing to his knees, but it is a start.

Rabbit swears at him before congratulating him with a pat on the back.

He sleeps that night without waking.

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It is another week or two before Harrow can walk more than a few awkward steps. Rabbit helps him along, as Harrow explores the gym on his own, two feet. Each day is marked by another step, another few feet he is able to stumble across. His muscles feel stiff and ache afterwards, but, somehow, the burn is a pleasant one. He welcomes the sensation, savoring it.

When Harrow is finally able to perform a full circuit of the room weeks later, Rabbit whoops and cries out, “Ah, Dr. Tate’s gonna be glad to hear about this.”

Harrow slumps against a wall to rest, breathing heavily as he does, and he questions, “Just who is this mysterious Dr. Tate anyway? Why have I never seen him?”

Rabbit chews his lip. “Dr. Tate doesn’t take to strangers. He’s…. a private man.”

Harrow snorts, thinking of the communal bath. “I didn’t think people were very private here.”

“Dr. Tate’s not like the others,” Rabbit explains cryptically. “He’s…. he’s had a rough go of it.” Rabbit shrugs oddly. “I guess we all have in a way. I mean, we all ended up here.”

Rabbit will explain no more, but it matters not. It is time for lunch and for another of Cirrus’s lessons about meteorology.

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When Harrow is well enough to not require Rabbit’s assistance and therapy, the young man is released from his duties. This leaves Harrow with the mornings to continue building his strength before afternoon lessons with Cirrus continue. He spends the first day actually working out in the gym. The actions feel natural and practiced to Harrow, and it gives him comfort.

Beyond that first morning, Harrow cannot contain his curiosity any longer. He has been dying to know more about the vessel, about its function and how it might hang so effortlessly upon the clouds. Harrow needs to know more; he has bid his time too long in idleness. He clambers down through the ship to the base, where it seems most logical that the engineering compartments would be. He stumbles about the ship, following the lines of pipes and conduits over the ceiling to what seems the likeliest of destinations.

They do not lead to where Harrow imagines they should; instead, the ducts and such lead to an immense, cavernous space. He gasps in surprise. Where Harrow naturally infers that the veritable guts of the vessel should be, there is a massive hanger of sorts. It is a round space, with wide bay doors open to a sky so blue and clouds so fluffy that it twists a dagger blade in Harrow’s heart.

Something growls, deep and throaty.

Harrow jumps and spins around to find nothing behind him. He looks about and, again, finds nothing behind his back once more. Harrow’s heart hammers soundly in his chest, thudding uncomfortably against the metal socket embedded in his ribcage.

The growl sounds once more, this time above him, but, before Harrow can cast his gaze upwards, a hand snatches him by the wrist and jerks upon him, hard. Harrow looks down to find the pale hand of Rabbit clenched firmly about his arm, pulling him as a shadow pounces from above. Rabbit pulls Harrow just out of the way before a dark, hulking form slams down right where he had been standing just milliseconds before.

Rabbit whirls about, putting himself between Harrow and the lumbering shadow as it turns; he shouts, his voice suddenly much more authoritative that Harrow possibly imaged, “RAS! BACK OFF!”

A mighty hiss meets Harrow’s ears, and, in spite of his fear, Harrow peers curiously over Rabbit’s shoulder. He spies there what can only be described as a fairy tale monster – a dragon. It is a long, curious beast, with an elegantly elongate body, neck, and tail. It stands not on four feet, but on two powerful rear legs and the crooks of monstrous wings. It lowers it head and hisses once more, golden eyes fixed furiously upon the boy and his wayward charge. Its many ebony feathers bristle and stand on end as it swishes its tail back and forth, almost angrily.

Harrow is frozen by the beast’s amber gaze. He feels miles away, caught in the predatory stare of another, hulking monstrosity and penned between towering buildings reaching for a heaven pouring out more beasts. The neural-link at his temple burns disapprovingly, but Harrow cannot help it. His heart stutters in his chest painfully against the socket embedded among his ribs while the creature continues to fix its eyes upon him.

“BACK OFF, RAS!” Rabbit orders once more, quivering though as he does.

The creature seethes, stepping forward with a defiant stamp of one of those wings.

A female voice purrs from behind them, accented and oddly noted. “You should not be here. You do not command him.”

“Call him off, Weatherlight,” Rabbit sternly calls back with looking behind him.

She makes a sound, a whistle of sorts like a trilling bird. The creature snarls once more and steps away, slinking off as though chastised. It huffs off towards the wide bay doors and hurls its self towards the sky.

Before any further comment can be made, a male voice booms and echoes in the cavernous space, “JUST WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

In no time flat, Harrow finds himself once more across the desk of Captain Nemo. This time, he is not seated in a wheelchair. Instead, he stands on his own, two feet. This time, the Captain does not appear welcoming and congenial.

To his right stands Rabbit. The young man stands at polite attention, but Harrow can see right through that. The boy is practically shaking in his boots. His eyes flit back and forth warily, like a small rodent pinned down by a python.

To Harrow’s left stands two strangers. The first is a young woman, younger than he but older than Rabbit. It is the woman who called so mockingly to Rabbit – Weatherlight. She is a pale, finely sculpted creature, her skin a perfect alabaster. Her long, brunette hair is plaited back into an ornate braid. She stands at military attention, ramrod straight and gaze fixed ahead. Yet, she does not wear a military uniform as the others do. Instead, the lady wears a tight, black leather outfit, a flight suit mixed with armor of sorts. It reminds Harrow of another woman with crimson hair and pouting lips, until the neural-link burns at his temple and banishes the thought. He ignores it to study the long, ebony feather braided into her hair.

To Weatherlight’s left stands another stranger, the hulking man that had collared them all in what Harrow now understands to be a restricted area of sorts. He stands in the same black, skintight flight suit that Weatherlight does, tailored to fit each and every bulging muscle. He has the square jaw of a boxer, and the body as well. His chocolate hair matches his eyes. It is similarly plaited to Weatherlight’s, adorned with a single feather as well. His jaw clenches, his teeth grinding noisily.

The First Mate – Nolan – is also there, whispering into the Captain’s ear.

Finally, the Captain looks upon them, sternly yet benevolently, like a father of sorts. “Stormsend, please?”

“Found the Recruit Rabbit and the Recruit Harrow in the flight deck. Nearly got chomped by Ras,” the huge man recounts. He nods to the lady at his side, “If it weren’t for Weatherlight…”

“I get the idea,” Captain Nemo responds with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Apprentice Rabbit, you have been reminded repeatedly that the flight deck is off limits to apprentices below the age of adulthood without proper escort.”

Rabbit looks down to his feet, clearly ashamed. “I know, sir.”

“It’s dangerous and distracting to the scouts.”

“Yes, sir,” Rabbit closes his eyes and mutters softly.

Harrow’s heart twinges, and he blurts out, “It’s my fault.”

The Captain raises a brow. “Something to offer, Recruit Harrow?”

Harrow swallows under the weight of the Captain’s gaze. “I was exploring the ship. I got lost.” He looks to the young man at his right. “Rabbit saved me.”

“Is that so?” The Captain turns his attention to the woman. “Weatherlight, is there truth to this?”

“Yes, sir. The new recruit had stumble in. Caught Ras by surprise. Rabbit stood him down.”

The Captain nods approvingly. “Alright. Rabbit, you will report for two weeks mess duty.” When Rabbit salutes, the Captain offers another nod. “Dismissed.”

Rabbit sags with relief but, then, turns and bolts as fast as his legs can take him. Harrow almost wants to join him – almost. Another part of him, a defiant streak running deep to the core, refuses to budge from his ground.

The Captain surveys Harrow with a weather eye before announcing, “Well, seems you’re feeling more able, yes?”

“Yes?”

The Captain sits in his massive chair, the leather creaking beneath him. “You shouldn’t be ambling about the ship unattended. It’s an exceedingly easy way to get yourself killed. Apprentice Rabbit and Scout Weatherlight saved your life.”

“Sir,” Weatherlight states simply at her name, standing stiffer and more proudly at the mere mention.

“What are they?” Harrow asks.

“Archaeopteyx gigas,” the Captain reverently replies. “We call them ‘flyers.’ Most of the world would call them ‘wyverns,’ but that would imply that they’re mythological.” The Captain looks to his First Mate and makes a small gesture; Nolan presents the Captain with a ledger for quick study. “By our records, you have been here for passing four months.”

The blood runs cold in Harrow’s veins for some reason. Four months. It had not seemed that long before, but, faced with the Captain’s notes, it seems impossible that such a time could have passed so swiftly. He wonders if anyone has missed him, if anyone has looked for him those four months. The neural-link sings at his temple, purging the thought.

“Which brings me to the subject of your position in the crew.” Harrow looks up, but the Captain continues. “To stay on my vessel, you need a position in the crew, a means to earn your keep.” He strokes his silver beard and considers. “Weatherlight, you will take him as your apprentice.”

“SIR!” Stormsend cries out in protest.

The Captain hardly raises a brow. “Are you questioning my word?” Both Weatherlight and Stormsend deflate visibly, silenced by their Captain’s stern glare. “Scout Commander Stormsend, your ranks are short a scout since losing Scout Gricken last month. You can use another scout. Recruit Harrow, will report to the flight deck tomorrow at 0400 sharp for training.”

“Sir?” Harrow questions. “I can’t…”

The Captain smiles knowingly. “Don’t worry, Recruit Harrow. You are more than qualified for this.”

Harrow holds his tongue, feeling distinctly sour at the thought.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The rest of the crew eyes Harrow warily that evening at dinner. He knows word has spread swiftly – Harrow has never imagined otherwise. They know that the Captain has finally given him an assignment. They know he is to join the crew on the flight deck and those grim, monstrous beasts. Harrow pokes at his food – a simple meal of fish and rice – before giving up entirely and returning to his quarters.

He does not sleep after that.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

“Recruit Harrow, it is time.”

Nimue does not need to wake him in the morning, only to remind him of the time. Harrow has lain awake the entire night, wondering and worrying. The neural-link has worked overtime on him, burning at his head every time he closes his eyes as the unbidden image of giant, lumbering space beasts pouring from hole in the sky surges forward.

