Spiral...by aeon
The sky wanted to cry. Collectively, the clouds looked like a squinty-eyed
old man, slivers of blue and white peeking out from beneath heavy brows of
dark gray, all of it threatening to let loose and weep out loud within the
hour. His bearded throat rumbled menacingly over the horizon, the sort of
low, rattling cough that usually meant something bad, but as yet there was
no lightning, which was a good thing.
There was plenty of time to fly.
"You ain't flyin' today, are you boy?" asked the old man, reading his
thoughts and offering an intuitive counterpoint. He was a virtual avatar of
the fluffy man in the heavens, though far older than the two-day-old storm
drifting in from the west. How old, nobody could say. He had just always
been there, sitting outside the station, feet up, head back, watching the
sky through a whiskey bottle. Lord knows where he got the money for the
booze. Probably a pension, if he was the vet everyone assumed he was; some
sort of payoff for not being able to handle a 30 G turn like the hardware
could. But that was only a guess. Nobody knew for sure. For that matter,
nobody knew where the whiskey went once he sucked it down. The man had a
bladder like a spare fuel tank. Nobody'd ever seen him get up to piss. Stuff
probably ran out his leg and under the porch.
He looked up at the sky again, grimacing as the sun peeked back. Then he
looked back at the old man crunched in his shadowy corner and shrugged, as
if this was answer enough.
"Gonna rain," said the old man. "I can smell it. Rain before sun goes down.
Better get goin' if you're goin'." He winced as a sunbeam crawled through
the clouds towards his chair, but it died before it got there. He and his
whiskey were safe.
"Thirty minutes is more than I need," he said. "Fifteen, twenty tops."
"Who you goin' up with?" The question was punctuated with a gurgle and a pop
from the suction off the top of the whiskey bottle.
"Don't know," he shrugged. "Who's in the hanger?"
The old man sucked on the bottle thoughtfully, then ticked off names
silently on his fingers. He was missing a few off his left hand, so he lost
count when he got to nine, tried to start over, and gave up.
"Dunno," he said at last. "Damn kids. Too many of ya. Up and down and in and
out. Can't keep track any more." Gurgle, suck. "Go check the board."
"Yeah." It wasn't just the old man's memory - he had a hard time keeping
track of all the newcomers himself. At first it'd just been retired pilots,
forced into recreational flying as technology crammed them into the seat
cushion of obsolescence. But the strip had seen even more action lately,
especially in the last few months. Seemed everyone wanted to have a go at it
now. Skydiving and skateboarding wasn't good enough - the extreme sports had
to become even more extreme. So now everyone was into ultralights. Everyone
wanted to fly.
"See ya when I come down," he mumbled.
"One way or another," said the old man.
Ignoring the implied discouragement, he wandered around the station and
across the yard towards the hanger. It was actually a pretty impressive
structure if you bothered to look at it. Like most of the other boys, he
never really bothered to look up at things - they all looked different from
above, and up there was all that mattered to some. But down here, it was
somehow wrong. The thousand-foot boot looked swollen and clumsy, a scrawny
steel ankle supporting a snakebit shin of a tower, glass laces letting a bit
of natural light inside the domed hanger itself.
The metaphor held true as he stepped inside the back of the heel, shut his
eyes and inhaled the humid stink. The cloud of fuel, grease, sweat and smoke
rolled over on him like a bad date on a Sunday morning, but he was used to
it by now, could probably navigate his way down the aisle to his plane with
his eyes shut, using scent alone. Not that it would be a good idea; with
people flinging parts down from the catwalks, he'd be knocked silly before
he got halfway there.
Even with his eyes open, he was nearly blindsided several times as he
scurried between engine parts and grease monkeys, as the boys flung spare
parts and scrap metal from their second-story bays to be used by those
below. "One down," "Fire in the hole," "Up and away." Each cry unique,
random, but each carrying with it the same message - watch your head,
because I'm too busy to watch it for you.
