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Chapter V, Donkey Riding

>The two of you slip through the door without catching any sideways glances. A quick dodge behind the cover of a metal counter shelters you through the rest of the kitchen, and you stumble out into the corridor. >The door latches shut behind you with a muted snap, and suddenly the commotion of the mess hall is stifled to a murmur. >A heavy silence settles as you catch your breaths, cut only by the low, wheezing whistle of Whitney panting through her canine teeth. >Even that settles before long. >Then there's nothing, save for a ringing in your ears and the throb of your pulse beneath your skull. >A few minutes you wait with baited breath, huddled in the shadows and listening, but there's nothing to be heard, and so you press on.

>The warm, flickering aura the dance had built up around the two of you seems to sputter and dwindle the further you advance into the still, frigid air. A strange set of emotions whirl in the back of your mind as if in a tumble dryer, growing more chaotic as you steal your way down the darkened hallways. You can recognize bits of them here and there: that feeling of getting away with something that you haven't felt since you were a stupid teenager. That sickly understanding that you could die doing it. One told you you were being foolish and the other said to run, but you could handle those. The one that's getting to you is a nagging sense of helplessness. >That had always been your least favorite emotion. >You reckon it's a lot of people's least favorite. >But you were the real deal. You were a flying mercenary. You could handle it, couldn't you? >You'd better, because for once Whitney doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry to show you up. >She sticks close to you and follows your lead, her steps soft, fast, and measured. She keeps her left ear trained ahead and casts the other a little behind her, and now and again her right paw strokes the grip of her revolver, perhaps keen to remind her it's there. >The both of you tense for every corner and whirl at every sound, but each time there's nothing to hear or see. >Bit by bit viscous solitude seems to seep in from under the doors and tug at your ankles like mud. >Then you break out of the cabin and into the superstructure, and it hits you like a brick wall. >You stop short and lean forward on a railing, Whitney settling beside you. >Echo's yawning innards spill wide before you, fading into a dim amber twilight cast by the lights that trace the catwalks that span her like strands of spider silk. Far below, her ventral skin shines like a Chinese lantern under the harsh gaze of aerodrome flood lights, but what light that filters through does little more than cast twisted shadows on the upper reaches of the envelope. >Whitney edges her way closer to you, stopping just short of leaning on your shoulder. > "Where the hell is everyone," she whispers, her voice seeming to echo even under her breath. > "Guess they weren't kidding about the security." > "But not even air crew? Nobody watching the rigging and ballonets? I guess you could get away with it, but that's asking for trouble." >You're no expert, but you're pretty sure that checks out. > "No shit, but here we are. Guess you're right; whatever they're doing it must be pretty fucking important to keep hushed." >Her paw inches along the railing until it bumps into your hand. > "I ain't ever seen an empty airship. Kinda' fucking creepy, you know?" > "Scared of the dark, are 'ya Kid?" > "It ain't my favorite." >A bit of a growl washes out in the breath behind her words. > "What do 'ya reckon we do, Cap'n?" >What the fuck is she asking you for? This is her errand. >Then again, you can't deny you're starting to think she was right. The food had done a pretty good job of helping you forget, but out here you can't shake the feeling that something's fucked up. You doubted they'd just let you leave anyway, even if you got a head start. You weren't keen on being assassinated. > "Work our way down to cargo and figure out what the fuck is up. Come this far, ain't we?" >The line of her muzzle flattens grimly. > "The hangar's closer. You know, we could just hide until launch and then...." >She stops herself and blinks away the glint of fear that's been gathering in her eyes, then shakes her head with some finality. > "No, you're right. I ain't a coward. Lead the way, Cap'n. I got your back." >The waver in her voice doesn't inspire confidence, but you're not doing a whole lot better yourself, particularly as you step out onto the mid-level catwalk. The darkness thickens quickly as the cabin structure falls away behind you. The metal weaves underfoot like a guitar string, slinging your heart into your throat with every other step. Far below, the twisted forms of Echo's ventral bracing lurk like crocodiles in milky twilight, waiting patiently to for you to slip in the darkness so they might swallow you whole. At least you aren't alone.

