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Chapter IV, There is No Stopping in the Red Zone

> "Hey, Anon." >You're jolted out of an unpleasant dream about the asshole emu your uncle had kept back in the day by a frantic shake to the shoulder. Your consciousness skips a few beats as it spins back up, the little jolts of logic suggesting it was the emu that had you at first, and then that it was Whitney, but that she was trying to get you to run from the emu. Then something about a big fuckoff fire and some guy shouting about humanity or something. >Once your waking mind finishes piecing itself back together, you find yourself face-to-face with Whitney, who is leaning over you. >She's looks more than a little distressed. > "Anon!" >She slugs you this time. It actually hurts a bit, too. >Clasping a hand over your new bruise, you haul yourself up on an elbow. > "The hell? We under attack?" > "I don't know." >It doesn't feel or sound like you're getting shot at, but there's no mistaking her breathless tone or the look on her face. > "Well what the fuck is it?" > "We're locked in. Something's going on, and they locked us the fuck in!" >Her voice runs back and forth between anger and fear, passing across the notes in between like xylophone keys. It's enough to trigger a shot of adrenaline, and you're on your feet in short order. > "You sure, Kid?" > "Yeah I'm fucking sure!" >She waves you to the door, a wild gleam edging into her big, brown eyes. > "...I was just 'gonna go for a walk, and--" >She reaches for the handle and shakes it: angrily at first, then frantically. It doesn't so much as jiggle. >She pries her hand away and stalks to the window instead. You follow, quickening your step as she waves for you again. > "Look." > Night has fallen thickly beneath a cover of overcast and a light, misting rain, but the grass below stands out harshly in the milky wash of floodlights. >In the islands of light people scurry like gerbils, shuffling bulky packages about the loading equipment. >Many carry slender rifles at low ready. > "Finally loading, huh?" > "Yeah, with armed guards." > "So? We're armed guards too, you know." >She swears, teeth clicking together a little between syllables. > "Then we ought to be out there and not locked in our bunkrooms. Maybe it's my first time, but any idiot could tell you this isn't normal. Anon, we have got to get out of here." >She breaks away from the window and paces, steps flashing between anger and fear as her voice does. Her tail switches like a cat's, and while you aren't sure, you think she might be shaking a little. >Your heart is moving at a pretty good clip now too, and you can feel the adrenaline leaking through your stomach lining and souring it. You dig up your best brave face and contort your muscles to fit it. The next time she passes, you snare her paw in your hand. >She whirls in surprise. For a second you swear she's about to deck you, but she stops herself. >Teeth half bared, she stares you down like a wild animal. >You're not sure if it's a predator she's seeing, or prey. >Her paw shakes like a frightened mouse in your palm. You squeeze until the shaking stops.