"Two down!" The familiar cry came at the same time as the two triangular
shards of metal, and he stopped short to avoid being hit. But they took too
long to fall, made the wrong sound when they hit the filthy concrete. He
picked one up and looked at it as the saw slowly chuttered into activity
above his head once again; it was about as big as his head and clearly part
of what used to be a wing, the shredded ends of carbon-fiber weave poking
out from the ends of what was not at all a clean cut. A waste, really. Not
too often you find a carbon wing.
"Watch it up there!" he yelled, waiting for a lull in the noise. The ripsaw
slowed and whined to a stop, and after a moment a face shrouded in a
polarized shield peered over the edge. A four-fingered hand lifted the
shield away, and a split-faced grin leered at him from two stories up,
little more than two eyes, a mouth full of teeth and a wide swath of grease
and grime.
"How's it then?" said Liam, setting the ripsaw aside and dropping to the
second-story floor with a clang, letting his bare feet dangle over the
catwalk. His feet were black with grime, worse than his face.
"I'm fine Lee," he said. "Just got a carbon wingtip buried in my skull, but
other than that I'm flying high." He gestured with the wingtip, and Liam
cackled. "What the hell are you throwing this away for anyway?"
"S'junk," said Liam. "Found it off 219 in a chicken coop. Farmer was
cracklin' up a storm, says someone dropped it on his chickens. He called the
sheriff, sheriff called Artie, Artie called me, I gave the farmer a fifty
and he shut up. Feathers all over. Damn chickens. Stunk to high heaven."
"That doesn't explain why you're carving it up like roast beef."
"End was split clear through. I'm not wreckin' it. Just shaving it down.
Gonna recap it, maybe do a glider."
"Why don't I see you in a glider?"
"You ain't lookin' hard enough." Liam pulled his mask off and tossed it
behind him. Beads of filthy sweat hit the concrete below. Plip, plip. The
sight reminded him of the need to get going before the rain began.
"Good seein' you, Liam," he said, the exit cue loud and clear.
"You goin' up?"
"Yeah."
"With who?"
"Dunno," he said, shrugging. "I'll check the board, see who's on deck. Any
newbies?"
"Couple. Markus took one of 'em out a while ago. You gonna?"
"Nah. I prefer to let others handle the lessons."
"Well, good flyin'. If you go up with anyone I know, gimme a yell. I'll
prolly come watch anyway. You know I like to watch you fly."
"Sure thing," he said, and that was that. Making sure to stay inside the
yellow stripes at the hanger's center, he completed his treck towards the
open hangar doors and headed towards the boxes. His was the second from last
on the south side of the building, previously owned by Capper Van, who'd
bequeathed it to him after his retirement last month. As he fiddled with the
lock, the only addition to the treasured box other than his ultralight, he
unconsciously snuck another peek outside at the sun. About two hours of good
light left, as long as the rain held up. Plenty of time.
Despite the din in the hanger, every sound was crystal clear. The lock went
"snikt." The security system disengaged with a shrill "tweet." The gate went
"blumblumblum" as he rolled it aside. And then he was inside beside his
plane, and nothing else mattered.
Shutting his eyes, he ran his hand along the uneven surface, for a moment
wondering if he could ever get attached to it like the other boys did with
their machines. Probably not. It didn't even have a name. Capper had had
Matilda. Liam had General Grant. Joshlee had NastyPants. Granted, naming
your machine was probably easier if your ultralight was not comprised of
spare parts from seventeen different types of aircraft, held together with
duct tape and spare rivets. He'd considered "Frankenstein" and "Monster" but
both were taken, and after that it just wasn't worth the effort. But it
wasn't like he didn't care. After all, from tip to tail, just about every
inch of her thirty-odd foot length was more or less the same as he'd taken
up on the past twenty-three. He'd grown attached. So maybe it was time to
think of one.
He resigned himself to picking one during this flight.