>Echo sighs like a sleeping dog as you pick your way through her guts, her taut skin singing with the steady breathing of the wind and bulbous lungs whispering furtively to one another. All around you her great, metal ribs stretch like whalebones, murmuring as they yield and shift to bear her heft, and overhead the darkness echoes the soft patter of rain. >The evening's alcohol sloshes uncomfortably in your brain as you walk, throwing off your balance in little ways you never notice unless you're trying. Here and there it shoots you a little dose of bravado, but it never seems to last for very long. Mostly it just seems to complain about how you aren't talking or dancing, and then take out its frustration on your already strained sense of vertigo. >You're just about used to it when a shot of adrenaline hits you like a freight train, and suddenly you've whirled on your heels and snagged a guidewire in the crook of your arm to keep from falling. >When you come to your senses you've got Whitney by the paw, the final reverberations of a loud, desperate yelp still ringing in the air. >She's clinging to you and one of the guide wires, half stradling the narrow walkway with most of her bulk hanging out over the abyss. >Her nails dig into your hand like climbing cleats, her eyes wide with terror. She's panting like a hyena when you haul her up again, and buries her face in your shoulder a second while she finds her balance. > "Get a little cocky, did 'ya?" > "Ain't feeling very cocky," she whimpers, more than a little shakily. >She pulls herself away again, this time keeping hold of both guidewires. > "You reckon anybody heard that?" >You don't have time to guess before a flashlight beam snaps on somewhere far below and casts a dancing tongue of light up into the rigging. The adrenaline hits you again just as the light flashes past, and the next thing you know you're lying on your back with the wind knocked from you, the catwalk maybe five feet above. >Whitney straddles your waist, forcing you down with a firm paw to the sternum while the light slings sloppily by, the both of you shrouded in the shadow of the midship ballonet. >The light clicks off again, the snap ringing like a gunshot in the silence. >She exhales slowly as she releases you, whiskers dancing a little. > "You okay, Cap'n?" >Your ribs have felt better, but you're pretty sure nothing's broken. You sit up as you catch your breath, finding yourself on a maintenance platform servicing the midship ballast pump. You gasp a lungful of air and come up with the most affirmative-sounding wheeze you can. > "Then I guess we're even already." > You nod, gathering another lungful of air. > "That was quick thinking, Kid." >She shrugs as she slides off you, wearing a weak but self-satisfied grin. > "I ain't perfect, but I ain't dead weight either, you know?" >The grin doesn't last very long. Once she's free of you she slumps back against the ballonet skin, nerves looking more than a little frayed. > "...but I ain't 'gonna lie either. Never done anything like that before. Ain't sure I've ever been that scared before either. Guess it could have been worse; guess I could have panicked, but fuck. And now...," >Her head falls back against the structure and she stares up into the darkness, the catwalk dangling just a few feet out of reach. > "...now we ain't goin' back, either." >She seems to dwell on the last word for awhile, her eyes shimmering even in the twilight and her breathing shuddering as it slows. >As the pain in your gut subsides, you slide over and join her. Her paws rest limply beside her; you debate taking hold of one, but pat it a few times instead. > "Hell of a first day, huh Kid?" >You have to admit it feels good to be the one doing the patting. You aren't sure how or why; by all rights you should be freaking out at least as much as she is, but something about trying to provide a little security makes you not seem to need it so much. > "This is my fault," she winces, "I shouldn't have dragged us out here. I just really needed to get out of that room, and I wasn't thinking, and I--." >She stops short as you take hold of her ears and ruffle them a little. >Holy fuck, she was soft, and you're not sure why you did it, but she seems to settle a little. > "We're in this together now, Kid, whether you dragged us or not. We're going to be okay, we've just gotta' keep our heads, alright?" >She sighs, a little bit of a growl working its way out from under her breath. > "I don't know who the fuck you think you are to be fucking with my ears like that, but yeah. Yeah, okay. I've got your back, I promise. I can do this." >The last sentence seems to be more for her own sake than for yours, but as you move your hand back to her shoulder you feel can feel a little of her confidence returning. You stand and offer your hand to her, catching another glimpse of that man you think you ought to be as you do. >That courageous, resourceful one from the moving pictures, who could protect Whitney and take care of himself and get to the bottom of all this shit while he was at it. >Fortunately the feeling sticks with you a second, even after she doesn't bother to take your hand. >She hauls herself up instead, looking steady, if a little shaken. You notice her shirt is torn a little at the shoulder, and then, as she approaches you, that the tear is surrounded by a dark stain. > "You okay, Kid?" >She glances to where you're looking and flinches a little. > "Must'a caught something when I tackled you. There's uh, quite a lot of blood, isn't there? I fucking liked this shirt, too." >Hastily she unbuttons about half way and peels the flannel back from her shoulder. She seems to consider your gaze for a second, then ignores it and licks at the wound a few times, spitting the blood over the railing. >You do your best to hide your disgust as she buttons the shirt again. > "It ain't that bad, just ugly. I'm good to move, Cap'n. I've got your back." >You're honestly a little surprised; there's scarcely any pain in her voice at all, and no more fear than before. > "Doesn't it hurt?" >She nods enthusiastically. > "Didn't until you fucking mentioned it. Now it hurts like all hell. Fucking sticky too. I hate sticky." > "Sure you're okay?" > "Fine. Ain't the first time I've bled, Cap'n; I've had a lot worse than this. It's the being hunted part that gets to me. That I ain't ever done, and so far I don't like it." > "Can't say I like it either." > "Yeah, well do you think we could get a move-on while I've still got my shit together?" >You nod, turning for a ladder. > "Can you climb with that?" > "I'll deal." > "Let me know if you need help. I could support you from underneath and give you a break if you need it." >She snorts. > "First my ears, and now you want to grab my ass, too? I ain't 'gonna need help. Let's just go. Come on, before I think about it too much."