> "Kid, look at me." >She's looking at you harder than you can remember anyone ever looking at you, but it seemed like the thing to say. > "Take it easy, okay? So maybe it's true what you heard about the cargo; I'm sure they're just being cautious. They wouldn't have hired pilots if they meant to lock them up and systematically murder them the first day. I promise. >She sighs and almost seems to settle, then shakes her head and wrenches her paw free. > "I ain't waiting to find out." >She turns and sets to rooting through the bag again. You follow her. > "Whitney--" > "I said I ain't waitin'!" >She turns back again, this time drawing a heavy, chrome revolver. Thumbing the hammer, she levels it at the door handle. > "Might want to plug your ears, Cap'n." > "Whitney!" > "We're getting the hell out of here." > "Wait!" >She looks at you quizzically, keeping her pistol trained. > "Take it easy. We'll figure this out. If shit's really that bad, we're going to need a better plan than blowing the door off anyway." > "Well why do you figure they did it, huh? Fucking laughs? This would never happen on an Avalonian airship." > "Echo isn't an Avalonian airship. I don't like it either, Kid, but I'm telling you this is security or something. So it's valuable cargo; so what? Reckon they payed what they did for a reason. They didn't hire us to ask questions, and I ain't ready to go to war with them over it." > "So they lock us up? That ain't something you can just do. That is not fucking okay! This would never stand--" > "...in Avalon?" > "Yeah." >She trails off into a low growl, then stifles it. > "They didn't even tell us...." > "We were sleeping. You don't know that." >Sighing, she eases the hammer back down and falls back onto her bed. You give the matter a few seconds deliberation, then sit beside her. >She's definitely still shaking, but her anger seems to have collapsed a little. > "I need to get out of here," she whimpers. >If she'd been trying to hide the fear in her voice, it betrayed her. Gingerly you take her paw again. >She swallows and shakes her head. > "It's nothing. I'm fine. Forget it." >She pulls back the paw you took and clasps it uneasily in her other. > "Just wish I knew what the hell was going on." >You consider shifting closer to her, but think better of it. > "We'll do some digging, I promise. Can we give it until supper before making air pirates of ourselves?" > "Yeah. Yeah, I think so." >She settles back against the wall. > "Sorry about that. I said I'd trust you. I will. This whole situation just really folds my fur against the grain, you know?" >You're not quite sure what it feels like to have one's fur rubbed against the grain, but you hope it isn't as bad as she makes it out to be. You consider setting a hand on her shoulder, but stop yourself again. > "If it makes you feel any better, remember if this goes south we've got a ticket out. We get out of that launch bay and there's no chance in hell they could catch us, and if we have to fight our way there, we will." >It definitely makes you feel a little better, and better yet to tell her. She cocks her head uneasily. > "You promise?" > "I've got your back, Kid. We'll figure it out." > "Yeah? Well then I've got yours." >She shuts her eyes and blinks away what you're almost certain is a tear.

>You're all but asleep again when the ship's phone chimes the dinner hour. Your vision sharpens mechanically, and you find you've slumped onto Whitney's shoulder. Fortunately her weight suggests she's answered in kind. >You can't tell if she's sleeping. Her breath is slow and doesn't seem so agitated, but she isn't limp either. >In the corner of your eye you make out her pistol sitting in her lap. > "Hey, Whitney." >Her ears lift a little, then spring half-erect. Some of her weight leaves your shoulder, but she doesn't move much. Her right paw slides up to the gun like some sort of tree snake. > "We're alright." >The paw drops again and you feel the rest of her weight shift away. She rubs an eye with the back of the other paw and hauls herself up, slipping the gun into a leather holster on her hip. >You follow, snagging your inner jacket from your rack and leaving it unfastened. >She stops in front of the door and looks you up and down. > "Got a gun, don't you Cap'n?" > "I said I ain't goin' to war." >She eyes you skeptically. > "I smell the powder, anon. It's right..." >She waves her paw like a divining rod, then strikes you in the chest. Her toenail blunts against the metal frame of your handgun. > "...here." >She nods approvingly. > "Sneaky. Any luck and we won't need them, huh?" > "We won't." >The door opens without a hitch.

>Fortunately for you, the trek from your cabin to Echo's starboard crew mess doesn't involve any keelway-strolling. >The corridors over the midship gondola are tight but furnished. Wood trim covers the cold, hollowed aluminum, and a busily patterned carpet gives comfortably under foot. Narrow walls and frequent passages imply some complication, but Echo isn't actually difficult to navigate. You only find yourself checking signs on occasion, and a few minutes' walk brings you to the door.

