Broken Sky Page 8

  He hesitated. “It seems pretty scientific.”

  “Trust me, it’s the opposite! Ma doesn’t actually believe this stuff, does she?”

  Hal started to say something, then stopped. He leaned against the polished wood of the bureau and shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets. He’d gotten so tall, I realized. Soon he’d be taller than me.

  “Well…why not?” he said finally. “Everyone has to believe in something.”

  Chapter Eight

  John Gunnison’s voice boomed through the speakers: “Remember, the stars love Harmony, and we are harmonious. We’re going to lead the whole world to Harmony, my friends!”

  Their leader was just a dark speck on the platform, far away over the sea of people. Even at this distance, Kay thought that Gunnison somehow made you feel he was speaking to you alone.

  His voice was deep, relaxed: “Bryce Hill. The Rocky Flats. Monroe. The Twelve Year Plan is coming to fruition, folks! Soon the Central States will embrace its true destiny – and the Discordant elements of the world will be done away with!”

  Gunnison punched the sky. The crowd roared and Kay cheered along with them, waving a fist to show even more enthusiasm than usual. She believed what Skinner had said – that she was being watched.

  The dusty desert regions Gunnison had mentioned were formerly Western Seaboard territory. All had recently come under the Central States’ control through Peacefighting wins. Like everyone else, Kay pretended to be ecstatic that their western borders were expanding…but was sure she wasn’t alone in wondering what they were all meant to be so thrilled about. Some of the places weren’t even towns, just tiny, fly-specked pieces of desert.

  She wondered how many of those wins had been fixed. Skinner had made it clear to her that a small, crucial number of Peacefights were not left up to chance and skill. Not only that, but certain members of the World for Peace knew.

  The WfP’s sanctity was so ingrained that even now Kay felt shocked. Betrayed.

  Don’t be a child, she chided herself.

  When she arrived home after the rally she found herself entering the building at the same time as Nadine, a young mother of two. “Were you at the rally?” asked Kay brightly. She fingered her silver scorpion pin, making sure her neighbour saw it.

  Nadine beamed. “Oh, yes. Wonderful, wasn’t it?”

  They crossed the foyer together. Kay started to say something else and then stopped, her neck prickling. Shrieking sobs were heading towards them down the stairwell.

  “No!” cried a woman’s voice. “You’ve got the wrong person! No!”

  Kay and Nadine glanced at each other. Nadine gathered her children close. The two boys had gone silent, eyes wide.

  “Maybe we should—” started Kay weakly, but there was no time to leave. A trio of Guns burst through the stairwell door, dragging a sobbing woman. A thrill of excitement – of guilt? – raced through Kay as she recognized Mrs Lloyd.

  The small group approached. One of the Guns wore a grey suit with a Harmony armband, and Kay held back a gasp. There wasn’t a person in the Central States who wouldn’t know that bland, pale-eyed face; she’d seen it in a hundred newsreels.

  Sandford Cain.

  “I’m not Discordant!” wept Mrs Lloyd. A purpling bruise stained one cheek. “I swear to you – please—”

  “Stop,” said Sandford Cain to the Guns.

  Kay saw Cain’s mouth twitch and realized he was enjoying this. He drew a heavy lead blackjack from his pocket and patted it against his opposite palm, his expression contemplative.

  Mrs Lloyd shrank back. “No…no, please…”

  In a quick motion Cain struck her hard across the temple. The sound was a muffled crack. Mrs Lloyd sagged in the Guns’ arms, head lolling. Her crisp curls looked as if she’d just had them styled. A flower of blood appeared and trickled down her cheek.

  The signet ring on Sandford Cain’s finger flashed as he tucked the weapon away again. “There now,” he said. “We can have some peace.”

  To Kay’s relief, Cain paid no attention to her and Nadine. Once he and his men had left, dragging Mrs Lloyd between them, Kay let out a breath, her heart crashing against her ribs.

  Nadine licked her lips. Both her sons were crying. “Mrs Lloyd, Discordant?” she whispered. She seemed to catch herself; she touched her Libra brooch and shot Kay a fearful glance. “Well…well, I suppose the stars are never wrong.”