He rises, stiffly and unsure, and swings his legs off the bunk. He bathes, shaves, and dresses in record time, avoiding the sort of dawdling that allows his mind to wander into the uncomfortable territory that displeases the neural-link. Harrow even eats his breakfast with a swift, mechanical action, not really tasting any of it in a nearly vacant mess hall. He catches Rabbit’s gaze beyond the service window in the kitchen and gives a half-hearted wave; Rabbit flashes him an equally forced smile.

Then, Harrow proceeds down, to the flight deck. The Nautilus is quiet at this hour. Harrow knows implicitly that a vessel of this size demands constant attention in engineering, navigation and sanitation. He also knows that a crew of the size necessary to staff such a vessel will require near constant tending to laundry and kitchen duties. He knows there are crew awake and working, but he spies not a single person roaming between dimly lit decks as he descends to the base of the vessel.

Stepping through the hefty, steel doors and onto the flight deck is like stepping into another world. The flight deck is an almost insane cacophony of sights and sounds, all clamoring for Harrow’s attention. In the center of it, stands Stormsend before a holographic map depicting what appears to be a small slice of the Indo-Pacific. Stormsend is the epitome of authority, commanding the full attention of those gathered before him. He barks orders left and right to a group of about twenty men and women dressed in those black, leather uniforms, crowned by gold and ebony helms wreathed with matching feathers that gleam in the warm light of the ship’s lamps. To each of his crew of scouts, Stormsend assigns what seems a grid, denoted by a series of letters and numbers on the map, sending them on their way.

When Stormsend finishes addressing a scout, he or she turns, moves to the back of the group, and whistles a unique sound. While they wait for but a second, Harrow notes how armed they are, a stark reminder that the Nautilus is at war so matter how peaceful the vessel might seem. Bulky revolvers rest at their right hip by thick, leather holsters that buckle neatly against the body, while loaded quivers balance the firearms, hanging off the left hip loosely. Their chests are lined by small objects, darts or incendiaries – Harrow cannot tell from the distance – and each bears an elegantly curved and scrolled bow.

After but a few seconds, one of those creatures comes slamming down to the flight deck besides the rider from above, moving about awkwardly and gracelessly on the metal deck. The scouts each mount their seeming steeds, scrambling up to perch upon the flyers’ necks and grasping a fistful of feathers. Then, in a flash, they are in flight, impossibly fluid and sinuous as the flyers bolt from the flight deck and burst out into the heavers.

When a few have been assigned their orders, the crowd has thinned enough that he spies Weatherlight among them, catching her attention. She gestures quickly for him to join her, keeping her hand low to escape Stormsend’s note. He gives a brief nod and tucks through the crowd, occasionally bumping into a quiver or bow and earning a scowl.

To his surprise, Weatherlight is not dressed in her midnight black uniform. Instead, she wears a plain, cotton jumpsuit of chocolate brown. She does not wear the sleeves; instead, the woman has tied the sleeves about her waist. She wears a humble, creamy tank-like shirt on top. It is a harsh contrast to the grimly dressed scout in the Captain’s quarters. Yet, the black feather remains among her brunette braids. When Harrow looks closer, he notes that she is the only one among the scouts – out of any of the crew he has met – to not have a neural-link implanted on either of her temples.

Harrow waits silently at her side, bristling in irritation when Weatherlight fails to address him further. Somehow, Harrow knows he is unaccustomed to being ignored. He feels it in his bones, even. Yet, this is not the place nor the time to say a word.

Eventually, Stormsend has dismissed all the other scouts, and only Weatherlight and Harrow remain. He looks almost fondly upon the woman before frowning at Harrow. Harrow balls his fists and holds his ground. He will not be made to cower by any man, least of all this simple soldier.

“Weatherlight, you have the deck.”

Weatherlight snaps to attention primly. “Sir.”

Stormsend glances to Harrow and offers a mocking smirk. “Make sure he doesn’t wreck up the place.”

The woman smiles, clearly stifling a chuckle at that. “Sir.”

Then, Stormsend whistles, too, a strange, chirping sound of sorts. Another of the flyers comes hurtling down towards the flight deck, yet, unlike the others, this one does not touch down. Instead, Stormsend holds out a hand and snatches a tuft of feathers at the neck. As the flyer continues on, the man swings neatly up and mounts the beast, flowing with the creature before screaming out and into the night. Harrow watches in awe as the flyer vanishes in the shade of the predawn twilight.

And, then, they are alone.

“Are you ready?” Weatherlight inquires softly.

Harrow shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Good, then.” Weatherlight vanishes behind a corner and returns swiftly with two pitchforks, tossing one to Harrow. “Your first lesson begins now.”

All of the lights snap on in the flight deck. Only under the warm glow of the Nautilus’s lavishly molded lamps, can Harrow truly appreciate how utterly massive the space of the flight deck is. Both sides of the main deck are lined with alcoves of sorts – six to each side stretching four rows high. Narrow, spindly ladders climb up on both sides, access to the alcoves aloft.

To Harrow’s dismay, it seems they are to clean up after the creatures. Each alcove is piled high with a golden, dried, straw-like plant. Weatherlight demonstrates on the first how to pick out soiled straw, tossing it and any loose, black feathers out to the center of the flight deck. Harrow tries to pay attention, following her practiced motions to take his mind off of the rustling of other of those creatures above.

When she is finished, Weatherlight gestures to the next alcove; they work in silence for some time moving from one roost to the next and up to the next level before Harrow makes an innocent yet critical error. He finds amid the hay of one of the alcoves a single, large, ebony feather, touched with blue and purple gleams in the light. He plucks the feather from the mess and surveys it for the millisecond long enough to marvel at the airfoil created by the fibers before Weatherlight slaps the thing from his hand.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t.” Weatherlight reaches to the feather adorning her own hair, almost wistfully before dropping the thing. “We bear the feathers of our first mount. It is an honor to wear one.”

Harrow frowns at the chastising, but he returns to his work for a moment before he can hold his tongue no longer. “So, what’s your deal?”

“Deal?” Weatherlight breathes curiously, as though perplexed by the phrase.

“Yeah,” Harrow grunts as he heaves a mess of dirty hay over his shoulder. “Your deal, story, thing. Or are you playing the cool, dark, and mysterious type?”

The words roll off his tongue, thick with sarcasm in a way that both surprises and comforts Harrow. This is how he speaks, he knows this somehow. He is meant to play with words, to warp and twist their meaning, ensnaring those who he finds below his merit. Harrow knows this as easily as he knows his name is not Harrow.

Weatherlight shrugs as she toys with a corner of hay before quipping, “Why? Do you find me mysterious?”

Harrow purses his lips. “Cute. You know mimicry is a childish defense mechanism, right?”

“Perhaps,” Weatherlight admits softly. “Yet mimicry remains an evolutionary advantage in stalking and ambushing prey.”

Harrow feels the tension bleed from him slightly. “Are you saying you’re stalking me? Got the hots for me already?”

The words feel sour and ill placed, as though not meant for Weatherlight, but for another. It twists at Harrow while the neural-link flares at his temple. Weatherlight does not notice as Harrow grits his teeth against the sensation; her back is turned to him. Instead, she laughs – honestly laughs.

Harrow allows the conversation to die then. Not only has the topic turned his stomach, but so has the situation. They have finished with that row; the next one above them has occupants. Harrow obediently climbs up behind Weatherlight and watches in awe as she approaches the first beast confidently. She walks right up to it as to it is nothing more than a cow or horse and slaps the thing on its shoulder. Instead of snapping and snarling at her, it ducks and almost purrs, like a loving kitten.

When Weatherlight addresses the creature, it is firmly and soundly, but queerly as she shoves hard against its shoulder. “Go. Go, Kai.” The creature nuzzles against her tenderly; she rubs its head tenderly before shoving once more and orders again, “Go.”

The flyer sulks for a moment, as though pouting, before leaping from the alcove and into flight. Something tingles in Harrow’s mind, something annoyed at her action. The neural-link squashes whatever thoughts threaten to bubble forward before Harrow can get any clear impressions from his own, buried subconscious.

When Weatherlight spies the wonder in Harrow’s eyes, she shakes her head. “What?”

“Just that easy, huh Daenarys?” the mocking reference slips easily from his tongue.

Weatherlight ignores the jest and shrugs. “That easy. You will learn.”

“I don’t think so.”

The woman smirks. “You will.”

“So, is this the Captain’s grand purpose for me? Glorified stable-hand to dragons?”

“What makes you so certain that the Captain has any intentions for you?” the woman demands almost too sharply.

“All this show, all these theatrics.” Harrow waves his arms, as though a puppeteer. He sighs and looks down to his feet. “You all keep tiptoeing around me, keep talking about how I’m qualified for this.”

“You are,” Weatherlight asserts, returning her attention to her work. “In time, you will understand.”

“I’m sick of hearing that, you know?”

The woman says nothing more. They continue to work together, side by side, until every flyer has been shooed from their roost and each alcove has been cleared. She calls them each by name, names with drift amid the vast list of names Harrow has tried for himself. He listens to each, curious if any might stimulate memories triggering the neural-link, but the unusual names do nothing. He muses on this even as they sweep the refuse down a shoot to the side and mop the deck.

Exhausted, he playfully whines, “Mom, am I done yet?”

“Not even close.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

After a brief and light lunch, mercifully seated, Weatherlight brings Harrow to a place in the Nautilus he has never seen. It is a smaller, more intimate gym that the one where he toiled for so very long to regain his strength. There are weights and mats in a ring, but nothing of the other expected equipment; to one side, a long length of space stretches to a fairly standard target in red and white. The space stinks of sweat and copper – blood, he recognizes. It is dark and almost dank, as though haphazardly cobbled together by the crew instead of lovingly crafted like the gym aloft.

Another of the scouts awaits him. He is a short, but proud fellow, stocky and severe in expression. His fiery red hair is braided back in a neat Mohawk down the top of his head, while the sides have been neatly shorn to the scalp. A jagged scar mars his pale cheek, cutting between both eyes and across the ridge of his nose, nearly dividing his face. He introduces himself as Glade.

Harrow makes a snide, inane comment about air fresheners, and is knocked right off his feet for the effort by a swift and well placed kick. He lands with a thud against the hefty metal deck. Harrow’s teeth jars from the abrupt landing.