>The starboard mess beats the shit out of the chow-hall back at the factory. >The air smells thickly of steak and bread, and across each table spreads a smart, white cloth, corners neat and surface flickering warmly in the modest glow of electric lights. Modernist paintings and old photographs decorate the walls, and in the far corner a player piano chirps a delicate, noncommittal tune. >The scene repeats itself in the glass of the observation windows forming the far wall, and behind the reflections spread the white, green, and red beacons of boats motoring about Norfolk harbor. >Already the room echos with the pleasant din of conversation, the tumbling voices washing gently beneath the strains of piano. >The further you press into the room, the more it seems to put you at ease. You're not sure that's the best idea, but you can't deny a big part of you wants it, and they're certainly making it easy. >By the time you pick a table under the window, you've all but forgotten about your imprisonment. >Instead, you find yourself realizing you've literally never dined in a formal setting. A sense of pride follows, succeeded promptly by a prom-date sort of dread. >You sneak a glance at Whitney as she takes her seat opposite you. To your dismay she seems rather at home, her fur in order and ears at ease. Fucking rich kids. >She tugs her napkin from the table and spreads it neatly in her lap. Hastily you copy her, hoping to god it isn't one of those things only women are supposed to do, or some shit like that. She doesn't laugh at you though, and a few glances at the other diners suggest you made the right call. >She is smirking at you a little, but a smartly-dressed waiter interrupts you before you can make any excuses for your ignorance.

> "Mr. Anon? Dinner's on Stratiform Ltd. tonight. We'd like to thank you for supporting our operation." >You hadn't actually bothered to note the the name of the company that had hired you. You'd started at the bottom line, and hadn't looked much past the extra zero in the pay offer. You flip through an imaginary rolodex for meals you understand to be somewhat fancy. > "Uh, Ribeye." >Shit, he's still looking at you. > "...and a beer." >Whitney's smirk broadens. He turns to her. > "Miss Latham?" > "Duck, and... a sauvignon blanc." >She smiles sweetly. The waiter nods and moves on. She's smirking even harder by the time she looks back to you. > "A beer, huh Anon?" > "I like beer." >She shoots you a look that asks if you're serious. > "Well what would you have me order?" > "Wine. Maybe a scotch. Come on, Cap'n, if we're going to figure out what the hell they're up to, we ought to blend in, don'cha think?" >Oh yeah, that. You'd actually forgotten for a minute. A pleasant minute. > "...Speaking of, didn't it strike you a bit odd he knew our names?" >It actually had sent a bit of a chill down your spine, but you'd rationalized it away. > "Not like there's that many escort pilots. If it was nefarious, they wouldn't let on that they knew." >She flashes her teeth bitterly. > "Wouldn't lock us in our rooms either." > "Give it a rest, will you? It's just security. We're probably moving gold or some shit; you saw the size of the paycheck." > "But we're going to find out for sure, right?" > "Yeah, yeah." >She considers that, rearranging a few nervously scattered whiskers. > "I mean, I don't know I buy this spread either. Going to enjoy it, but I don't know I buy this 'on the company' shit." > "It's the first evening of the voyage. It's like, tradition, you know?" >You're pretty sure you read that somewhere. >Her eyes narrow. > "It's Avalonian tradition. Like you said, Echo ain't an Avalonian airship." > "Maybe they just like Avalonian tradition. I've met people who were pretty into that shit. Of course most of 'em have never met one of you. But hell, you ever consider that maybe it's just a coincidence? They did lock us in our rooms; I'd say they owed us." >She flinches when you mention the room again, but the waiter interrupts you with your drinks before she can start ranting. Hurriedly she slots the stem of her glass between her toes and takes a generous, but elegant sip. >Your beer is pretty lame, but it'll do. >The food follows shortly. You take furtive, but careful note of what utensils she uses for what, and do your best to match. She's not the most elegant eater though, and bits of the Whitney that drinks from a flask and carries a revolver show through the veneer of refinement she's affected. >Relaxing a little, you discover the ribeye is in fact fucking awesome. >One of the best meals you've ever had, actually. >Hopefully that's a good sign. You really want it to be a good sign. You like it here. The pay is incredible. The food is great. You've wanted to do this for most of your life, and it ought to be the best decision you've ever made. >Finishing a particularly juicy bite, you look Whitney in the eye. Any luck and you can change the subject before she goes back to talking doom. > "So where'd you get that pistol?" >Her ears fold sheepishly. > "Dad gave it to me," she admits. > "Why a wheelgun? I heard you guys have all kinds of shit over there." >Now she looks outright embarrassed. > "I won't kid you with excuses. You saw the poster. You know why I like revolvers." > "Josey Robins?" >You return the smirk you reckon you've been owing her. > "Hey, I grew up listening to him. It's not my fault I was in love with him for a few awkward teenage years. I have all his records and saw all his movies, and I fell in love with the aesthetic. Cylinder gap be damned." > "You guys don't even have a wild west." > "Some of us like yours, okay?" >A strained tone in her last syllable begs you to stop pressing. As fun as it is, you back off. > "Well, it's a nice one." >She snorts. > "You're damn right it is." >She's clearly sizing you up for something to call out in revenge, but somewhere a speaker crackles to life before she can. An uneasy silence settles on the room.