  “Actually, I’m not surprised,” said Kay after a pause. “I always thought there was something inharmonious about her.”

  Back in her apartment Kay slumped against the door, shaken. What did it mean for her that Sandford Cain, Gunnison’s most valued right-hand man, had taken care of this personally? If they’d accepted Kay’s word about Mrs Lloyd, that had to be good, didn’t it?

  Yet there was also the Peacefight for which Kay had chosen the Grand Cross pilot. She felt nauseous every time she thought about it. According to the papers, the Western Seaboard pilot had somehow gotten the burning plane down; the wait-time was being appealed. Kay doubted very much that this was the result that Skinner and his people had planned for.

  She put some dance music on the phonoplayer and sat doodling in a sketch pad, trying to quell the sick tension in her stomach. She avoided looking at the new rug she’d had to purchase.

  Though Mr Hearn’s body had been gone when she returned home that day, the bloody evidence had remained.

  Chapter Nine

  The letter was waiting for me when I got back to base. Vera had left it propped on the coffee table. I stood in our living room reading it over and over, with Peter twining around my ankles.

  The Official Appeal Board of the World for Peace requests your presence…

  “So soon?” I whispered, gripping the thick stationery. I’d gotten these letters before, but only weeks after a fight. This said the appeal was tomorrow.

  Tomorrow.

  Was the fact that my appeal had been expedited good or bad? I didn’t know, but I’d go crazy if I hung around here thinking about it all night. I shrugged back into my jacket and left again.

  I ended up at Harlan’s, playing poker.

  “Cut,” he ordered, shoving the deck at me. He wore a sleeveless undershirt and had a shot glass full of clear liquid in front of him. He kept a still out back and made his own rotgut for the fun of it.

  Levi wrinkled his nose. “Man, it’s even more like paint thinner than usual.” He helped himself to another glass from the bottle. “Can’t tempt you, Vancour?”

  “No thanks, I prefer my liver unpickled.” My mind was still on the letter.

  “Nectar of the gods,” intoned Harlan as he started to deal.

  “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts my sore rib.”

  Harlan flicked my last card to me. I tried to forget the appeal and studied my hand. Pair of threes, pair of jacks. I arranged the cards, wishing the stylized images didn’t remind me of those astrology charts of Ma’s.

  I’d ended up mentioning them to her; I couldn’t help myself. I pretended that I’d found them on my own, looking for some stationery. The conversation hadn’t gone well. “It doesn’t do any harm, does it?” Ma kept protesting.

  All I knew was that anything connected with Gunnison made my skin crawl. I threw out the lonely five and got another three. When it came my turn to bet, I slid twenty credits to the centre of the table.

  Harlan lit a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke as he gazed at my bet. “Now, what we have here,” he said, “is either confidence or a bluff. Which is it, Miss Vancour?”

  “A bluff, of course.”

  “Of course.” He studied his own hand. “All right, girlie,” he said. “I’ll match your bluff…and raise you ten credits.”

  “I’m out,” said Levi.

  “Too rich for me,” agreed Steve, tossing his cards down.

  “Let me think about this,” murmured Clem. He ran a hand over his head. He had a dozen IOUs in the game already. “Okay, yeah…I’ll se
e your thirty credits, and call.”

  Before we could show our hands, a knock came. Harlan slapped down his cards. “I swear, some people got no respect…”

  He swung open the front door, and I stiffened. A tall pilot with dark blond hair stood there. I took a gulp of lukewarm beer and managed to keep my face expressionless.

  “I hear there’s a nightly poker game,” said Collie. “Need another player?”

  “Nope,” said Harlan, folding his arms over his broad chest. “Invitation only.”

  Collie seemed to be deliberately not looking at me. “Even if I’ve got a stake of a hundred credits?” He jingled a denim bag.

  Harlan wavered, eyeing it.

  Collie quirked an eyebrow and grinned. “You’ve got an empty seat,” he pointed out.

  In the pause that followed, I knew what was going on in Harlan’s head: Collie was still an inexperienced Peacefighter. If he didn’t make it, his hundred credits would stay in the game.