Glade leans over him and sneers. “He’s a takah. I like takahs. Easy ta distract.”

Weatherlight joins Glade, places her hands on her hips, and glares down at Harrow. “Recruit Harrow, Scout Glade is a ranking office to you and your trainer for hand-to-hand combat. You will show him due respect or he shall ensure that you show him proper respect.”

Harrow grits his teeth and leaps to his feet. He will not be taken down so lightly. He jumps at Glade, fighting valiantly, but Harrow is still too weak and uncoordinated to take the scout. Glade puts Harrow down again and again while Weatherlight watches from the shadows. Then, Harrow gets a bit of luck, catching Glade by the knee with his leg in a move he knows should be chastised as dirty, throwing the scout. Glade lands hooting like a hyena, rolling over backwards to grin madly from ear to ear at Harrow.

“Good, good. Ver’ fierce.” Glade looks to Weatherlight. “I like this’in. I take ‘im on.”

Weatherlight nods at Harrow approvingly, and he realizes that, in some way, this has been a test. Glade did not have intentions of directly taking Harrow on as his student. Glade steps elegantly and all too easily to his feet while Harrow sags, heaving, tired and practically dripping with sweat. The red-head reaches out and grasps Harrow’s wrist, using his other hand to make Harrow return the gesture. He squeezes firmly, tightly enough to make Harrow wince.

Glade grabs Harrow’s neck and drags him close. “Good, but sloppy.” He sternly wags his finger right up in Harrow’s face. “Neater tomorrow.”

After that comes another Spartan meal, consisting of a light fish and greens followed by introduction to his next tutor. An athletic, dark young man called Marin is next, waiting for him in that tiny little gym. He greets Harrow with a formal bow that unnerves Harrow to no end.

Weatherlight says only, “Scout Marin will be your weapons master.”

“Come, follow me,” Marin croons, almost singing.

Harrow nods and drifts along in the wake of the scout. He leads Harrow away from the gym and the makeshift range and to another room above the flight deck, secure with massive doors. It is a vault, Harrow recognizes, a weapons lock-up. He finds an unusual comfort and familiarity in that knowledge, more so when Marin opens the door and reveals long rows of clear cabinets loaded with all manner of weapons. Each cabinet is marked by nameplates above. Many are partially filled, while the one labelled “WEATHERLIGHT” in pin straight engraving is fully stocked and organized.

Harrow pauses before her lock-up and marvels. Inside the case, a long, beautifully crafted bow from what appears to be bone hangs in display. Fine patterns of circles and curls have been carved into the bow and stained black – scrimshaw. Beneath that, is her quiver, black and marked with gold scrollwork, filled with long, black arrows. Either side of the bow and quiver is flanked with blades in a variety of sizes and shapes, from tiny throwing darts to large knives with serrates on the back end, to what appears to be a katana judging by the sword’s arc.

Harrow hardly spies the rest. Instead, he focuses intently on the object beneath the quiver – a nearly ridiculous revolver with its leather holster. He scrutinizes the thing with a shrewd eye. The wheel spans a ludicrous width and sits far too forward for his taste. The caliber is far too wide. It is the most improbably firearm he has ever had the displeasure of casting his eyes upon. Worse, it is an almost ugly, over-sized thing.

“Recruit Harrow,” Marin calls from the far end of the weapons lock-up. “Is something wrong?”

Harrow stabs the clear protective casing, marveling at his own strange understanding of weapons engineering and explaining, “You’re burning serious velocity pre-ejection with that wide a barrel.”

“Velocity, in this case, is a necessary sacrifice. Leyden bullets require a larger caliber, but are exceedingly delicate during early ignition stages,” the scout dismisses easily. “Come.”

Harrow follows and finds the scout standing before a case labelled with fine, cursive handwriting “HARROW.” His own, personal cache, it seems. It includes the same arms that are in Weatherlight’s case, including the altogether ungainly revolver.

Marin opens the case and takes out the bow. Unlike Weatherlight’s, this bow is not marked by any carvings or details. It is plain. Marin hands the bow reverently to Harrow. It is impossibly light in Harrow’s hands.

“This is your bow, and yours alone. Carved from Achaeopteryx bone.” Harrow grimaces, but Marin ignores the expression. “Your bow stems from Ranak. Ranak perished following battle with the Red Flag April 26, 1902. Honor him by your actions.”

Marin helps Harrow strap the quiver to himself and escorts the recruit back to the range. While Weatherlight watches soundlessly as Marin attempts to teach Harrow to fire the long, spindly arrows downrange to the target. Marin is an exceedingly patient man, unlike Glade, but the bow remains utterly alien in Harrow’s grasp. It is another man’s weapon, not his, but Harrow cannot place a name or face to the thought.

Marin continues for some time before deeming the lesson finished and leading Harrow back to the weapon’s lock-up. “You will need to become more comfortable with the bow. Leyden bullets are expensive and loud. The recoil can be deadly in flight. The bow will be your primary ally, not the gun.”

Harrow refrains from any of the number of comments he can make about elves and arrows. He is far too tired to experience a lesson similar to that of Glade’s. It is fortunate then that Weatherlight dismisses him for the night, suggesting he partake of night rations if he must. He is too tired to eat and retires without. Sleep takes him before his head reaches the pillow.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Each day is exactly the same as the last.

In the morning, Nimue rouses Harrow early. He rises, showers, dresses, and eats, before scrambling down to the flight deck. He stands at Weatherlight’s side as Stormsend directs his scouts. He cleans the alcoves with her, allowing the woman to shoo the fliers out to work by himself. Then, lunch. Then, combat training with Glade. Then, dinner. Then, weapons training with Marin.

Every day is exactly the same, yet Harrow feels they are not. He feels himself getting faster, stronger. He does not tire and wind as easily. It grows more difficult for Glade to throw him, easier for him to nock and loose the arrows. He and Weatherlight finish their chores earlier and earlier, allowing time for her to introduce the parade of fliers and quiz him on their names, characteristics, and mannerisms. Glade introduces small knives and stilettos to their sparring, while Marin continually guides Harrow’s aim closer to the mark. He is getting better at this, at all of this…. whatever it is.

While Marin and Glade train Harrow directly, it does not escape Harrow’s notice that his supposed master – Weatherlight – has taught him little to nothing. Each afternoon, she sits idly watching, surveying, occasionally smirking oddly and smugly. Her studious and almost knowing gaze reminds Harrow of someone else, of a quiet, equally knowing and equally smug man. That thought proves too painful, too raw, and Harrow forever finds himself banishing the memory before the neural-link can do so for him.

Slowly, Harrow finds his place, and, just as slowly, the names he tries for himself bleed from the forefront of his mind, placed by the names of the fliers. Kai, an adolescent male with fickle temper. Castor and Pollux, male twins by birth, a rarity he comes to know. Gulliver – or Gully - the young male with a coy and playful manner, like a great, big puppy, smallest of the gliders. Kai, a flighty and fickle male. Ash, the sulking male with the broad, pale and grey scar running down its snout. Cinder, the male constantly at Ash’s side. Teema, an elegant female with a sharp temper. Shadow, the somewhat dull-witted male with the shaggy tuft of feathers wreathing his face like a mane. Aren, the sweet and affectionate female. Sava, the almost haughty matriarch. The names do on and on, totaling forty one in all, each one watched over by Ras, the dominant male who maintained the ranks from on high, like an alpha wolf.

So the days go, until, one day, many months after starting his apprenticeship, a strange day occurs.

It begins early one morning, perhaps an hour or so before he is due on the flight deck. Harrow wakes from the tale edge of what must be a nightmare, quivering, sweating, and panting. Yet, the man cannot remember even a shred of the dream. The electric burn of the neural-link at his temple.

He sits awake for several minutes, unnerved by the abrupt awaking before grabbing a quick breakfast and heading down to the flight deck. The flight deck is quiet. It is nearly an hour before the shift change, and the flight deck is occupied only by the slumbering beasts and Stormsend. The man sits before his map, surveying the thousands of islands that dot the area.

Stormsend glances curiously to Harrow, but Harrow gives him only a minor wave. He is too tired, too wrung out to risk the ire of the scout. Harrow only wishes to work and lose himself in that work. He fetches a pitch fork and moves to the first alcove.

When he enters the first alcove and finds Nero – one of the larger males – still lingering there in the shadows, slumbering it seems. Harrow moves without thinking, without care. He immediately approaches the creature and shoves hard at the beast’s shoulder. Nero grunts in response, clearly ignoring the pathetic human that dare disturb him.

Harrow shoves again and barks, “Go on. Out. Out.”

Nero turns and snarls, drawing back his lips to reveal a row of pointed teeth. However, Harrow stands his ground and points out of the alcove. Nero gives another half-hearted growl, but the man does not flinch.

“Go on, now.”

Nero slinks off, his tail swishing over the metal floor. Harrow watches, abruptly struck with marvel at the realization that he has just stood up to one of the fliers for the first time. Generally, it has been Weatherlight to push the beasts off for Harrow. He did it without even realizing. Harrow beams all too briefly before returning his attention to his work.

Midway up, when Harrow gets to Gulliver’s alcove, he spies something curious. Gully is curled up in the bedding, along with Rabbit. The boy is cuddled up to Gully’s side, nestled amid the crook of the mighty beast’s neck. He is sleeping with the creature. Harrow draws a breath, and Gully’s amber eyes slide open, glaring almost protectively at Harrow. The creature offers a low, throaty growl as he stares at Harrow. Harrow gasps in surprise; Gully has always been friendly and playful. It is strange to see him so possessive and protective and over Rabbit.

Rabbit stirs, blinking owlishly before gaping at the man before him. “Harrow.” He glances to the cavernous space beyond the alcove and whispers, “Please. Please, you can’t tell anyone. Cap’ll have me on report.”

Before the boy can freak himself out any further, Harrow shushes him and promises, “Your secret’s safe with me.” A commotion below draws Harrow’s attention, a banging and yelling; Harrow looks back to Rabbit and breathes, “Go on; get out of here.”