> "Captain Walker speaking." >The voice scratches over the intercom with a casual confidence that's very difficult to ignore; you're not sure if it makes you feel better or worse. > "On behalf of the Stratiform corporation, and on behalf of her permanent shipboard crew, I would like to officially welcome you aboard the Echo." >There's something vaguely peculiar about his accent, but you can't place it. > "As you may have heard, we are transporting very sensitive cargo. I apologize for any alarm the lockdown may have caused, but it is imperative that it remains secure." >You give Whitney an I-told-you-so look, but she isn't having it. > "I cannot disclose our route or destination at this time, but, while we've conducted our operation as quietly as possible, it's very likely we'll meet resistance. I'll repeat: the security of our payload is of the utmost importance. I wish I could tell you how much rides on its safe arrival, but I want you to know that no matter how many figures Stratiform ltd. pays you all for this, I consider your support a personal favor." >A little shot of fear flashes across Whitney's face, but she buries it so fast you barely notice. Any luck and you did half as good a job of the same. > "Thank you for protecting my beautiful airship; I wish you all the best for the coming voyage. Unfortunately I do have to ask for you to remain in your respective mess halls for the remainder of the loading process, so please enjoy the rest of your evening. Refreshment and entertainment will be provided, courtesy of myself and the Stratiform corporation." >Whitney tenses visibly. On instinct you set your hand on her paw. > "Thank you. Captain Walker."

>The intercom pops and dies, the piano music rising again to fill the silence. You wait for Whitney to pull her paw back, but she leaves it there. She rests her chin on the other one and seems to stare through you, considering. > "What do you make of that, Cap'n?" > "I 'dunno." > "Yeah, me neither." >She considers a little longer, then finally takes her paw back and returns to picking at a bowl of salad she'd skipped earlier. She keeps from looking you in the eye, but it's plain from her whiskers and ears that her posh veneer has suddenly worn very thin. >Her voice quivers a little when she speaks again. > "What do we do?" > "Give it time." >She grumbles and takes another swig of the wine, this time without much pretense. > "Gettin' real sick of being trapped. Least the room's bigger." >Presently the sound of a band cuts in over the piano, and the air livens with jazz. Some of the tables toward the shipboard side have been pushed away to make room for a dance floor, and the more socially adventurous of your fellow diners have begun making some use of it. >This provides some welcome amusement, as the male/female split is seventy-thirty at best, and the competition to sort through it heats up rapidly. >You and Whitney watch awhile. As things get livelier she flags down the waiter and orders a whiskey. A few minutes later you do the same. The two of you sip delicately at your glasses, studying each other and keeping your creeping nerves at bay with little shots of alcohol. She drums her toes on the table, keeping alternating eyes on the dancers and on the doors. Finally she shoots the rest of her whiskey and stands. She extends her paw to you. > "Fuck it, come on." > "Huh?" >She grabs your hand impatiently and pulls you up along with her. > "We're 'gunna dance. Real close to those doors the waiters use. Maybe hear something." >You can't help being a little taken aback. >Dance? With her? >Holy shit, it would be fun to tell Steve's lying ass about this. > "Whitney, I--" > "Come on, Cap'n, please? I can't just sit around anymore. It's killing me. I need to know what the hell is going on. At least I need to try." >She tugs at you plaintively. >You don't have to be told twice. The whiskey's doing its job, and frankly you'd have been happy to dance with about anyone if only to take your mind off things, and to remind you that you're definitely not in over your head or anything. >You have to admit though, you kind of like the idea of it being her you dance with, especially since she asked you. >Even if she is just a stupid kid who's in over her head, and who just so happens to be more experienced than you are. >And even if she is just trying to get a little spying done. >Returning her grasp, you follow as casually as you can; you don't want to attract any more attention than you're already going to. >Anthros have been the subject of a great deal of superstition since back when Avalon was just something old, lost sailors ranted about in stories of spinning compasses, thick fog, and jagged reefs. >And dancing with one was long rumored to be the best sort of luck a sailor could have. >It seems today is your lucky day.

