FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter III, The White Zone is for Loading and Unloading Only

>It's late afternoon, and the sun stoops low over the Grand Norfolk Aerodrome, staining the fresh-cut grass a dry, dusty yellow. >You've been back for hours now, the bulk of them spent wrenching on your airplane. The jackscrew had turned out to be the tip of the iceberg. >She'd said it would be easy. Loosen up the tension on the wire, hold the crank in place, lubricate the screw a bit, crank it down where it ought to be, tighten everything back up. It sure sounded easy. >Only somewhere along the line the turnbuckle on the cable managed to work its way onto the wrong side of the aft bulkhead, and the two of you had spent the better part of four hours and your collective vulgarity vocabularies unfucking it. >Turns out anthros have a library of curses all their own. Your favorite so far is "flea breedin'", which seems to be an approximation of "motherfucking", but with a visual you like a little better. >But you'd finally gotten that squared away about an hour ago, and even managed to sneak a shower while Whitney was moving herself in. >You share a cabin now, evidently, which is great, because you're pretty sure you're allergic. >One way or another, she's made short work of what little there is of the narrow, gray-walled room.

>You weren't a huge fan at first, but you have to admit her handiwork brings a lot of life to the place. >Pictures and postcards clutter her side like a scrapbook page, beating back the cold, dull iron and pinning it behind a net of colorful paper and cellophane tape. >A little brass spyglass sits on the end table under the porthole window, and from the ceiling a trio of paper airplanes sway from lengths of fishing line. >A pair of flashy posters hang over her cot, crowning the rest of the collage: >One looks to be a record cover of some kind, and features a rough-looking coyote leaning in the shade of his stetson hat, six-gun on his hip and a notch out of an ear. >Josey Robins, it reads >You're about fifty percent sure you've come across that name, but not a lot of anthro music makes it across the wilderness and ocean that separate the Eastern Union from the place they call Avalon. >The second is a travel poster for somewhere called Tora Renaki. It's drawn in blocky Art Deco, and depicts a modest city built up around a cove of warm-looking water. >You've never heard of it. >The cot itself is spread with an old, but brightly colored quilt decorated with images of seabirds and sailing ships, and atop it a leather-bound journal sits open beneath the weight of a slender pen. >You'd never really been the kind to snoop, but the longer you listen to the shower run, the more your eyes wander to the pages.

>Her handwriting is fast, and just a little better than sloppy. You can't make out much from where you are, but you think you recognize your name somewhere on the left page. The right seems to have something drawn in it, but before you can work out what, you're startled back to reality as she snaps the cover shut. > "How's about you mind your own fuckin' business, huh, Cap'n?" >Her words are backed by an uneasy glare that's somehow a little effective, even though she's dripping wet and wearing nothing but a towel. > "Sorry." > "Bullshit y'are. Now are you 'gunna look away, or are you meanin' to watch me change too?" >It honestly hadn't occurred to you, but the way she says it makes you feel like a fucking degenerate anyway. You obey as casually as you can. >Her towel drops to the floor with a muted thud, but before you can come up with anything witty to say, a set of zippers sound and she taps you on the shoulder. > "Thanks, Cap'n." >You turn back to find her wearing a pair of faded jeans and another flannel shirt. It's red this time, and missing the grease and oil stains that decorate the one she'd worn flying. She's rolled the sleeves to her elbows and left the collar and top button undone, revealing quite a bit more fur. >You don't have the balls to try and touch her, but fresh out of the shower it looks almost profoundly soft, and smells faintly of the ocean. >You notice a few other things too. >A silver chain dangles around her neck where the bandanna was, bearing a spent rifle casing and a wooden charm carved in the shape of an eagle. >Around her left wrist a chrome-rimmed watch ticks quietly. >Also her chest. You definitely notice her chest. Nothing unusual, but quite a bit shaplier without the heavy jacket. >You set right to pretending nothing caught your attention, which she makes a little easier on you by flopping noisily into her bunk and cupping her head in her paws. She seems to consider something on the ceiling, then glances over to you. > "Hey, I didn't mean to get snippy right then. It's just that I ain't ever had to share a room before is all." >Fucking rich kids. Back in the factory you'd slept four to a barrack. > "You'll get used to it." > "Yeah, well I might need a few pointers here and there." > "Like what?" >Her whiskers quiver uneasily. > "Well, like how the fuck do you get dressed in the morning?" > "Get over yourself and don't stare." >She grimaces. > "I'll make it work. I knew what I was signing up for. It's just weird not having my own space, especially if I'm sharing it with, you know, a human." >That actually stings a little. > "The hell's that supposed to mean?" >You meant to come off annoyed, but you're pretty sure you sounded more than a little hurt in spite of yourself. She flicks an ear nervously. > "It's nothing. I- I didn't mean that." > "Yeah? Well, your rack is your own space." >She nods and retrieves the journal, making furtive corrections to keep the pages out of your line of sight. Now and again she glances up like a nervous meerkat. > "Hey kid, you know this is an even deal, right? I ain't here to spy on you any more than you are on me." > "Yeah, I get'cha..., wait, I ain't intruding, am I? You, uh, you don't mind the pictures 'n shit I put up, right?" >You shake your head. She seems to relax, though she gives the album cover a glance that suggests it embarrasses her a little. >The silence gets awkward fast. You can tell she's keeping an eye on you, and her latent discomfort isn't doing your own any good. You actually find yourself missing the jackscrew work, and the easy camaraderie that came from the two of you cursing at the airplane together. >It doesn't help that she's who she is, either. >The guys you'd shared the factory barrack with were just work buddies. Good for drinking and playing cards with, but you didn't really give a damn what they thought of you. >This doesn't feel quite like that. You need her to trust you, and trust you even though she's technically more experienced on the stick than you are. >Even though you're a "human", like she said. >You're going to spend hours and hours cooped up with her in that little cockpit, and at any point it might become a foxhole you share in a fight for your lives. >That's not a job for a work buddy. That's a job for a brother in arms. >And besides, while you can't quite put your finger on why, you had a pretty good time with her today. >Even with all the jackscrew fuckery. >You feel a little more confident with her around, and find you catch passing glimpses in yourself of the sort of man you think you ought to be. >A little of what you imagined you'd feel when you became the real deal. >And you feel like you're in it together. >Like if things really went south, it'd be her you back up against rather than a cold, solid wall. >All this from a five hour flight. You didn't have a reason really, but you felt those things and you want to keep feeling them. >You've got to break the ice again. >Should you ask her what she's working on? >Probably not.