>You press on, sinking deeper into Echo's guts as you work your way down the ladder toward the keelway. >Whitney's tail brushes rhythmically across your face, each swipe crimping your sinuses and baiting you to sneeze, but you manage to keep it together, and she manages to keep her word. >The two of you find yourselves standing atop the midship cargo bay with no more than a quiet yelp and a stifled whimper. Overhead Echo's swollen ballonets seem to hover like jellyfish, their supports lost somewhere in the darkness. >Then, for the first time since you'd escaped the dining room, you hear voices. >Your heart leaps into your throat again and you drop prone about as fast as you can without falling. >Whitney's beside you in an instant, and you stare at each other a while, listening. >The voices are quiet at first, then louder as you wait. >They echo tinnily through the aluminum walls, and ring with a strange, stomping rhythm that you can't quite seem to identify, even when you pin your ear to the metal. >It should put you on edge, but instead you feel yourself calming. Your heart sinks back where it belongs, and the adrenaline in your blood withdraws. >There's something familiar about the chant, even as the wilder parts of your mind entertain ideas about pentagrams and demon summoning. >Something from your childhood, you could swear, but you can't place it. >At least not until Whitney starts whispering the words, ears pricked and straining.

>Was you ever in Vallipo >Where them girls put on a show? >Waggle their arse and roll and go, >Riding on a donkey! >Way, hey, and away we go, >Donkey riding! Donkey riding! >Way, hey, and away we go, >Riding on a donkey!

>Then suddenly you aren't on Echo anymore. >You're on the wharf back home. >Your real home. >You don't know where you are or how you know, but you know. >And the dockhands are chanting it as they load lumber on the ships moored there. >You can't be more than four years old, and your parents are there, but you can't see them. >You can feel them there, and it's all so fucking real. It feels less like dreaming and more like waking up.

>And then it's gone, and Whitney's jabbing you in the gut with a paw. > "Anon, you okay? You'd fucking better be, because I ain't doin' this shit alone." >You shake your head and clear the last of the image. As much as you'd like to try to piece that shit together, now is not the time. > "Fine. Just ain't heard that song in a real long time." > "Yeah, well I smell something. Something I ain't ever smelled before. Whatever it is, it ain't gold. Least it ain't just gold." > "Think we ought to risk a look?" >She shivers and rubs her forehead with a paw. > "Wish I didn't. I was telling myself you were right before, that it was probably gold they were protecting so hard. But now it ain't gold, and that's got me a bit freaked." >You nod solemnly and begin to crawl your way toward the edge of the bay. Whitney follows in turn, fur sighing as it slides across the metal. >You're pretty sure she's right. You've got the same feeling, and it's stirring the contents of your stomach until you feel a little sick. >If she's right, >If it ain't gold that's lurking down there.... >Well, what the fuck else would someone go to such lengths to protect? >Slaves? Some sort of weapon? >Why would they keep you in the dark? >What did they think you would do if you knew?