Rabbit bolts, to where Harrow does not know. The boy must have some sort of duct or hole he sneaks through to get to the alcoves without attracting attention from Stormsend or whoever has control of the flight deck. Harrow knows now that this must be how the boy appeared from nowhere the first time he ventured onto the flight deck and saved Harrow from being swallowed whole by Ras.

Once Rabbit has safely fled, Harrow peers over the edge of the alcoves and spots the source of the racket below. One of the flyers – Teema - has returned from a mission, but it has been attacked by something. Her rider – a lanky African with an English accent by the name of Wulf - lies bloodied and battered upon the floor, the scarlet spilling from what appears to be many bullet holes down his side. The young man is barely conscious and steadily slipping even as Stormsend and others of the scouts attempt to put pressure on the wound and staunch the hemorrhaging. Teema stands to the side, making soft chittering sounds of concern, her eyes wide with what seems human concern.

As soon as a pressure dressing has been wrapped about him, Stormsend scoops up his scout and runs from the room. He is surprisingly graceful and swift even weighted down by the limp body of the scout. His flight leaves Harrow alone on the flight deck with those monstrous creatures, yet he has no care for the flyers. Harrow simply stares in horror at the crimson stains on the flight deck and running down Teema’s muscular neck and powerful shoulders as she makes strange, lamenting howls at the main doors to the deck.

Harrow needs to sit, and, so, he does amid the hay of Gully’s alcove, simply staring in shock. All these months have been relatively quiet and peaceful aboard the Nautilus II, without incident. It has been easy to forget that they are at war. Now, there is no mistaking the violence that lies beyond the confines of the airship. He shudders at the thought.

Something nudges at his side, and, when Harrow looks, it is Gully. The beast honestly appears as worried as Teema. Harrow shakes his head, shuffling away the surprise and horror. Then, he rubs Gully’s nose as he has seen Weatherlight do on numerous times. It settles the young male.

Harrow looks to the blood upon Teema. The flyer seems rather nonplussed by the stains on her ebony feathers, yet it bothers Harrow. The sight of so much blood turns his stomach, even if the dark color of Teema’s nape conceals much of the color except but in the right light. It sickens him to think of the suffering, of the waste of human life.

Inexplicably, Harrow finds himself fetching a bucket of water and returning to Teema’s side. Initially, the beast bristles, sending shivers down his spine, but Harrow steels himself. He needs the blood off of her, if only for himself. He works slowly and methodically, to avoid stirring the creature too much. Under his gentle touch, Teema settles, and the blood washes away.

A noise catches his ear, and Harrow glances over his shoulder to spy Weatherlight. She crouches like a spider above him in the second tier of alcoves. She does not move or flinch for long moment, only staring and surveying Harrow and Teema. She only nods in approval before climbing down to help. Something about that almost brightens Harrow’s heart, but not quite, not when compared to the fleeting image of a strawberry blonde smiling and eagerly nodding.

After the pair wash Teema’s ebony feathers to a bright sheen, they set to scour the deck, fetching clean buckets of water, soap, and scrub brushes. They each take a bucket of water and kneel down before the mess. It seems somehow more real to be close to the blood, more stomach turning.

His distaste must be visible, for Weatherlight breaks the tension by breathing, “I know Rabbit was here again.”

“How did you….?”

Weatherlight’s smirk is a wry, bittersweet one. “He’s always here.” Harrow looks to his bloodied hands and nearly vomits; Weatherlight catches him by the wrist and shoos her apprentice aside with a dismissive wave. “He is never far from Gully.” She glances up, her eyes fierce and hot. “Do not tell the Captain or Stormsend.”

Harrow sits back on his heels and watches as the woman scrubs away at the deck. “I won’t…. if you tell me why.”

Weatherlight bites her lip. “None of the crew know their past.”

“No one but you,” Harrow counters. When the woman gapes, Harrow simply rolls his eyes. “Oh, please.” He taps his neural-link meaningfully. “Some of us are a bit more observant than others.”

Weatherlight nods. “Of course.”

“Why is that, anyway?” Harrow presses, his curiosity piqued by this sudden openness to his mentor. “Why you?”

The woman wags a warning finger, slickly stained crimson before continuing, “None of the crew know their past, but all experience shades-“ the woman with the strawberry blonde hair is there again, behind Harrow’s eyes for the briefest of instances “- glimmers of what was once theirs before joining the crew.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Gully is a shadow of Rabbit’s past.”

Harrow snorts. “A dragon?”

“They’re not dragons,” the woman snips. “Dragons are myths. Archaeopteryx are real.”

“Semantics,” Harrow argues flippantly. “Still doesn’t make sense.”

“Gully found Rabbit. He was just a baby back then. He didn’t understand what bringing a human child back to the nest meant.” When Harrow furrows his brow, Weatherlight offers only a noncommittal shrug. “Gully had seen the others bringing back victims of the Red Flag. He just followed their example.”

A part of Harrow is mortified. At some point, in some distant, unknown place, one of those beasts had dropped down out of the sky and scooped up a child – Rabbit. He wonders what Rabbit’s parents had thought, what they had done, what could have possible been done to prevent Gulliver from stealing away with their own brood. And, then, the creature had simply flown back home with its prize.

Harrow tries to ask more, but Weatherlight will say nothing more on the matter.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Wulf does not survive the night. A simple and solemn memorial is held among the flyers in the hanger before a few take wing to secret the body away. Harrow knows not where they bury their dead, and he knows better than to ask.

xxx

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xxx

The days progress strangely from there. Weatherlight seems to allow him closer, to offer smaller glimpses of her own personality and thoughts. Marin praises him when he actually manages to hit the target more than once, and he gets closer to taking down Glade with each sparring match. With each day, the approval he spies in Weatherlight seems more genuine, seems greater.

A week later, two flyers do not return at all; they just vanish off the face of the Earth. Cinder and Ash, along with their riders Talon (a hulking man with harsh eyes) and Siren (a beautiful, pale blonde woman with kittenish features). It unnerves Harrow, as well as the rest of the crew. Other teams fly along the heading the pair had been assigned, and find nothing, not a trace of the scouts. Harrow shivers that night when he looks to the empty alcoves where Cinder and Ash previously resided.

Weatherlight predictably says nothing.

A month later, it happens again. Another scout returns brutally wounded. This time, it is one of the night scouts. Harrow does not know the man. Even if he did know the man, Harrow would not recognize him beneath the burns that riddle his flesh and distort his features. He is always either training or exhausted and in bed before the evening shift takes to the sky. He tumbles out of the sky and into the hanger, into a bloodied, scorched heap that groans and shrieks. After he is whisked to the infirmary, Weatherlight quietly informs Harrow that the scout’s name is Hawk.

Although Harrow does not visit the infirmary, he listens to the other scouts as they gossip about Hawk. They whisper back and forth about their fallen comrade. Harrow knows nothing of the man, but he pities him. They speak of his agony, of his suffering. It is a painful, crushing thing that looms over them all, bringing them all down.

On the fifth day after Hawk’s return, Weatherlight wakes Harrow before Nimue can, stealing into his room and gesturing for him to follow her. She is dressed in her black leathers, carrying her gleaming, golden cowl wreathed by the ebony feathers of the flyers; it is the first time in many months that Harrow has seen Weatherlight so decked out. He goes after her, without word, without question. He knows better than to argue with her looking so stern. He also knows better than to question when Stormsend greets Weatherlight and her apprentice with the hulking, black Kai at his side.

She finally speaks. “Harrow, I have to leave for a few days. Keep to your work and your training.”

“Where are you going?”

“Pharmacy,” Weatherlight breathlessly answers. When Harrow grabs her by the wrist, she blurts out, “Hawk needs medicine that we don’t have here, medicine that takes too long to manufacture. I’m going back to the outside world.” She jerks her hand from his and climbs up onto Kai, perched upon his neck just behind his head. “I’ll be back.”

“What about the Captain?”

“The Captain knows,” Stormsend growls before looking up to her. “Be safe.”

“And you.”

And, then, just like that, Weatherlight ushers Kai up and out of the hanger, swooping into the darkness of night. Stormsend and Harrow just watch her as the night swallows her up. For the briefest of moments, Harrow thinks he hears the hushed movement of wings and feathers in a strong downbeat. He cannot be certain. Then, there is nothing, just pitch black.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The first day without the constant, quiet companionship of Weatherlight is a strange one for Harrow. He keeps to his chores, tending to the flyers before attending his classes with both Glade and Marin. However, his heart is not fully in it. He cannot focus fully on any of the work, but he manages. The next day is somewhat the same, and the day that follows that.

The only thing that changes is the mood, steadily deteriorating. Hawk is suffering, worsening, or so the various reports Harrow hears in hushed whispers indicate. He is dying, Harrow knows. A part of Harrow almost wishes the man would just get it over with, but, then, he flushes with shame. He feels ugly at the thought, especially when he ponders if the crew thought the same of him when he first arrived. It is only worsened by the knowledge of Weatherlight and Kai on the wing.

It is not until the fourth day that Harrow’s work begins to suffer. He cannot keep his mind on it at all. He keeps musing on the myriad of possibilities of horrors that may have befallen Weatherlight and Kai beyond the safety of the Nautilus. The sensation is somewhat familiar yet alien, the sickening notion that she will not return. He loses every match with Glade that afternoon in short order.

“Shameful,” Stormsend’s rough voice rumbles in the dark of the makeshift gym.

Harrow jumps, starting at the sound from his place on the ground below Glade after another loss, yet he can say nothing. He knows his performance is nothing short of embarrassing. Harrow only shakes his head, too exhausted to mount anything resembling an argument to his defense.

Glade reaches a hand out to help Harrow out, but Stormsend tuts him. “You’re a waste of her time, of her talent, or her potential, did you know that?”

Harrow’s blood instantly boils at the thought; he swings his leg around and tries to hook it about Stormsend’s broad ankle to bring him down. Stormsend dodges easily, dancing back and away before circling about the fallen Harrow, challenging him and mocking him. Harrow jumps to his feet, instinctively dropping low and bringing up his fists.

“You don’t even know, do you?” Stormsend demands as he strikes out at Harrow. Harrow jumps back, countering with his own blow but missing as Stormsend steps lightly aside. “She spoke for you, for your life, and this is how you repay her?”