Climbing inside, he booted the computer up, entering his password at the
prompt and setting it on automatic warmup. Clambering back out just as
quickly, he listened to the gentle purr of the engines fade into the
cacophony around him as he wandered back outside the box and across the
hanger to check the board. It was clean.
"Flack," he said aloud.
"Excuse me?" said a voice from behind him. A female voice. Not unheard of,
but decidedly unusual on a Friday. He turned and saw her.
"I said 'flack,'" he said. "As in, 'flacking hell'."
"Oh, that's what I thought you said." She smiled, a nice enough smile, all
her teeth in the right places, a trace of old lipstick etched in the cracks
of her sun-chapped lips. Her hair was long enough to pull back in a loose
ponytail, which she wore casually over her left shoulder, a little black bow
keeping the blonde strands out of her face, smudges of grease assisting. Her
eyes were some strange color that shifted in the sunlight, and he realized
he was staring and lowered his gaze.
"Spiral," he said, reading her suit. She had nice breasts. B, maybe C. Nice.
They filled her gray flightsuit nicely. He let his gaze fall further, saw
she was barefoot. Her toes were clean. She was probably someone's daughter,
here to watch the planes. She was also talking to him.
"Hmmm?"
"I said, who are you?" she replied, not in the least bit intimidated by his
stare. He admired that. He'd have thought much less of her if she was easily
intimidated.
"No one of consequence," he said.
"No tag?"
"I lost it," he said. "Cow accident. Tragic."
"Ah," she said. "I see." He was at a loss for words and she knew it, so she
decided action was favorable, stepped ahead of him and grabbed the marker,
writing her name on the board. Capping it, she let it swing, back and forth,
back and forth, the frayed string carving small lines in her signature.
"You're going up?" he said. He tried his best to keep the shock from his
voice, but it crept in anyway.
"Yeah," she said. "Just rolled in a few hours ago, figured I could get a
quickie in before it rains, see how she flies."
"Ah," he said. "Well then."
"Well what?" she said.
"Nothing."
"I don't see your name on the board," she said. "You going up?"
"Nah," he said. "Was just checking to see who else was on. Looks like just
you, though. Maybe you should cancel. Weather's looking worse."
"Actually," she said, "the sun just came out again."
"Ah," he said. "Too bad I can't go."
"Your plane sounds fine to me," she said.
"Just checking her out," he said.
"Is it because I'm a woman?"
"What? I..."
"I thought that scrap died with the millennium."
"It's not..."
"I've been doing this for a year now. I've got twelve to my name. Twelve. So
don't think you can't go up with me because you're gonna show up a woman."
"I..."
"Sign the flacking board," she said. Then she spun on her heel and headed
out of the hanger. He looked around; he'd gathered quite a crowd, couldn't
back down now.
"Scrap," he said. "Flack."
He signed the board and stormed off towards his plane.
"Give her hell," yelled Liam.
"Flack you," he yelled back, pulling the door shut behind him. Everything
was warmed up, so he taxied out of the hanger and kicked the pre-flight in.
Two minutes later, as he was running through the last of the program, her
voice cut in over the radio.
"How we doin' over there, Mr. Vet?" He pulled the wireless onto his head and
flipped the vox switch.
"Fine and dandy," he snapped. Then, in a slightly more sedate tone, "Look,
you sure about this? You can call this off. It won't..."
"Eat flak," she said, dropping the link. Seconds later, he watched her taxi
her ultralight out onto 2-North and line up for takeoff. It was in much
better shape than his own machine, but despite the coating of aluminum paint
it was clear hers was as patchwork as his own. Maybe moreso. By the time he
got clearance and had lined up on 3-West, she was in the air. He was up 30
seconds later.
He stayed low, heading over the trees before taking his time coming back in
over the hanger, getting a better look at those clouds. They were much
higher than they looked from the ground. Probably wouldn't be any rain after
all, which was good news for the crowd spilling out of the hanger to watch
them in action. Nobody liked getting wet while watching an airshow.