>You don't remember much of the last war; you were young at the time, but you do remember being afraid. >You remember that one night you couldn't sleep and had sat on the edge of your bed reading comic books by candlelight. >The Eurasian Collective was fighting with Europa, and trying their hand at conquering Avalon where the latter had failed almost a century before. >The Eastern Union had sent troops, and war bond advertisements hung in the windows of your favorite candy store. >You didn't really know what war was. You figured it was that thing you played with your friends, but nobody could lie about getting hit, and when they did they never saw their family again. >You didn't want to go to war, and your uncle had said you wouldn't have to. >But what if war came to you? >Of course it never had before, not since Eastern Union had cast off the rule of Europa's cruel and foolish king. >But what if it did? >What would the communists think up next? >What were they really capable of? >What if they built a higher-flying airship, or one that's harder to see? >Could they bomb you like they'd bombed Avalon and Europa? >The enemy wasn't supposed to be able to get to you. They never had before, but what if, this time, they could? >What if you didn't see them coming? >You didn't even have a shelter. >It was all something Superman could have stopped if he were there. >But he wasn't. >So you read, and didn't sleep. >Yeah, you remembered the shit out of that night, and this felt kind of like that. >You had to know.

>You sling your leg over the edge and drop to the keelway as silently as your boots will let you, metal squeaking just a little as it catches your weight. Whitney's behind you in short order, and you press your backs to opposite sides of the cargo bay door. >It's sitting a little ajar and leaking a shaft of copper-colored light. It catches Whitney's tail a second before she whisks it away. >The voices are louder now, loud enough for you to make them out yourself.

>Was you ever in 'Frisco Bay >Where the girls all shout, "hooray, >Here comes Johnny with ten months' pay!" >Riding on a donkey!

>Yeah, that's the fucking song, but you shoo your subconscious away before it can get ahold of you again. >You glance to Whitney, who's pressed up against the open side of the door trying to peer through the gap. > "See anything?" >She shakes her head, but raises her paw to stop you. > "Hold up, I think I've got an idea." >She fishes in her shirt for something, paw emerging a second later with her flask. > "Courage," she whispers, taking a shot from it. >Then she caps it again and holds it at arms length in front of her, swiveling it gradually with the concave side directed through the door crack. > "Count two on the platform on the far side of the bulkhead. Lots more in the loading bay. Humans. They've got Echo badging, but I don't see a Stratiform logo anywhere." > "What are they doin'?" > "Loading crates. Big fucking crates." > "Like a lot of shit on them?" >She shakes her head again. > "No, I mean tough. Like, you couldn't shoot through it tough. By the looks of it they ain't light either." > "Markings?" >She squints a little. > "Not that I can see." > "Explosives, you think?" > "Nah, can't be. I'd smell 'em." > "And you've got nothing?" >Her brow furrows a little. > "No, I definitely smell something. Something...," >She pauses, whiskers dancing as she probes the air again. > "...wrong. But whatever it is, it ain't explosives. > "Anything else?" >She holds her paw up again and closes her eyes, drawing another lungful of air through her nose and holding it there. > "...lead. I think. One of the fuckers on the other side of the door is smoking and it's covering fucking everything. Crappy taste in cigarettes, too. Camels." > "See anything that might tell us where we're going?" >She pans the flask again, but shakes her head. > "I've got nothing. But here, you try." >She motions for you to switch places. You swap hastily, and she passes you the bottle as you cross. >You can't help noticing it's quite a bit lighter now.