> "You know, I didn't take you to be the shy sort." >Her whiskers relax again and she hauls herself up to sitting, back propped against the wall. She flips the journal over and sets it over a knee. > "I ain't, normally." > "Something to do with my being a filthy human?" >She shakes her head. > "Forget it, okay? I shouldn't have said that. What I said on the wing stands: I appreciate you taking me on." > "Even if you've been flying longer?" >She considers that a moment, then cocks her head skeptically and raises a sharp white eyebrow. > "This some kind of a test or somethin'?" > "No test." > "Good. Then I told 'ya: She's your airplane, and that's fair." > "Then what's the matter?" > "Nothin'." > "Bullshit. You weren't like this in the airplane." >She sighs and stands again, making her way to the porthole and leaning on the table there. She seems to study the advancing dusk for answers. > "I don't know. It's just..., I've got a real weird feeling about this whole operation, don't you?" >You hadn't, but the tone of her voice is giving you one. > "...I mean, we've been here how long? I don't see a single truck or parcel of cargo out there, Cap'n. Not one. And they still ain't told us where we're going." > "They're probably just hung up on something administrative. What makes you think that ain't normal anyway?" > "Hung up on every piece of cargo from every supplier? I've seen airships load, Anon. My brother and I used to bike out ot the aerodrome and see them off. It ain't like this, at least not back in Avalon." >She pauses and scans the field again. > "N' not telling your escort pilots where you're going? That's just crazy. How are we supposed to know what to expect? What weather, let alone what opposition?" > "I 'dunno. Reckon they'll tell us once we're underway. Relax." >You wish you were half as certain of that as you'd managed to sound. You'd been telling yourself you just didn't know the ropes whenever something struck you off, but you had to admit it was getting hard to keep believing that. >Whitney rocks on her heels and flops back into her cot. > "It doesn't strike you odd at all? Really? Shit, Cap'n, I swear this place even smells off." >She draws a sleek, silver flask from a bag left at the head of her bunk, and in a slow, single motion pops the top, takes a gulp from it, and screws it shut again. A shiver runs up from the base of her tail and makes her ears and whiskers droop a little. >She reaches it to you then, as if to shake your hand. The bittersweet bite of scotch whiskey washes through the room like a draft. > "To sketchy first times?"

>You almost second guess yourself, but it's been awhile since you've had anything to drink. >And the two of you need to trust each other. >And the more she goes on about the cargo, the more your nerves could use it. >Besides, this is the beginning of your very first voyage. >It's supposed to be good luck or something, right?

> "To sketchy first times." >You take a swig and hand it back to her. She smiles weakly as she takes it. > "...and maybe a little adventure," she adds. > "And maybe a little adventure." >You settle back against the wall as the gust of warmth from the liquor works its way up from your stomach and into your scalp. Whitney flops onto her back and shuts her eyes. > "Wake me for supper, won't 'cha Cap'n?" > "Yeah." >Setting your watch for seven o'clock, you slump over onto your side. Your cot creaks beneath your shifting weight and settles with a taught, belt-like snap. >Not nearly as comfy as what you had when you were staying in the guest house at Ol' Steve's, but a damn sight better than the factory bunkhouse. >Especially with Whitney around. >As much as her drawing your attention to it doesn't help, you can't help thinking the weird, anxious feeling in the base of your heart would be scarier if she wasn't there. >You like your privacy, but you have to admit that it feels good having someone in the other bunk right about now.