> "You know how to do this, right Anon?" >Her paw settles on your shoulder and her whiskers shiver anxiously. >It's a strange sort of grasp. It's heavy, blunt, and firm, like you'd imagine a bear's. There's nothing delicate about it, or even feminine if you hadn't been looking her in the eye, but it feels kind of right anyway. >Right in its own way you can't quite place. >You'd danced with girls before. Bar flies mostly, here and there, but the first time had been in High School. >She was a brunette, and the daughter of a tailor. Her touch was gentle and dexterous, and for the few wonderful minutes she'd held you, you felt like you belonged in a way you hadn't since you moved in with your uncle. >But then the song had ended, and she'd moved on. >And that had been enough for you that night. >You'd danced with a girl, like a real man and not a boy. Like you were the real deal, which you had been. >But that night had passed. >And sure, you'd done it again here and there, but it had never been quite the same. Each time it was a little bit less, and a little bit shorter. >But this was different, even after what she'd said about the spying. >A slug to the shoulder brings you back to reality just as the last song trails off in a trumpet solo.

>Blinking, you catch a little bit of concern in her eyes as she sets her paw back on your shoulder again. > "You okay, Cap'n? Looked like you about fell asleep just then. Ain't that drunk, are 'ya?" >She falters suddenly, eyes widening. > "You...-- you don't reckon they drugged us, do you?" >You wave a hand dismissively as you go to set it on her shoulder. > "I'm fine." >Her fur is soft, thick, and warm. You can't help burrowing your fingers a little. That feeling brushes you again, but you drive it away before you lose yourself in it. > "...just been a long time since I've done this. That's all." >There's still a little alarm in her expression, though the shade of it has changed some. > "But you do know how, right? You've done it? 'Cause I ain't ever done it." >Shit, well, you suppose you do. You'd better, because the fucking music's starting. > "Sure kid, just follow my lead." >You pull her a little closer and take the first step, hoping to hell you know the song.