>The loading bay is brighter than the rest of Echo, and lit in contrasting halves by golden burn of the internal lighting and glare from the floodlights outside. >Two men stand on the far side of the door, as Whitney said. The dull silver of the flask washes out the subtler colors, but you can tell they're dressed in dark blue. They cary slender rifles you don't recognize and banter softly with one another under the chanting of the men below. Something about dates timetables. You can't make out most of the words, but they sound cautiously optimistic. >One seems rather eager to get going. He smokes a rapidly-shortening cigarette and taps anxiously at the side of his rifle. >You do catch the number fourteen a couple of times in the words that pass between them, but you aren't sure in relation to what. You doubt it could be flight time, even round trip. Echo could get anywhere in probably four or five days, at least barring weather. >In the bay below men move thick, gray crates in groups of four and six, their coats slick and glistening with rain. >They strain under the weight as they stack their burdens, and heave and shuffle in time to the rhythm of the chant. >By the looks of it they're just about done. > "See anything, Anon?" > "Rifles. Some sort I've never seen before. Big ass magazine in the stock, but I can't tell the action." > "Must've had 'em propped on the wall when I was lookin'. Swap sides again?" >You nod, passing the flask back to her and settling to your original side. > "What about you, you ever seen those before?" >She considers for a moment. > "I don't think so. They look Avalonian to me though, and nice ones. Wonder where the fuck they got those." >There's more than a little accusation in her voice, but it's interrupted by a murmur from inside. > "Hey Danny, you hear something?" >The adrenaline comes flooding back as if by storm surge. You glance to Whitney as she yanks the flask back from the door and hides it in her shirt again, her eyes wide, ears pricked, and jaw hanging just a little open. > "It's nothing, Ken. You're paranoid." > "Well I'm going to check it out. Watch the bay, alright?" > "Whatever you say, man." >You feel your muscles tense. Whitney's already backed herself against a handrail and slung a lego over, and she jerks her head for you to follow. >You already don't like where she's going with this, but at least you're too distracted to look down. >You sling one leg over, and then the other. Then you're clinging to the far side of the handrail, arms taking the better part of your weight. Whitney jerks her head again, indicating toward the beams supporting the outer wall of the loading bay. They're shrouded in shadow, and would be great cover where they meet the wall. >The only problem is you don't know how the fuck she's planning on making that jump. >It's a few meters, at least, and a small target at that. >If you miss, you've got the better part of thirty feet to fall. >That's assuming you don't punch through the envelope, >Or hit your head on a beam on the way down, >Or hang yourself on a tension wire, >Or-- >Your heart stops as the smoking guard pushes his way through the door. >Panic flashes across Whitney's eyes. You can feel the cool burn of it too, and you're sure its showing. >She gives you a final, pleading nod, >and leaps. >Even in the moment there's some grace and confidence in her form. >Despite the look in her eyes, there's nothing desperate in her movements, and her trajectory is smooth and practiced, like a grasshopper's. >Her tail flows out behind her a split second, filling out like a banner. >And then she's swallowed by the shadows, landing with no more than a click from her claws. >She looks back at you, eyes glinting amber in the darkness. >Could you even jump that far? >Did you even have the guts, if you could? >The guide rail wire is digging painfully into your hands and the muscles in your arms are starting to complain about holding you erect. >The yawning maw of the darkness beneath you spreads wide in the corner of your eye, and your heart is beating so fast you can't tell the strokes apart. >A long second passes as the guard sweeps the keelway with his flashlight. >Finally, as the beam closes in, something snaps in your brain. You shut your eyes, take the deepest breath you can, and jump.

>Jumping never felt like flying to you. >Others seemed at home with it, or even liked it, but you'd never understood. >Back in high school you used to go down to the river with your friends. You'd sneak beers, and dare each other to jump off the bridge into the water. >You'd only ever done it once, no matter how much they called you chicken. >They'd come out laughing and racing to do it again, and from higher, usually. >All you ever felt was your head spinning as you looked over the edge, and the sick, churning feeling of freefall. >You hated every millisecond of it, and you hate every millisecond of this. >Even the last few, as you feel the jolt of metal under your boots and Whitney catching you across the chest to keep you from stumbling. >Every millisecond until your eyes open again, and you're perched delicately on the beam, holding on to an upright for dear life and doing your best not to look down. >The flashlight completes the last few degrees of its scan, and, finding nothing, hunts further down the keelway. >The both of you sigh with relief, and the next thing you know you're resting a little on each other's shoulders. >Whitney's paw is still on your ribs; no doubt she can feel your heart beating. >She must, because she moves it to your shoulder. > "You don't like heights, do you Cap'n?" >She pulls you a little closer, which you have to admit feels pretty good, even if you're definitely not seeing any of that hero you think you ought to be in the process. >Throwing vanity to the darkness below, you wrap your free arm around her waist and hold her perhaps a little tighter than you ought to. >She seems to understand that pretty well. > "Well I ain't 'gonna let you fall, so take it easy." >Her grip is remarkably steadfast, and you're glad to have it. >As the guard wanders further down the walkway you let your voice raise a little. > "How the fuck are you so good at this?" > "Climbed a lot of trees; broke a lot of bones. Besides, you ain't my first acrophobe." > "Well don't go spreadin' it around, huh?" >She taps your shoulder. > "Hey, I freaked out on you a little; reckon I owed you. Just glad the universe saw fit to throw us something I was good at so I could redeem myself." >You suppose that's good enough for you. Either way you don't have long to dwell on it, because a sharp sound catches your attention. >Then another. >You don't recognize them at first. >Sharp, hollow pops that ring metallically through the walls. >But then a string rattle off like firecrackers, and you hear shouting in the background. >Two and two come together very suddenly in your mind. >Gunfire. >You glance back to the keelway and catch the guard sprinting back toward the bay, flashlight dancing in his left arm while his rifle sways in his right. >He bashes his way through the door and another chain of fire erupts. >You glance to Whitney, but she's already sizing up the rigging for a route back to the hangar. >To your dismay, she lets go of you. > "You can do a pull-up, right cap'n?" >Come on, she doesn't think you're a total pussy, does she? >You nod hastily. > "Then follow me, 'n follow close. Do what I do, and don't look down. Got it?" >Before you can reply she leaps and grabs hold of another beam a few feet over your heads, hauling herself up with little more than a stifled grunt. >Suddenly you're glad you went through a bit of a fitness phase as a teenager. >Sure it was mostly out of insecurity, but maybe not everything insecurity makes you do is such a bad idea. >You really should have stuck with that, but you suppose now is as good a time to get back into it as any. >You jump, then haul yourself up with a noticeably louder grunt, dedicating your imagination to believing that there's a gym floor a few feet under you and not a pit of metal webbing. >By the time you're to your feet she's already dangling from the next, tail brushing across your nose again. >So you jump again. >And again. >You strain a little harder each time, but she scarcely seems to tire. >Probably helps that she couldn't have weighed much over a hundred pounds, but you wouldn't have thought she was all that strong either. >Perhaps the two of you would have to arm wrestle some time when you're not trying to dodge the stray rounds you're hearing punch through the metal now and again. >Fortunately the next leap lands you back atop the bay, and it's an easy drop down to the keelway again. >You and Whitney debate silently with each other in front of the door, but you don't hesitate long. >If there's any chance of finding out what the fuck is going on, this is it. >You crouch and scuttle your way through the door.