Harrow grits his teeth and lunges at Stormsend. The hulking man seems to anticipate the move, his muscles gathering. This does not escape Harrow’s careful gaze. Before Stormsend can reach up and grapple with him, Harrow punches out once more, catching Stormsend’s chiseled cheek and connecting with driving force. Sparks flash over Harrow’s knuckles, but he does not truly register the pain. Blood splatters on the floor from Stormsend’s split lip.

“I am not a waste,” Harrow growls.

Stormsend dips his head. “Then stop wasting all of our time and act like it.”

Stormsend spits, wipes the blood from his chin, and huffs off. Harrow watches him go, the blood still burning in his veins and Stormsend’s dark words still ringing in his ears. She spoke for you. Harrow’s focus sharpens intensely on his training and his work, but those words remain.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

On the sixth morning, two scouts fail to return from their mission. Sava and Aren, their fliers, return without riders. Stormsend curses and swears in a variety of tongues, but, in time, he turns the two flyers over to Harrow. There is blood and scorch upon their wings to be cleaned, all that remains of the two young men to fly out with them the night before.

Harrow attends the brief services that evening.

He does not sleep that night. Harrow cannot sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he pictures another unsavory fate befalling Weatherlight, and, damn him, it makes him wonder what will become of him. He shudders to himself before eventually giving up and retreating from his bunk for the flight deck.

As he walks, Nimue flickers to life in his vision, strolling at his side. “Are you well, Recruit Harrow?”

Harrow knows he should be put off by her presence and her inquiry into his personal affairs, yet he is not. Somehow, it feels astonishingly appropriate to have an artificial intelligence checking in on him. A part of Harrow knows that this is not the way people are supposed to feel.

He shrugs her off, “Yeah.”

“Is there anything I can assist you with?”

“No.” Harrow says with a shake of his head. When Nimue remains, Harrow smiles softly at himself and offers, “Thank you, Nimue.”

Nimue vanishes at the polite dismissal.

Harrow finds an empty alcove and curls up amid the soft, grassy bedding. It is somehow not as bad as Harrow imagined it, and there is something comforting about knowing that he is not alone – even if he company consists entirely of animals. The sound of their deep respiration is somehow comforting, as it the queer sensation of sleeping on what rather amounts to the floor; somehow, Harrow knows he has seen worse.

For a long time, there is stillness; then, something lands beside him. Harrow cracks open a single eye to just a slit, and spies something strange. Ras. The lumbering patriarch, the monstrous alpha of these creatures, stands at the alcove’s mouth. The creature stares with wide, curious, amber eyes that flash and gleam in the dim light, yet, for once, Harrow is not entirely terrified of the beast. He seems to study Harrow for a cautious moment before turning his broad back and shoulders to Harrow and settling down in a strangely protective posture.

Harrow stares at those ebony feathers for a time before sleep takes him, Stormsend’s words still burning his ears even days later. She spoke for you. It both humbles and irritates him, but Harrow is too exhausted to question.

xxx

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xxx

Ras stirs and wakes Harrow to a queer, predawn twilight. Harrow cracks a cautious eye open, watching at the creature slowly rises and stretches like a cat. Then, the beast gathers its self for but the space of a breath before leaping easily and gracefully from the ledge of the alcove. There is the whisper of feathers upon the wind meets Harrow’s ears as Ras takes to the wing, and, then, nothing for a long moment.

Then, a shriek breaks the stillness. It is a strange, alien call to Harrow’s ears. It is something akin to an eagle’s scream – a sound Harrow knows – but louder and sharper. It is the sort of sound that could cut. Ras. His cry pierces Harrow, right to the core. Yet, for all its fierceness, Ras’s call is welcoming.

Harrow peers over the edge of the alcove just in time to spy Ras returning to the flight deck with a second flyer in tow. Harrow gasps and, then, grins madly from ear to ear. The second dark creature tearing into the deck and landing neatly with a whip of its mighty tail is Kai – with Weatherlight perched upon his head. He nearly lets out a whoop or joy before stilling himself once he spies Stormsend on the deck, rushing to Kai’s side.

Weatherlight slides from Kai’s neck, practically into Stormsend’s arms before shoving a parcel from somewhere beneath her black leathers into his waiting hands. They exchange but a word before Stormsend bolts from the flight deck, the parcel held tightly to his chest. She stands and stares, her legs shaking, staring after her superior officer, smiling almost wistfully.

“You made it,” Harrow calls down to her.

“So I did.” She leans for support against Kai’s broad shoulder. “In time, I hear.”

Harrow nods solemnly. “So it seems.”

Weatherligh sighs almost heavily as Kai nudges against her. “Well, I think it’s time for a rest.” She pauses and reaches into a concealed pocket amid her weapons kit, pulling something out. “I almost forgot. Catch.”

Weatherlight tosses something small up to him, and Harrow catches it easily in both hands. It is a small, plastic snow globe, the sort of tacky souvenir purchased at an airport bodega. A silver, plastic silhouette of the New York skyline dominates the globe, punctuated only by a green sculpt of the Statue of Liberty. She does not stay for any thanks or comment as Harrow turns the thing over in his hands. Something twists in his heart as he surveys the plastic trinket, but Harrow cannot place the reason while the neural-link burns at his temple.

He remembers New York. The bustling streets. Honking, glaring, yellow taxis. Women dressed in prim suits and elegantly tailored skirts. Tourists snapping photos. Giant, hideous creatures swarming in the skies. Broadway plays and neon lights. Soaring between towering buildings. Stretch limos, fancy cars, and red carpet galas. The neural-link sears painfully at his temple, but the queer, alien thoughts continue to flood through Harrow until he forcefully shoves the thing aside.

However, the effect remains. Strange images and memories bubble up in his mind, no matter how Harrow tries to ignore them and no matter how the neural-link burns furiously at his mind to expunge the thoughts. His work suffers for it, but Harrow cares not.

xxx

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xxx

The next morning, Weatherlight arrives after Harrow for morning chores. He does not blame her. She had looked exhausted upon her arrival. He knows he would sleep in if possible, but Harrow cannot sleep, not after seeing her strange gift. He has spent the entire night tossing and turning.

When she goes arrive, Weatherlight mutters a brief apology before setting to work in the alcove beside his as though nothing has occurred, as though nothing has changed. Yet Harrow knows that everything has changed. He feels it inside him, as though every nerve of his body has been reprogrammed by one singular image. His world has turned, as though away from the reality he has come to know all these long months of service, towards something abstract, something intangible and yet inexplicably whole.

He swiftly finishes working in his alcove and ducks into the alcove with her. She gives him a token nod, her attention more on the bedding about them. Harrow watches for a long moment, studying her silently until his curiosity demands sating.

“Stormsend tells me you spoke for me.”

Weatherlight pauses, her muscles tensing as though a nerve has been struck on the first blow. “Yes.”

Harrow folds his arms across his chest. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Weatherlight shrugs, her motion too schooled, too calculated. “It means I spoke for you when the decision came to end your suffering or not.”

“You saved me?”

The woman does not face him, but he can see her cheeks rise in a wry expression. “In a way.”

“You either did or you didn’t,” Harrow argues bitterly against her evasion. Weatherlight sighs, but Harrow presses, “Tell me.” When she does not answer, he bellows angrily, “Tell me, damn it!”

Above them, Ras growls, a harsh, deep, and throaty warning.

Harrow bristles but says no more, waiting; Weatherlight does not disappoint. “If I tell you, you must swear not to breathe a word of this to anyone.” She turns to face him, glaring in the dim light of the alcoves. “You must swear.”

Harrow nods. “I swear.”

She makes him shake on it. An antiquated gesture, but one that speaks volumes. The weight of her grip bears down upon him, and a part of Harrow feels as though he cannot – will not – fail her in this matter if it means understanding some part of himself and how he came to this odd existence. Then, she pauses for a long moment, as though uncertain of how to start or where to even begin.

When she speaks, it is softly and almost reverently. “We met once before.”

‘At a technical conference in Bern.’ A voice whispers in the back of his mind before the neural-link banishes the thought.

“You knew me?” Harrow breathes, the blood draining from his face.

“Well, I would not say that.” Weatherlight stops and corrects herself gently. “I knew of you, but our paths crossed once before, in New York.”

A giant, lumbering and ugly creature flies through the air, smashing buildings through Harrow’s shattered memories before vanishing back to the dark recesses of his own, lost memories. The neural-link hums at his temple as it settles, but Harrow is left unsettled by the thought of the monstrous beast that would utterly dwarf one of the flyers.

“You saved my life.” She purses her lips and turns away for a moment. “You never knew I even existed before that moment on Lexington, never knew afterwards really, but you saved me just the same.”

‘Ever try shawarma?’

“When we found you, it was likely you were beyond rescue. The others, they wanted to end your suffering, put you out of your misery.”

Harrow shivers at the thought and fixes a steady gaze upon her. “And you?”

She shakes her head uncomfortably. “I could not.” Weatherlight smiles wistfully, her eyes going misty. “I owed you my life. I could not take yours, even if it meant an end to your suffering. When we brought you back here, it was thought that it would be best for us to put you down. I begged the Captain, told him of your heroic deeds. I begged him to consider allowing a man of your…. caliber to join the crew.”

“And?”

“And, here we are,” Weatherlight says with a coy flourish to the soiled bedding in need of tending. “Now, come. We had better get back to our chores or you will be late for training with Glade.”

The conversation dies there, but the strange, forbidden thoughts do not perish in Harrow’s mind, not now that the seed has been planted.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

That evening, during the quiet lull of supper, First Mate Nolan graces Harrow with his presence for the first time in months. It is but the briefest of visits, only long enough to tap on Harrow’s shoulder and relay a brief message. It seems the Captain wishes to speak with him and Weatherlight on the flight deck in fifteen, promptly. When Harrow questions, Nolan says no more. Harrow feels as though he should complain against the order or show up late on purpose, but he knows better, quickly finishes his meal, and swiftly returns to the flight deck.

He finds Weatherlight already waiting. She smiles uneasily, as though dreading whatever is to come. Harrow approaches and opens his mouth to speak, but the woman silences him with a terse shake of her head. The ebony feather in her plaited hair dances and jigs oddly from the motion, catching Harrow’s focus briefly.