  “All right, you’re in.” Harlan opened the door wider. “Guys and girl, meet fresh meat,” he said as Collie stepped inside.

  “Collis,” said Collie to everyone. He’d always introduced himself by his proper name, even when we were kids.

  Levi, Clem and Steve gave unenthusiastic hellos. Collie was still too new for anyone to really warm to him yet, plus no one gatecrashed the poker game – ever.

  The empty seat had been Stan’s. It was next to me, of course.

  “Amity,” greeted Collie in an undertone as he sat down. He had on a blue shirt, tan trousers. “I brought some beer, too,” he added to the guys, resting a paper bag on the table.

  “I’ll take that.” Harlan whisked the bag away into the kitchen; I heard the icebox open.

  Levi and the others had started talking. I could feel Collie’s gaze on me. He hesitated, then nodded at my pile of coins. “Hey, I see you’re still a card shark.”

  I studied my full house without responding. He’d made himself very clear that first day, and so had I. What was he trying to prove, coming here?

  Collie crossed his forearms on the table. I knew without looking that the left side of Collie’s mouth had quirked upwards, just like always when he joked about something that bothered him. “So…I guess I missed the part where you said hello to me.”

  “No. I haven’t said it.”

  “Are you planning on it?”

  “I have no idea what it matters to you.”

  “It matters,” he said.

  Though I’d been doing my best to ignore Collie’s presence on base, I somehow knew that he was a T3 pilot – a rank higher than most new pilots – and had already completed his first two fights. I seemed powerless to resist checking the board to see when he was going up and then keeping an eye out until he returned.

  A deep dread had been growing in me this last week. I kept thinking of all those long summer days we’d shared – the hundreds of memories with Collie in them. They made me feel exposed, fearful.

  I was glad now that he’d refused to explain anything; almost glad for the pain of his four-year silence. Because I’d realized what forgiving him could mean. It had always suited me fine, the way people on base kept to themselves. I hadn’t let anyone close since Dad had died and Collie left. I thought of Stan’s empty locker and my grip on the cards tightened.

  All I knew was that I wanted Collis Reed to stay far away.

  Harlan returned with fresh cold ones and dealt Collie in. Collie studied his hand. After a pause he moved a card from the outside of the fanned spread to the inside. Anger touched me.

  “Oh, just bet, already,” I muttered.

  “Patience, Amity Louise,” he said without looking at me.

  Everyone’s eyebrows flew up. No one had known my middle name. Harlan glanced from me to Collie, and I tensed.

  “Amity Louise, huh?” he said finally.

  Collie straightened. “All right, I’m in. What are the stakes? Thirty each?”

  When we all laid down our cards, he had a royal flush. He scooped up the credits with a shrug. “Beginner’s luck,” he said.

  Clem eyed him cautiously. “Are you always that lucky at cards?”

  Collie took a swig of beer. “About average, I guess.” He looked over at me. His eyes were blue-green tonight, like a sea that edged white beaches. After a beat, he said, “What would you say, Amity?”

  “How would I know?” I said stiffly. Don’t do this, Collie. Do not drag me into having a shared past with you when I don’t want it.

  As the game went on, the usual banter sprang up. I was glad to have the cards to focus on. I suddenly had a deep need to obliterate Collie’s pile of coins. The words swirled around me as the hoards of coins in front of Collie and me ebbed and flowed. No one else seemed aware that the game had turned into a private grudge match.

  Collie knew. He gave me a wry look as I raised him again. “Sure you can afford this?”

  I knew I’d think of something wittily scathing at three in the morning. “Bet or fold,” I told him.

  Collie started to take a swig of beer and then saw his bottle was empty. “I think I need something stronger to make this decision.”

  “Fine – it’ll cost you five credits,” said Harlan, deadpan.

  Collie raised an eyebrow but flicked a coin across at him. Harlan poured him a shot of the clear, thick liquid. Collie stretched back in his seat, tipping it onto two legs, studying his cards and swirling the drink in its glass.