>A thick perfume of brass and spent powder flavors the air and picks at your tear ducts until your eyes water. >The cigarette guard is crouched behind the railing wall, rifle slung in his off hand with its butt in a pile of brass. >He might have seen you, but he's kneeling over his companion, the latter lying supine and grabbing desperately at his shoulder as blood creeps slowly from under his fingers. >There's fear in both of their eyes, but the fallen man's are mistier. >There's a desperate, pleading glint in them. >Something deep inside you flops like a landed fish as you dodge behind a crate for cover and draw your pistol. >Whatever it was must have snapped in Whitney too, because when she rounds the corner her eyes are dilated and her tail limp. Her revolver is drawn but gripped in her right paw only, her left spanning her chest as if to keep the contents of her stomach down. >In a quiet moment you hear her whimper. > "Holy fucking shit." >Her voice is weak and sickly.

>A trio of rounds crack over your heads, and then another rings the railing like a gong. >You hear her gasp even as your ears set to ringing, and she huddles tightly against your shoulder, the revolver trembling in her grip. >She's pressed close enough for you to feel her pulse surge under her fur. >It's at least as fast as yours. >But still she reigns her breathing in and thumbs the hammer as you ease your way down the width of the bay, peering over the edge of the railing each time the gunfire dwindles and your curiosity starts to get the better of you. >Every time you start get a good look, Whitney grabs you by the shirt and pulls you back down. >One of those times you land on top of her just as a bullet snaps past where your head was. She holds you close a minute, and you find yourself digging your fingers into her coat a little as you catch your breath. >It's soft and warm and for a wonderful second it doesn't feel like you're being shot at. >But you press on, and bit by bit you piece the room together. >The working men have scattered to the shipboard side of the bay and taken cover amid the stacked crates, those who were armed trading fire with the outside. >Your angle is too extreme to make out what they're shooting at, but in the middle of the bay four men lie shot dead at the base of an idling pickup truck, one of the smaller crates half-loaded in the back with its lid cracked open. >The fallen men wear long trench coats cut from fabric too dark to make out the bloodstains, and at least one is lying on what you're pretty sure is a thompson submachine gun. >Mafia, you guess, though you suppose it could be anyone. >But who else, and what the hell would they be after? >What did they know that you didn't? >Was it drugs? >Whitney would have smelled them, wouldn't she? >You're going to have to get a look in that crate. Trouble is, that means pushing to the far side, and the catwalk doesn't go the whole way. >You'll have to descend the stairs, cross the bay floor, and then climb up again. >At least there's a way out over there. >You've already burned through a good portion of your day's allotment of bravery, though. >Taking stock of what's left, you crouch and check on Whitney. She's panting like she ran a mile. > "How you doin', Kid?" >She just nods, the look on her face not inspiring much confidence. > "We're going to have to cross--" > "I know. I can do it. If those are really Avalonian guns, if they fuckin' took 'em, well, I've 'gotta know we ain't on the wrong side of this little war." > You squeeze her paw. > "Then follow me, follow close, and do what I do." >Funny how saying that almost makes you feel like you have the first idea what you're doing. >Then the gunfire dwindles again, and you leap around the corner.