Stormsend slips into the place at her side, appearing silently from nowhere. It never ceases to amaze Harrow how soundlessly the scouts move despite their muscular build and heavy leathers. Especially Stormsend. Harrow sometimes wonders if Stormsend was a spy in his life before the Nautilus II, or a master hunter.

The Captain appears at the prescribed time on the nose – not a second late or early – with the First Mate at his side. The older man beams warmly as he steps onto the flight deck, looking up tenderly at the many alcoves above them and the shadowed creatures lurking therein. Harrow ponders silently if the Captain served as a scout once, mounted upon one of the black flyers soaring through the skies with a battle cry on the tongue.

Then, he notices the dog, ambling just a few feet behind the Captain and Nolan. Harrow did not even know the Nautilus II had a dog. It is a small to medium sized dog, white with rusty patches. A Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. It looks less like a dog and more like a cuddly toy, but a hefty, leather collar studded with electronics that Harrow vaguely recognizes wreathes the canine’s slight neck. Harrow briefly studies the collar from a distance until the dog growls oddly and plops down on the deck beside the Captain’s feet.

“Scout Weatherlight,” the Captain addresses formally.

The woman snaps to attention. “Sir.”

“I have read your reports on Recruit Harrow’s progress. Very detailed.”

Harrow shoots a curious glance her way. She has told him nothing of her reports, nor the details contained within. He is almost insulted, in a vaguely reminiscent way. Yet, Weatherlight wears an inscrutable, porcelain mask.

“You may take that as a complement, Scout Weatherlight,” the Captain offers gently.

The mask slips ever so slightly, enough for the ghost of a smile to appear on Weatherlight’s pale lips. “Thank you, Sir.”

“You will begin Recruit Harrow’s formal flight training tomorrow.”

“SIR!” two voices speak back at once; Weatherlight’s softly feminine voice and a mechanical drone.

Weatherlight quickly composes herself under a stern glare from the Captain, but the mechanical voice continues without recourse. “Sir, I have already lodged my own concerns about this prospect.”

It takes Harrow an embarrassingly long moment to realize that this strange, disembodied voice stems not from any of the people about him. Instead, it seems to be coming from the dog at the Captain’s feet. The thing stares up mournfully and seemingly knowingly. Harrow furrows his brow, as the dog shuffles about uncomfortably. Harrow knows precisely how unbelievable this is, but considering the many dragon-like creatures above and the floating city where he currently resides, Harrow must admit that this is somehow not the craziest of notions in his life.

“I do not think this is wise,” the synthetic voice continues from the dog.

“I have taken your concerns into due consideration,” the Captain sternly directs at the dog before turning his attention to Harrow. “Recruit Harrow, tomorrow you will receive a full physical from Dr. Tate personally.” The dog makes a sound of approval not translated into human speech. “Pending medical clearance, Recruit Harrow, you will begin flight training the day after.”

Harrow blinks, dumbstruck by the thought of taking to the sky upon the back of a monster from his worst nightmares, but he manages to nod his head and breathe with Weatherlight, “Yes, sir.”

“Which flyers do you have available, Stormsend?” the Captain inquires.

Stormsend quickly rattles off a few names, none which strike Harrow as the greatest of candidates. “Sava, Gully, Teema, Aren, and, of course, Ras.”

The Captain considers the possibilities before looking to Weatherlight. “You know Recruit Harrow better than any. Which would you recommend?”

Harrow finds himself praying silently against Ras, but Weatherlight ignores his tension and answers primly, “Gully.” The Captain quirks an eyebrow, but she continues, “Harrow thinks himself a trickster. Gulliver will make a good match.”

“We will see.” The Captain surveys them all for but a heartbeat. “Dismissed.”

And, just like that, Harrow’s fate has been sealed.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

That night, Harrow cannot sleep. There is just too much rattling about in his head to sleep. The dog. Gully. The thought of flying. The notion that he will know a part of him once more that has been lost to the neural-link.

He wakes and asks a single question of Nimue before stealing off along the silent halls of the Nautilus II. Nimue briefly flickers before offering simple directions; Harrow vaguely wonders if the artificial intelligence is checking in or cross referencing a previously established user preference. Harrow follows Nimue’s terse guidance and finds himself at a bunk door not unlike his own.

He raises his hand to knock and stills himself. It is strange to realize that he has lived all these months without seeing the quarters of any of the other members of the crew. It feels as though he is crossing into dangerous territory.

Finally, Harrow forces himself to knock twice upon the door.

The door cracks open, and Harrow finds himself face to face with an extremely cross looking Weatherlight. “What?”

“I…. “ He chews on his lip for a second, feeling abruptly foolish; then, Harrow blurts out an apology. “I’m sorry.” Harrow shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Before he can leave, though, she grabs him by the wrist and drags him inside, shutting the door behind him and chastising, “You’ll wake everything on this deck.”

As soon as she closes the door, Harrow feels hemmed in on all sides. Weatherlight’s bunk, like his, offers no space outside of what is absolutely necessary. He feels too close to her, too intimately juxtaposed against her personal space. Warmth floods his cheeks, but she gently pushes him down on the bunk. That only serves to further worsen the heat rushing into his face.

In the back of his mind, another woman is pushing him down onto a bed, a woman with strawberry blonde hair and lips plush from kissing. His cheeks burn at the thought, along with the neural-link. The image of the nameless woman dissolves, but it leaves him torn. These strange, alien thoughts from a forbidden life have been bubbling up with increasing frequency ever since Weatherlight gave him the tacky, plastic snow globe. His head throbs.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Harrow shakes his head, and she asks, “Nervous?” When Harrow says nothing, Weatherlight sighs. “Then, what?”

Harrow gives a small shrug. “I don’t know. It’s everything. Nothing.”

Weatherlight gives a quick shake of her head and shoves him down onto the bunk before settling beside him and orderly brusquely, “Just sleep.”

For a moment, Harrow thinks she might cuddle close to him, but she lies beside him, barely touching him. They contact only at the shoulders and the hips, each staring up into the old wood grain and the myriad of names carve into the bunk overhead mirroring those above Harrow’s own bunk. The contact is so minimal as to be impersonal if it came from any other person. Coming from Weatherlight, a woman he has never touched in his life, after months without contact with any woman, it feels an exquisite sin.

It settles him enough to sleep.

xxx

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xxx

In the morning, Weatherlight rouses him gently and wordlessly shortly before Nimue would. She gestures for him to be on his way, dismissing him in a way. Harrow says nothing; he feels abruptly shamed and dishonorable for going to her in the first place, as though slighting another woman he cannot recall.

Harrow moves swiftly through his morning, bathing and dressing swiftly before lipping listlessly at a humble breakfast in the mess hall. Through it all, there are eyes upon him; the eyes of the crew. They know; they always know. Harrow wonders how the word has gotten around the crew so swiftly. He tries to ignore them, but it is difficult. They whisper softly behind his back, shaking hands after a few soft mutterings. When Harrow has stomached enough of their hushed gossip and the pretense of eating, he rises, clears his dishes, and heads down to the infirmary. A few more hands shake in his wake; Harrow pretends not to notice.

The infirmary is quiet, occupied by only one patient – Hawk. The once proud, sharp, Asian features are marred by melted, drooping flesh in various stages of healing. However, after everything that has happened to him, after how long it took Weatherlight and Kai to return with antibiotics, Hawk is fortunate to still draw breath.

“Stop staring,” the mechanical voice drones behind him. “It’s rude.”

Harrow whips about and spies the dog at his feet. It stares back indignantly. It seems odd how such a small, canine face could convey seemingly human emotions, but this dog does.

“Come,” the dog orders through the electronic collar.

Harrow smirks, distantly amused. “Shouldn’t I be the one telling you that?”

The dog spins on a dime, baring teeth and growling, spittle flecking its lips as the collar drones in monotone, “Very funny, asshole. You forget who patched you up, who put you back together. If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead, so stow it.”

“You? Put me back together? How?!?” Harrow feels a laugh bubbling up in his throat. “What with your little opposable thumbs and all?” Harrow holds up his hands and waggles his fingers. “Oh, wait, you don’t have any.”

The banter feels natural to him, playful. He imagines doing this one before, goading a friend or colleague. His heart melts at the delicious familiarity of it all, but the dog seems little phased. It continues to stand with its hackles raised and little teeth bared, for as pathetic a display of intimidation a pup as cuddly as a Cavalier King Charles can present.

Nimue’s pale, bright image flickers to life between them, interjecting, “Dr. Tate naturally did not directly perform emergency treatment, but, as Chief Medical Officer, he prescribed your care and directly managed your case.”

Harrow feels himself deflate slightly. “Well, then, I guess I have you to thank.”

The dog snorts, and the collar translates, “Damn straight.”

The little red and white dog ambles off, tail wagging haughtily as it does. Nimue gestures for Harrow to follow with a single, pale palm. He does. It seems somehow more fitting for him to take directions from an artificial intelligence than it does from a somehow talking dog. It feels more believable and natural. The holographic projection directs the man to the rear of the infirmary, to a plain bed. There, while he sits, a bevy of staff – anonymous nurses both male and female in creamy colored scrubs that Harrow feels he should remember – check him over under the watchful eyes of the dog.

Harrow knows better than to stare, but he finds his gaze drifting to the dog every few moments. No, he corrects himself, to Dr. Tate. As the nurses finish their ministrations, take final blood and saliva samples, and report to the dog, Harrow chews his lip, considering the many possibilities.

Finally, when the nurses clear out, leaving only the projection of Nimue, the dog, and Harrow, he asks, “So, Doc, what’s the verdict?”

“It is ‘doctor,’” the collar corrects flatly, even though Harrow can detect the sarcasm there.

“Not dog-tor?” Harrow teases.

The dog growls dimly. “Keep that up, and you’ll be in isolation for the rest of your days.”

Harrow’s blood freezes at the thought, even if it is only meant it jest. His chest tightens, constricting painfully and crushing away at his lungs. His head swims while his heart hammers violently against his ribs, fluttering like an injured bird. The dog says something through the collar, but the flat drivel does not penetrate the inexplicable panic that washes over Harrow like a tidal wave.