  Since when do you drink rotgut? I almost said. I bit the words back. Since sometime within those four years of silence, obviously.

  Collie knocked back the liquor. He started coughing; his chair came down with a thump. He pushed the shot glass aside, wheezing and choking. Harlan stared at him in amazement, then clouted him hard on the back.

  “Thanks,” Collie said croakily. He reached for my beer and gulped half of it down at once. “I, ah…I was trying to impress a girl.”

  Harlan laughed in surprise; for the first time he looked at Collie as if he were more than just some new pilot who might die tomorrow. “Yeah, she seems real impressed,” he said. “You impressed, Vancour?”

  “I don’t think she’s impressed,” said Levi.

  The rueful grin Collie shot me was one I’d seen a thousand times. “Yeah, and I bet I know what she’s thinking now,” he said.

  “Collie—” I started.

  “She’s thinking about the time when she was eight and I was nine, and we built this bridge across the stream at the back of her property. They had this big place, out in the country – acres of fields and woods.”

  I sat frozen. Collie didn’t seem to notice how still everyone had gone. His hair looked as if it had been gilded by sunshine: thick streaks of dark gold with brown underneath. He went on with a smile, pushing one of his credits around in a circle on the table.

  “So we built this bridge. I mean, we spent an entire day sloshing around in the water in our underwear, stacking stones and slapping clay over them and laying planks across. And then when we finished Amity said it wasn’t sturdy enough, and I said yes it was, and we got into this huge fight – and so of course, to defend my masculine whatever, I had to prove I was right and walk across it. And of course the whole damn thing buckled and I fell off and broke my arm. So after that, whenever she wanted to prove a point, all she had to do was say, ‘Remember the bridge to nowhere?’”

  The others had gone completely silent, staring at us with a mix of interest and wariness. My cheeks were on fire. I felt raw – split open.

  Harlan snorted finally. “Bridge to nowhere,” he said. “That’s deep, Vancour.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I said.

  “I, um…wouldn’t have taken you for a country girl,” said Levi.

  “Of course she is,” put in Clem, trying to joke. “Remember what Stan always said – that she looked like she could wrestle a steer to the ground with her bare hands.” Then he realized who he’d mentioned and his cheeks flushed. He scowled d
own at his cards.

  Collie glanced at me. I could see him wondering, Who’s Stan?

  “Are we going to keep playing poker?” I said. The words tasted like metal slivers. “Or do we want to hear more childhood stories?”

  Collie’s brow furrowed. As he studied me, his eyes slowly took on that concerned look that had once touched me so deeply that nothing else mattered.

  Harlan sloshed fresh drinks into everyone’s glasses. He put the bottle back on the table with a definitive noise.

  “Poker,” he said.

  Between the appeal and Collie, I couldn’t sleep that night. I just lay in bed listening to the faint sound of dance music floating in from Vera’s room. At five a.m. I gave up – I got dressed and slipped out of the house. I went down to the airfield, where I signed out my new plane.

  “I thought you were grounded with a broken rib for four weeks,” said the purser, checking his sheet.

  “From fighting,” I said levelly. I didn’t explain further. Finally the purser shrugged and okayed it.

  I spent almost an hour pushing myself to the utmost: performing screaming loop-the-loops; banking so tight that I left my stomach somewhere far behind; tumbling my plane sideways into vicious barrel rolls.

  When I finally landed, I felt as if I could breathe again. I went to the changing room and took a long shower, then stood in front of my locker, dripping and towel-clad, drying my hair with another towel.

  “Fun crowd you hang around with,” said Collie.

  I spun and stared. I hadn’t been in the locker room since my last fight, but now I saw the new strip of masking tape where Stan’s name had been. C. Reed, read the scrawled letters.

  “This is your locker?” I said, aghast.

  Collie shrugged and pulled off his shirt. The thin boy had turned sleekly muscular, with a dusting of golden hair on his chest. “It’s the one they assigned me. I didn’t argue,” he said.

  A faint line of hair led from his navel to his waistband. When he reached for his belt buckle I looked quickly away, realizing I was breaking the first, most basic rule of the locker room: No staring.