>The stairs are steep and slick with dew, and in your haste you might have slipped once had Whitney not caught you. >Much of the outside is hidden by the glare of the floodlights, but through the mist and rain muzzle flashes flicker like candles. Their reports split the air in scattered patterns, and echo sharply over the din of shouting and machinery >You've got maybe fifteen feet to run before there's any cover, and there's a good chance the defenders will see you once you get there. >But they've got bigger problems than loose crew now, don't they? >You'll have to take that risk. >So you run, the smoky air driving needles into your eyes and burning your lungs as you gulp it. >You count each footfall, and each round that cracks by or glances the ground by your feet. >Seven of the first and five of the second, and then you're in cover again and you've got Whitney by the paw. >You press your back into a crate while you catch your breath. >Whitney's right about how solid these things are. Even when you throw your weight into it it doesn't budge. >Whatever it is, you're glad it's there. >Particularly as the gunfire picks up again, though you can scarcely hear it anymore. >But you have to make another run, and then another. >So you grab Whitney again and move. >Twenty paces, and then another fourteen. >Nine rounds at least, but you're pretty sure you lost count. >Either way the both of you are still breathing when you clamber up the stairs on the far side. >The glare isn't as severe from there; you can actually make out some of the landscape outside, and more so as you press toward the outer wall. >You still can't make out many details, but by the light of the muzzle flashes you can see a small armada of cars and trucks have built up in the field, most of them painted jet black. You count ten at least, though there may well be more in the shadows. The front lines trade bursts of fire with the bay, and the flanks with some other group you can't see. >Judging by the light jostle and shimmy you've been feeling in the deck, you'd guess they're mooring crews. >Those must be some brave motherfuckers, even under the cover of dark. Now way in hell you'd go out there. >Of course, if they're out there at all, that means the situation must be dire enough for someone to think it worth the risk. The thought burrows ever further into the gaping sinkhole that's been developing in your stomach. >You do your best to suppress it as you reach the outer railing and lean for a look in the crate.

>From this side of the truck you notice a body you hadn't seen before. >He's slumped back against the rear window, glassy eyes staring blankly at the half-loaded cask. >It's still too dark for you to get a look at the contents themselves, but you can tell he's got something in his hand. >It looks to be dull and vaguely metallic, but that's not what stands out to you. >It's that his hand is all fucked up. >Even in the shadows you can tell. >And not shot, either. >It looks... burnt? >You lean further, pressing against the handrail for a closer look. >You catch a glint of light as it crosses the inside of the crate. >It looks like the same shit, but you can't make out what. >Whatever it is, it ain't gold, and it ain't any sort of drug you've ever seen. >You lunge for a few extra degrees, then your world shatters like some kind of crystalline vase.

>Then you're lying on your back with the wind knocked from you, the catwalk shivering beneath you with the first reverberations of Echo's engines. >A gut-wrenching pain tears at your chest like a pack of alligators, and your ears have given up on ringing and gone outright deaf. >A moment you think you must have fallen, but then Whitney's crouched over you. >She's shouting something at you, fangs gleaming white when she spreads her jaw wide enough to catch the light. >But you can't hear a damn thing save a distant, aching tone. >She's tearing into your shirt with her claws, popping buttons and ripping them out if they resist. >Her eyes are panicked, and maybe even watering. >You don't really feel that bad save the pain in your chest, but what the fuck happened to you? Were you shot? Was this what it was like to be shot? It's not like you would know. Fucking hell, though, you'd be certain you were fine if she didn't look so fucking frantic. >But maybe it doesn't matter, because someone else steps into your vision. >Your eyes are blurry and you can't make out who he is, but you don't have any trouble recognizing the barrel of his rifle when he levels it on your head. >One of those weird, slender, wooden rifles with the big-ass magazine in the stock, like before. >It definitely isn't anything you've ever seen before; it has curves like a fucking dolphin. >It doesn't seem that matters now though. Whatever you saw in that crate, evidently it was too much. >You're almost too shocked to care, but then Whitney dodges between the two of you, and the world starts piecing itself together again. >Starting with the blind panic you ought to be in. >You gasp for air and throw yourself against your body weight, and then gasp some more and gather your core muscles to try again. >Whatever time she bought you, it can't be long. >You've got to protect her. >You've got to be that guy from the movies. >It's always just a flesh wound, right? Surely it's just a flesh wound. You've just got to get up. >Distantly you hear rifle fire, and spent brass falls around you like hail. Then the muffled bark of a revolver cracks over the static in your ears. >And then another bark, and another. >You hyperventilate a little and throw every muscle you have at sitting up. The guard is still right there. If you could just grab hold of him you might be able to haul him down, and then Whitney could-- >She's extending her paw to you, the guard turned and facing the open bay. >She speaks again, and this time you actually hear her a little. > "Get up, asshole. You ain't even bleedin'." >Her muzzle is curled in a half snarl, but there's relief in her eyes. She grabs hold of you before you can respond and hauls you to your feet. >The pain strikes your chest like a sledgehammer. Your head spins wildly for a few seconds while your inner ear sorts itself out, and finally you keel over onto her shoulder. >She shudders under your weight but holds firm. >You glance over your shoulder as the two of you stagger out of the bay, catching a quick glimpse of the land falling away as the cargo door closes. >The guard swaps his magazine and turns his attention inward, and you notice a sizable dent in the handrail next to him. >Right where you were. >A few inches higher and whatever it had been would have been right through your heart. >You do your best not to think about that as the door shuts behind you and you take to the corridors again, leaning generously on Whitney as you work your way back to your cabin. >You've got a lot of questions, but you aren't feeling particularly up to asking them.