The world fades to quiet black, a dark place where Harrow can breathe again.

xxx

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When the world comes back into focus again, Harrow’s head and chest hurt dimly, as though with a dull ache. He is lying flat on his back in the infirmary, in a plain bed. As soon as his focus returns enough to realize this, Harrow rockets upright with a gasp.

The flat, dull voice of Dr. Tate’s collar calls beside him. “Welcome back.”

Harrow glances to the side and spies the dog seated on the floor beside the bed; he smiles wryly. “Man’s best friend.”

The dog stiffens, bristling visibly. “No. Physician’s habit.”

“What happened?” Harrow asks with a groan, rubbing his throbbing forehead.

“A panic attack,” the dog answers easily. “Triggered by an ill-placed comment it seems.” Those wide, brown eyes look up balefully at him. “I’m sorry.”

“Panic attack? Felt more like a heart attack.”

The canine offers what seems like a shrug. “You have significantly decreased lung capacity due to the device implanted in your sternum despite otherwise excellent physical condition. Makes you more prone to such troubles. It is why I have my concerns about letting you fly.”

“Please…” Harrow begs, his heart pained by the pathetic pleading. “I have to fly.” When the dog does not say anything, Harrow adds, “Please, Dr. Tate.” When that fails to rouse the proper response, Harrow stammers, “Pl-please. I don’t know why, but I have to fly.” He glances about nervously, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. “You…. You were a human once, weren’t you?”

“I was,” the collar answers for Dr. Tate as the dog looks down solemnly.

“Then you know. You know what it’s like to have something…..stolen from you.”

Harrow is not certain where the words are coming from. However, he knows the truth behind them. He knows he belongs in the air, like a bird or one of those great, black creatures from the flight deck. He knows the sky has been taken from him, and he needs it like he needs air to breathe. The thought of losing it now pains him like a cutting blow.

The dog seems to consider this briefly before conceding, “Fine.” It looks up ruefully to Harrow. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

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After Dr. Tate has signed off on him – well, stamped his paw print on Harrow’s file – it is time. He ambles from the infirmary only to nearly bump right into Weatherlight. She is waiting just outside the infirmary, dressed in her black leather flight suit, clutching a fairly large parcel wrapped in brown cloth. She hands him the parcel, tells him to suit up and meet her in the hanger when he is ready, and leaves him.

Harrow returns to his quarters to open the parcel. To his surprise, it contains a set of black leathers and a golden helm like Weatherlight’s, wreathed in a cowl of black feathers. Harrow spends a long moment touching the supply leather, fascinated by the softness. He is equally surprised to find that the leathers are not a one piece as originally thought. Instead, there are pants, a pair of something like calf-length boots with pliable soles, a shirt like piece, and a sturdy jacket. Harrow shrugs off his own clothes and changes into the black leathers and finds that they fit impeccably, as though perfectly tailored for him. When Harrow twists and bends, he finds the leathers stretch and move with him without issue, allowing free movement in all directions. He marvels at the construction and the fit, wondering who measured and crafted the leathers to him.

When he is ready, Harrow picks up the helm and begins to head down to the flight deck only to be stopped by the mental projection of Nimue. “Recruit Harrow, Scout Weatherlight requested your presence in the hanger, not on the flight deck.”

Harrow furrows his brow, but the artificial intelligence directs him off the familiar path of corridors and ladders to the flight deck. Instead, Nimue guides the man through the vessel towards the center of the ship and deep to the bowels, deeper than Harrow has ever been in the Nautilus II. She says nothing other than sparse instructions; Harrow does not expect Nimue to do otherwise. Instead, Harrow focuses on the steadily dimming light and the increasing heat of the vessel as they delve deeper and deeper towards what he knows must be the actual engineering decks of the airship.

In time, Nimue brings him to a wide, cavernous space that dwarfs even the massive space of the flight deck. He circles slowly in awe at a space large enough to fit an entire football field and more. Harrow lets out a low whistle of approval, especially as the lights begin to click on about them – Nimue’s doing. As the lamps slowly come on, the warm, yellow light illuminates a veritable fleet of v-shaped vessels tucked neatly to the sides of the hanger, each sleeker than the last and scored with ornate, scrolled filigree patterns.

Harrow draws close to one and puts a reverent hand out upon the cool metal. He runs his fingers down the length of the aircraft, savoring the smooth curve of the fuselage and the elegant rise of the wings. A master craftsman has designed these ships to be fast. Twin turbine engines occupy the wings, tucked into tidy vents. Harrow nods appreciatively at the trim of the vessel and the angle of the foil. He knows that these ships must simply slice through the air. Jet propulsion and aeronautic engineering at its finest. A fine layer of dust coats the crafts, and Harrow knows it is a sin for such exquisite creations to sit in disuse for so long.

“Why?” he mutters to himself.

“May I be of assistance, Recruit Harrow?” Nimue asks serenely.

Harrow shakes his head. “Why fly around on those things? Why not use these?”

Nimue’s response in flat and to the point. “Our power reserves are too low to warrant the extraneous power consumption.”

His hand drifts to the lump of the arc reactor beneath his leathers, but, before Harrow can consider the matter further, a faint murmuring meets Harrow’s ears. He turns and spies a few of the scouts stalking into the hanger. Glade and Marin are among them. The others, Harrow does not know. They speak so softly that Harrow cannot know what they are saying, but each seems to survey him with curiosity. Harrow pointedly ignores them and returns to his survey of the aircraft.

“Remain where you are, Recruit Harrow,” Nimue croons in Harrow’s ear.

An abrupt, loud, metallic thunk startles Harrow from his appreciation of the vessel, and he jumps. Harrow looks just in time to see a fine sliver of blue appear in the center of the hanger before spreading. Doors. They slide open to reveal a large square of open sky dappled with cottony, white clouds and a glittering ocean beneath. A cool breeze snaps up through the doors, but the leathers keep him oddly warm and cozy.

There is a moment of peace, and, then, the mighty Gully bursts from the clouds and into the hanger, with Weatherlight perched upon his neck. The giant, ebony creature beats down with its wide wings once, buffeting Harrow with a gust of wind and rearing up as he does. Gully lands neatly, first by setting its clawed feet down upon the deck followed by the crooks of his wings. Weatherlight slides down off his neck gracefully and tears off her golden helm.

“Harrow,” she greets breathlessly.

Harrow gives a nod in return and strides uncomfortably towards her. There is something acutely terrifying about the thought of taking the sky with Gully. He knows he belongs in the sky, but not with a winged monster like the Archaeopteryx. Harrow somehow feels he belongs in a craft like the jets lining the hanger, or something of his own invention. Yet, if this is what Harrow must do to fly, he will do it. He will do anything to fly again.

She steals a sideways glance over his shoulder to the few scouts gathered along the outskirts of the hanger. Harrow looks back to them and finds that Marin, Glade and the others are settling in as though for a show. He sniffs hotly, but the woman merely gives a curt nod in their direction. At that, the scouts lean close and speak fervently to one another.

“What’s their problem?” Harrow snarls through his teeth.

“They are taking wagers.”

“On what?” He questions, almost insulted before even knowing the answer.

The woman shakes her head at him ruefully. “On you, of course.” Harrow shoots them a dirty look, but Weatherlight stills him with just the faintest grace of her hand ghosting over the leather. “Don’t worry about them. It is tradition.”

“Tradition?”

Weatherlight shrugs nonchalantly. “In a manner of speaking.”

Harrow looks to her as the woman strokes the dark feathers on Gully’s neck. “Did you place a bet?”

Weatherlight smirks mischievously, and Harrow knows before she even offers anything resembling an answer. “It is tradition.”

The image of a coy, seductive and secretive red-headed vixen flashing the same teasing expression flickers in his mind before the neural-link swiftly snuffs it out. The impression leaves Harrow mildly shaken. These unbidden thoughts and memories have no place in this dire of situations.

The woman ignores his unease and brings him close to Gully. All these long months toiling away as a veritable stablehand has acclimated him to the presence of the flyers, to those intense, amber eyes boring into him almost knowingly. He draws close, his heart lurching uncomfortably in his chest heavily against the metal reactor socket. Gully closes the distance between them, nudging Harrow with that massive head of his like a puppy, as though the creature is aware of the reassurance his soon to be rider needs in this moment. Harrow feels his heart lighten slightly; his hand moves of its own accord to stroke the beast’s long neck while Gully makes a soft sound of approval.

“You will have to trust him,” Weatherlight speaks tenderly, in words meant only for Harrow, no one else. “A parachute is too bulky, too cumbersome.” Harrow blinks in shock, but she places her hand upon his, guiding him to massage those long, lean muscles as she continues, “With one, you cannot carry weapons. You would be defenseless in the air. If you treat Gulliver right, he will never let you fall.”

Harrow senses the weight of her words beyond measure. The neural-link burns furiously at his brain, but Harrow feels the horrifying sensation of hurtling through the air. He knows what it is to fall from great height. He has no context for the sensation, but it sends shivers down his spine.

“Have you….?” He cannot bring himself to finish.

“Have I what?” Weatherlight inquires; when he fails to answer her, she prompts him slightly, “Fallen?”

Harrow opens his mouth to speak but finds he has no words. He has only a painful lump in his throat which refuses to budge no matter how forcibly the man swallows about it. Instead, he forces himself to nod jerkily.

“I have,” she responds almost capriciously.

“What happened?”

Weatherlight drops her gaze and reaches for the feather at the end of her braid. “It was Katai. He was Kai’s brother.” She looks up, her eyes misted strangely. “He was my first.” She grins. “You never forget your first.”

She is baiting him to ease the mood; Harrow knows this and plays along as he continues to pet Gulliver, “So I’m told.”

“The Red Flag shot him out from under me,” Weatherlight whispers solemnly. “Ras caught me.” When Harrow shakes his head in disbelief, the woman merely states, “Ras keeps his.”

She says nothing more on the matter. Instead, she spends the next several minutes instructing him on the whistle to call Gulliver’s attention. As it seems, each flyer has a unique whistle to pique their interest; Gulliver’s is a single, piercingly shrilly note. Harrow is not a whistler by nature, but, in time, Gulliver seems to recognize the man’s struggling imitations of the call, his head jerking towards the man when Harrow attempts the call. Weatherlight nods in quiet approval.

