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Silver Lining

Chapter I, First Light

>It's barely first light when you step into the lounge. >A dim halo of blue crowns the Eastern horizon, and shades of pink lick at the pillows of cumulus rising in the middle distance behind round, brass windows. >There isn't much light to speak of inside though, and there wouldn't be any if it weren't for a row of amber bulbs under counter of the bar in the back of the room. >They leak a puddle of pale honey onto the floor, and cast long shadows from the barstools. >The air tastes of rain, salt, and diesel. There's a hint of chill in it too, but you only feel it on your face and fingers. Your jacket hangs heavily on your shoulders, swaddling the rest of you in a mass of fleece and leather. >It's almost enough to sweat, and you find yourself unzipping it a little. >It's almost enough to make you feel like you're the guy you say you are in the stories you tell yourself. >Almost enough to make you feel like a grizzled old veteran, like from the books and moving pictures, with the right to be annoyed that your partner isn't already here waiting for you.

>It must be because she's young, irresponsible, and doesn't know what she signed up for. >You know, nothing like you. >And you hadn't been late either, right? You hadn't overslept that five minutes, certainly not on account of being up all night mulling over today. >Because it wasn't the first time you'd done something like this. >You'd done it yesterday too. >Yeah, you were a real old pro, weren't you? >You zip the jacket back up, figuring it best to keep right on believing you weren't just playing dress-up. >It was much too late for second guesses, and besides, you knew what you were doing. >You hadn't worked your ass off in that factory half a decade for nothing. >You'd worked your ass off to learn to fly. >And you had learned. You'd learned real good; better than all those chucklefucks who strapped guns to old crop dusters and called themselves combat pilots and bounty hunters. >They'd fly out and die a week in, but you were different. >You'd learned good and proper. >And Ol' Steve never would have let you fly away in that old airplane he taught you in if you hadn't, now would he? >Good Ol' Steve. You owed that man a bigger debt than you could ever hope to pay. He'd made you the real deal. Hell, he'd practically been your father. >But now you were the real deal. >And you dressed like it. >And you had right to. >Not like this kid they'd paired you up with for patrol this morning. >You'd have to set her straight. >Fetching coffee and a slice of toast from behind the bar, you settle into a worn leather chair beneath one of the windows. >You set your feet up on the table in front of you and cross them, then turn your attention to the land drifting by far below. >You wait in silence, savoring the morning solitude.

>You don't know a whole lot about this girl, other than that she's twenty-one, and thus a few years younger than you, and about as inexperienced as they come. >Rumor has it her parents helped her out a lot too, and that she didn't work for it the way you had. >Somewhat wilder rumor also holds that she's an anthro of some kind. Most of the reports say dog. A few said wolf. One said she was some kind of goddamn flamingo. >You don't put a whole lot of stock in those though. >You've never seen an anthro in your life. >They kept to themselves mostly, and you'd heard that many didn't think a whole lot of humans. >But that they had their reasons, and a lot of your sort didn't blame them so much. >Of course, there weren't many humans who could say they actually knew one. >Ol' Steve had claimed he'd fucked one once, but Ol' Steve was a much better instructor than he was a lair or braggart. >Leaning forward, you snare yesterday's copy of the ship's newspaper, The Ballonet Weekly, and thumb through it sleepily, reading around the previous morning's coffee stains. >Nothing special, really. >Apparently Jim, in Engineering, had married some chick who worked in Communications. >You didn't know either of them, but wedding was going to be in the port side Grand Hall, up into the envelope a few decks from Gondola #2. You figure there will probably be food and alcohol, and thus note the date for later attendance. >Besides, you're new here. You haven't been aboard more than a few days, and have yet to make any friends. It would do you good to socialize. >The privacy was nice at first, but frankly the whole affair had so far been a little lonelier than you were expecting. >Presently you hear the snap of the door latch, and set your paper down again, careful to make it look as though you weren't reclining nearly as much as you were. >Conjuring your best stern expression, you look up to meet your partner's eyes. >Unfortunately surprise overturns the look before you can make much use of it. >You'll be damned. >She's a fucking Border Collie. >Cute too, particularly wearing that red scarf around her neck, goggles hanging loosely in her left hand. >Or paw, or whatever. >And you have to admit, that big suede and fleece bomber jacket looks pretty good on her too, particularly unzipped and showing the grease-stained flannel shirt she's got on underneath. >Of course, she's just a kid playing dress-up. >Nothing like you. >She grins, perhaps a little shyly. >You hurry up and get back to looking stern.

> "You're late." >She nods sheepishly, ears wilting a little. > "I didn't sleep real well last night. Big day, you know." >You wish you didn't, and set to pretending you don't. > "That's no excuse. They depend on us to keep this balloon afloat, and that means being ready to protect her at a moment's notice. If we fuck up, people die, goods are lost, and dreams are crushed. So when I say we meet at 0500, that ain't a goddamn suggestion. You got that?" >Holy shit you'd sounded so cool! Never mind you hadn't gotten there until 5:05 yourself; she didn't know that, and it sounded just like you knew what you were doing! >Which you did, right? >Yeah. >Still, you can't help feeling a little bad when her ears wilt a little further, and she swallows conspicuously. > "I understand. I'm sorry mister, it won't happen again." >She raises her chin up as she speaks, looking confident again. >Ha. She'd called you mister. That had felt pretty good. Your ego a little bolstered, you rise to greet her and extend a hand you're suddenly glad has been properly worn and scarred during your time doing factory work. > "Now, then...." >She slaps her paw into your hand eagerly. > "Whitney. Whitney Latham." >Shit, she's got a pretty firm shake, even without the extra toe. > "Anon." >She smiles again, showing a little bit of canine tooth this time. > "Suppose I probably shouldn't call you Annie, should I?" > "Reckon not." > "Gotcha." >A big part of you expects her to ask for your pitty and enough time for breakfast, but she rocks on the heels of her boots and makes for the door again instead. She pauses there, letting you gather yourself and catch up. > "Hangar B, right? The little blue twin engine? >Blue? It's painted in naval camouflage, thank you very much. >But you stop yourself short of pressing your luck with the "I'm hardcore" game. > "Yeah, that's it." >You nod and follow her into the corridor, taking the opportunity to indulge your budding curiosity as to whether her bushy tail is routed over the waistband of or directly through her navy trousers. >You haven't quite figured it out by the time you sidle beside her and take the lead.