>Whitney doesn't take much care being gentle whens he hauls you off of her and onto your bed, nor being elegant when she collapses onto hers, but once the jolt of pain subsides, you swear you're the most comfortable you've ever been. >Most of your hearing's returned, and the deep pulses and drones of Echo's propellers envelop the two of you like a woolen blanket. The electric light in the ceiling glows a dull, sunburnt copper that's just bright enough to read the posters on the wall, and somewhere far away you can taste a hint of petrol exhaust mixing with the smells of dust and rain. >Whitney lies on her back, her panting just loud enough to hear over the drone. She looks worn out, but her ears are at rest and the anxious twitch in her tail is gone. >You couldn't help noticing she'd been careful to make certain the door didn't close all the way behind her, but if you're honest you feel better knowing it can't lock on you again, too. >She smiles weakly as she settles. > "Bet when you were givin' me all that lip this mornin' you didn't think I'd be carrying you back home that night." >The twinge of embarrassment in your throat suggests she's absolutely right, but she doesn't wait for you to say it. > "Guess we make a pretty good team though, huh?" >Her smile broadens, then after a few seconds it goes slack again. > "Thanks for taking care of me, by the way. I got us in pretty deep shit. You could have blown me off. Probably should'a. But you didn't." >You consider that a while, silence falling again. > "Sure, Kid, and I reckon we do." >She smiles again, and this time it sticks around a little longer. There's still a question burning in your mind, though, so you stop her short of replying. > "I've got to know though, why didn't I get shot back there? What the fuck did you do?" >She shrugs. > "Wish I knew. He said there was a traitor on board, and the lock-up was about not getting sold out. Guess it didn't do much good, but I can't blame him much for thinkin' it was us. What I don't get why it changed anything when he saw me. He said we were on the same side, and I didn't press my luck. Got the feelin' he wasn't bullshitting though. Reckon he'd have shot us otherwise, especially after what happened to his partner." > "Same guy?" >She nods, a little sadly. > "Yeah, that was him. I ain't sure, but I think he might have been cryin' a little. That shit was fucked up, you know?"

>"Yeah, well, thanks for saving my ass. Pretty good thinking with the flask, too, though to be honest I thought you were going to pull out a vanity mirror. Guess you're not really that sort of girl though, huh?" >She recoils a little at that last part, muzzle pursing in a half-snarl. > "The fuck's that supposed to mean?" >To your surprise, she actually looks a little hurt. > "Nothing, I just--" > "Yeah, yeah; fuck you. And for the record, I do too have a vanity mirror." >She flicks it out of her pocket and makes a show of straightening the fur around her ears, glaring at you all the while. > "Then why the flask?" >She raises a white eyebrow. > "'Cause I ain't fucking stupid? Perfect mirror'd have caught the light and flashed. They'd have seen us for sure. Flask's good enough for an image but not polished enough to glint." >You..., would never have thought of that. >Actually, yeah, you wouldn't have. You seize the opportunity to return her glare. > "Well, clearly I didn't think of that." >She considers that a second, then rolls her eyes. > "Cap'n, I didn't mean--" > "Yeah, yeah; fuck you." >She rolls over and flicks the light off, leaving you alone with the sound of the rain and propellers.