She explains where and how to mount the creature, how to sit upon him and how to clutch fistfuls of feathers so not to rip them out. Weatherlight mockingly suggests that plucking Archaeopteryx feathers may be bad for his health. Harrow numbly agrees, unable to muster anything beyond that now that he knows the time is coming to fly.

When it is time, Weatherlight gestures for him to put on his helm; Harrow lifts the helmet to place it upon his head suddenly quite uncertain. It is dark beneath the cowl, dark enough that the man draws a deep breath and crushes his eyes shut before pulling the helm on. Harrow peers out of the helm for but a moment before a blind panic takes him, forcing him to rip the thing from his head and cast it violently aside. Gully sidesteps the offending object as it bounces on the deck and hisses at the helm. The other scouts stand at the abruptness of the action, as though the whole world has stopped just for this pathetic display. He could care less; such concern is trivial when he can hardly breathe.

“Harrow? Harrow?” Weatherlight calls to him, but her voice hardly penetrates the thick fog of his terror. “Harrow?” She is at his side, rubbing his back in wide, comforting circles. “Just breathe, Harrow. Breathe.” Harrow takes a shaky breath and lets it out, and she lets out a litany of approvals with his exhalation. “That’s it. Breathe, Harrow.”

When he has pulled himself somewhat back together, Harrow stands himself upright, looks her in the eye and nods. “’M ok.”

She surveys him with a shrewd eye. “Are you?”

Harrow nods tersely. “Yeah. We’re good. Let's do this.”

The woman reaches down and plucks the helm from the deck, staring at the thing. “Claustrophobic?”

Harrow does not wish to admit it. He does not know what took him the moment he placed the helm firmly upon his head. It fits him just as well as the rest of the leathers, designed specifically for him. It had been cozy and comfortable, perfectly crafted. Yet, the darkness and the space had horrified him inexplicably beyond repair.

Weatherlight considers the matter for a moment before stepping away from Harrow and Gully. Gully inches closer to him, nuzzling against him affectionately as Harrow watches Weatherlight crossing the hanger. She disappears behind one of the aircrafts and rummages noisily about. When the woman returns, she bears a thick set of goggles lined with fleece.

“Nimue can guide you through the neural-link, but your eyes need protection. Can you wear these?”

Harrow takes the goggles, turning them over in his hands. They are light, but well-constructed, clearly meant for an aviator. He toys with the buckles to the straps and pulls the goggles over his head. They fit snugly, the fleece lining resting comfortably on his skin. He nods at her.

“Then, come on. Time waits for no man-“ she raises an eyebrow “-or woman.”

Harrow gives a half-hearted laugh before realizing that she may be flirting with him. He cannot quite tell. He knows it has been some time since a woman has toyed with him so, at least for the duration of his stay on the mighty airship. Beyond that, Harrow cannot know.

He follows her lead to grab a fistful of Gully’s gleaming black feathers and swing himself up, onto the broad neck behind Gully’s skull. She shows him how to perch there on his toes and the balls of his feet. The flyer moves impatiently as Harrow settles himself, feeling somewhat awkward atop the creature until Weatherlight pulls on her helm and jumps up behind him, snatching fistfuls of feathers beneath his hands. With her guidance, Harrow leans to the side, turning Gully to the right towards the wide, open doors of the hanger. The waiting scouts stand once more, standing curiously as Gully steps closer to the cloud dappled sky beneath him. A variety of flight information appears in his vision, supplied by Nimue through the neural-link, including altitude, airspeed, air temperature, compass direction and more. Harrow draws a deep breath to still his nerves; this is it.

Harrow feels her lean closer to him, pressing against him. “Don’t forget to breathe.” He nods nervously, and she shoves him down slightly and whispers, “Let’s go.”

With a joyous chirp, Gully leaps from the hanger with such force that Harrow feels he might tumble right off the flyer. Then, they are in freefall, screaming towards the Earth as the altitude drops swiftly in his vision, for just a moment. Weatherlight leans back, pressing down on her feet. Harrow moves instinctively to follow her motions, his heart trilling ecstatically when Gulliver spreads his mighty wings and levels out smoothly, gliding through the air effortlessly and gracefully. Weatherlight presses her lithe body against Harrow, tilting to the side, and Gulliver instantly responds by banking to the right in a smooth, even arc. When she eases off of him, Harrow leans to the left to an instantaneous response from the flyer beneath him, and it is utterly exquisite.

Before he can stop himself, Harrow lets out a whoop of joy. He cannot control himself; he has missed the skies too much. He slams low over Gulliver’s neck, and the flyer dives in millisecond, tucking its wings close to its body and streamlining himself neatly. Before they plummet into the cloud, Harrow leans sharply to the right, and Gulliver spirals through the white mist, bursting into the sunshine on the other side.

Harrow levels Gulliver out once more and lets out another shout, only to be met by other voices. Before Harrow can look behind him, notes appear in his vision, supplied by Nimue. They mark positions behind him occupied by other flyers. Harrow still looks behind him, easily spotting Glade, Marin, and the other scouts on the wing. He grins madly from ear to ear.

Weatherlight pulls back on Gulliver, and turns him back towards the Nautilus II, and, for the first time in all these long months, Harrow sees the vessel in all her glory, shining golden in the sunlight. She is incredible, perhaps more incredible than flying altogether. She is a massive bauble suspended amid a cloak of billowing, white clouds. Towering spires pierce the heavens with elegantly sharp points, the tallest of which is crowned with a white flag marked by a bold N. Weatherlight guides Harrow to bring Gulliver about the Nautilus II, which Harrow must now concede is honestly a city. Together with the other scouts, they circle the vessel, allowing Harrow the opportunity to appreciate the beauty and sheer immense scale of it all. Then, they dive below the city and swoop up, back into the hanger once more.

Once Gulliver’s feet are firmly on the deck, Harrow slides from the flyer’s neck, laughing hysterically the entire time, even as his legs collapse beneath him. It has been an embarrassingly short flight, but the effort to steer the creature by his hands and legs is exhausting. He flops down on his back, breathing heavily. Yet, he could not care less. Harrow is airborne again, and everything else dims in his strange world to that shining fact.

Weatherlight springs from Gulliver and pulls the helm from her head as the other scouts bring their mounts up and into the hanger after them. She stands over him, beaming proudly back. For a moment, neither says a thing; there is nothing that needs to be said. He understands now.

When Harrow finally composes himself enough to speak, it is only to jest, “Can we go again?”

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Later, Weatherlight plucks a single feather from Gulliver’s tail and brings it to Harrow reverently. Under the watchful eyes of Stormsend and the other scouts, Weatherlight binds the feather with a black, leather cord and braids his hair. It is shoulder length now, but it is growing. The feather dangles from just behind his left ear, tickling at his shoulder blade, but it is comforting. When she has finished, Stormsend claps a hand on Harrow’s shoulder, his approval clear. The other scouts draw close, cheering him on and welcoming him for the first time in earnest. Someone presses a cup into Harrow’s hand, and, when he drinks, the alcohol burns with a pleasant tingle at his lips and tastes like victory.

Suddenly Harrow’s missing memories do not seem to matter as much; he is one of them now.

xxx

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Glade finds her when the festivities have reached their peak, when the rest of the off-duty scouts are distracted with their celebrating. It is not often that a new scout takes their first flight, let alone as successfully taking to it as Harrow has. More often than not, green recruits chicken out at the last second before their master and mount even take them into flight, or they spend the entire flight cowering with their eyes clamped shut. Glade himself has seen twenty recruits drop out after the first day of flight training, yet Harrow had cried out in joy and steered Gully expertly as though born to the task. It is an accomplishment worthy of celebration and of drinking white whiskey from Stormsend’s hidden still.

Yet, she does not partake; Weatherlight never does. Glade knows she will not. Weatherlight has fought hard to earn her place among the crew and ensure that there is no question about her right to be there beyond her illustrious heritage.

While the others celebrate below, Weatherlight sits above, at the mouth of Ras’s alcove, her legs dangling over the edge. She watches Harrow almost protectively, stroking Ras’s head while the hulking alpha of the Archaeopteryx rests beside her, looking down as well. Glade climbs awkwardly while carrying a cup of whiskey.

“I didn’t expect him to fly so well without the suit. I am a man uh mah word.” Glade drops beside her and reluctantly pulls a tattered magazine from his vest. “Your prize, mah lady.”

She takes the magazine and smiles softly. While the Nautilus II features an impressive library of various subjects, materials from the terrestrial world such as this are a rare and valued commodity smuggled aboard by Weatherlight herself after a mission to the so-called civilized world. This particular magazine had been a present to Rabbit when a broken ankle kept him confined to the infirmary for two weeks. It has been traded and waged through the crew for the better part of four years, under strict secrecy.

Although the cover is a bit faded and worn, there is no mistaking the man on the cover. He is a polished looking fellow in a smart, well-tailored business suit. His hair is handsomely coifed and styled in a mussed look that probably took hours for some stylist to give the illusion of having just woken. The man on the cover stands beside a suit of gleaming scarlet and gold armor dwarfed below a garishly large American flag. It is Harrow, but it is not.

The tagline reads ‘I am Ironman.’ in bold, big letters. The magazine is dated June 2008.

Glade takes a swig of the whiskey and gestures to the cover with his cup. “You goin’ te tell ‘im?”

Weatherlight says nothing.

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“Sir. I must report that Recruit Harrow’s flight has been successful.”

Nimue speaks to the point. She always does. The computer program has little need for pointless, superfluous language. While she bears an understanding of complex subtext, Nimue does not employ it. Such matters are of human nature, and she is not human, nor does she report to a human.

“Then, it is Scout Harrow, now.”

Nimue updates Harrow’s file, noting the change in title and crew status. “Of course.”

“And the other matter?”

Nimue considers her logs from the last forty-eight hours, compiling the data and calculating statistical anomaly. “The spike in memory inhibition activity suggests that Scout Harrow continues to fight residual emotional memory repression.” She pauses. “If Scout Harrow persists, I am calculating a 43.16% chance that the neural-link currently implanted in Scout Harrow may overload and fail. Projections beyond failure demonstrate uncertainty too significant to provide accurate probabilities.”

“It is of little consequence now. He is ours.”

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