>It starts simple enough. Rhythmic shots of muted trumpet backed by the steady prance of an upright bass. Five seconds, then ten. You lead her in easy steps. 1-2-3-4, slow and sloppy at first, but then better, and better again before the horn cuts in. Yeah, you know the song, and her feet are tentative but firm when she plants them. You watch and step and step a little faster until your boots tap with the strums of the bass, and you look up to her. >She's looking at her feet and counting under her breath. Her grip is firm though, and when she glances up at you, she's smiling. > "That's not so hard, huh?" > "Nah." > "Am I doin' it right?" > "You're doing fine." >She looks down again, but only half way. >The horn rhythms complicate some, and her footwork speeds to match yours, tail swinging gaily as your movements liven. >The same pattern again, and another time. She's fast and steady now, like the stroke of a big-bore engine. The lead horn cuts away into a solo and she's looking up again, grinning stupidly and counting through her teeth. >The rhythm slows and she pulls you closer; your hand slides a little down her back. >It's starting to make a little sense to you now, and the more you move, the more it seems to. >Her touch is like nothing you've felt before. >But the rhythm's fast again, and you glance at your feet and back up again. >You're scarcely leading her anymore, and the glow from the electric lights twinkles warmly in the blue and gold of her eyes. >Her jaw hangs open a little in an awkward grin, and you can smell garlic and whiskey on her breath but it doesn't seem to bother you. >Even as you speed up she pulls you closer, >And alien as it is, there's something familiar about the way she holds you. >Like something you've known from birth, >But never noticed or understood. >But its slow again, and you watch the room way and spin behind her in a blur of gold and honeydew. >There are other dancers out there, and maybe they're watching you, and maybe you should care, but she doesn't seem to care, >And you can't bring yourself to either. >The horn loses itself in jazz and you realize she's stopped counting altogether. You let her lead you a little, studying the way her feet click on the wood beneath you, and the dusty, smoky smell of her fur over the aromas of bread, meat, and seasoning. >1-2-3-4 >1-2-3-4 >She's fast but easy to follow, and you can feel her confidence building with each step, ears quivering to keep tabs on the music as she leads you. >Again, and then again with both of your footing a little surer this time. And each time she pulls you a little closer and you find yourself smiling a little wider. >The horn trails off to the beat of drums and the pulse of the bass, and worry's gone from her whiskers, and then as the horn cuts back in you suddenly remember that strange feeling all at once. >That alien, familiar feeling. >It feels like the first time. >It feels like the very first time. >And you file that away in case you ever need to come up with song lyrics. >The horns finish a final sequence, and end on a sharp, upbeat note. >The two of you part again, perhaps a little reluctantly.

>Another song follows, and then another. >Each time you teach her a little, and she follows as best she can. Most of it she picks up easily, though you can tell by the look that crosses her face sometimes that a few steps are frustrating her. >But when the band finally breaks she's grinning just as broadly as she was in the beginning, if panting a little. >The two of you sit side by side on a pair of the chairs pushed away to clear the dance floor and catch your breaths. She leaves her arm around your shoulder, seeming to pay the gesture very little attention. > "That was really fun," she chirps on the back of a deep, raspy pant, "thanks for showin' me." > "Yeah." > "I was pretty bad, wasn't I?" > "I 'dunno. I'm no good either." >She chuckles a little as her breathing slows. > "Yeah. Good thing we learned to fly instead, huh?" > "Good thing." >Suddenly she pulls you closer and lowers her voice a little. > "Listen Cap'n, I'm real sorry I was late this mornin'. You've been real fair to me, 'n you sure as hell didn't need to be. I ain't ever been good at being told my business, so that means a whole hell of a lot, you know?" >You sense an opportunity you've found yourself waiting for more and more over the course of the day. Maybe it's the alcohol, but you can't bring yourself to pass it up. > "Yeah, well you know what? I wasn't there when I said I'd be either." >She grins toothily. > "That so, Cap'n?" > "...you don't have to call me that." > "Bullshit I don't. I owe 'ya it, at least. 'N I still wasn't kidding about what I said, neither. I trust you. They made me your partner, and I'm 'gonna do what I said I was 'gonna do. I appreciate you treat'n me the way you 'been, but that's a favor. You don't owe me that." >"Yeah? Well what's this about?" >You pat the paw she's got slung over your shoulder. To your surprise she doesn't draw it back. > "That? Oh, that's just the whiskey doin' that. Probably going to be real awkward tomorrow, but it feels good now. You want me off you, you just push, okay?" >Actually you don't mind so much, but while you're fishing for a way to articulate that, her embrace sours. The mood goes with it. >She tugs at you and nudges you toward the door. >It's hung a little open, jammed on a dropped napkin. >Nobody's watching it either. >She nudges you a little more. > "Cap'n! You ready? This is our chance to find out what the fuck's going on; we might not get another one!" >Shit. You gulp as subtly as you can. > "You sure about this, Whitney? I mean, I'm really thinkin' they're being truthful with us. I'm really not sure this is a good--" > "Cap'n, you promised!" >She elbows you firmly in the ribs. >The fear is back in her whiskers, and it's tough to ignore. You swear under your breath. > "Alright. Let's fucking do this, I guess."