He looked around for her and spotted her to the south, over the highway,
taking her time as she rolled gently into a higher flight path. Ignoring her
for the moment, he buzzed the tower and dipped his wings, settling into the
feel of it, getting into his zone. A mile out, he turned around and came in
low, towards the sun, losing sight of her as the polarization kicked in and
dimmed the windscreen. He did some quick calculation, peered north and saw
her too late. She was on top of him before he could even get his finger on
the Dump button beside his seat. Luckily, she missed, went over him high and
left.
Flacking showboat.
He wasn't about to let that happen again, so he made sure to take his time
coming around over the hanger again, keeping her in sight the entire time.
Rolling right well over her flightpath, he dropped his hand down and Dumped
before peeling off and heading for the ground. About a hundred feet off, he
pulled back up and came around to see the results. She was way off, too far
out, taking her time coming back in. He flipped the radio on.
"How ya doin' over there?" he asked.
"What the hell is this?" she said. "What did you dump on me?"
"Organics, baby," he said. "Painted you black."
"I can't see scrap...where the flak did you get this sh..." Nervous, she
dropped the hammer, letting her last word get swallowed by white noise. He
smirked anyway.
"It looks like you're in up to your ears, too." Indeed, she was about a mile
off now, flying blind. Her wings wobbled as she attempted to guide herself
along by instrument. She was managing, but barely.
"Is this how you win?" she said. "Conning newbies into the game?"
"It was your idea," he said, flipping the switch on the control stick,
heading straight for her. "And no, that's not how I win."
She must have sensed where he was, because she opened up just then, but he
was well above her, and she missed low and right. He did not. Triggering
both guns, he laid thirty rounds into her fuselage and peeled off. Smoking,
she spiraled towards the ground.
"That's how I win," he said.
He was too far out to see her go down, but he brought the plane down on
2-West and taxied over in time to see Liam and company dousing the stinking
wreckage with foam. Even before the flames were all out, they were already
scavenging for spare parts. He tore off his headset and tossed it onto the
seat beside him, then popped the canopy and hopped out as Liam ran over.
"Anything good?" he asked, beginning his post-flight, wandering around the
front of his ultralight to check for damage.
"Not much," said Liam. "Ammo, left wing, scraps. You get first dibs anyway.
We'll lay it out in the hanger for ya."
"Thanks."
"Flack me, she got you," said Liam. He stopped, looked.
"Where?"
"Left wing," said Liam. "Leading edge." He came back around and sure enough,
there were three little holes along the flap. He'd have to replace it.
"She didn't miss after all," he said. "I woulda swore she was killin' clouds
on that first pass."
"No matter," said Liam. "Up and down. She makes twenty-three, eh?"
"Twenty-four," he said. "She was twenty-four." He nodded towards the
wreckage. He thought he could see her hand under the cockpit, but it might
have been a piece of seat cushion. Not that it mattered. Everything was
pretty much charcoal by now, the same color as the organics he'd dumped on
her head.
"Twenty-four. Flack me. I think that's a club record," said Liam. "We should
put that one on the wall. 'Twenty-four kills, Robby and...'" He broke off,
gestured towards the ultralight. "What's her name?"
"Hm?"
"You name her yet? Your ultralight. Can't put it on the wall with no name."
"Oh, yeah," he said. Then, without thinking, he said "Spiral."
"Spiral," said Liam. "I like it. Pretty."
"Yeah she was," he said. But Liam was already gone.
Leaving his ultralight on the runway, he wandered over to the fuel pumps and
made it under the canopy just as the skies let loose, washing everything
into the ground where it belonged. He spent the whole night there with the
old man, in silence, watching the sun go down and the lightning come up and
all hell break loose.
It was one hell of a sky show. Especially as viewed through the bottom of a
whiskey bottle.
