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2

The jackscrew should have been easy: Loosen the cable turnbuckle, pop out the screw, clean and oil, and reinstall. That's how it would have gone, too, only the turnbuckle had gotten itself wedged up against the aft cabin bulkhead and jammed the whole lot of it. That was a thirty second fix if you had X-ray vision, but the best you had was a little mirror on a stick. It had taken all the vulgarity either of you knew to straighten things out, and by the time you'd finished, Echo had pulled into Norfolk and set to a listless hover.

It's late afternoon now. The sun sags low over the Grand Tidewater Aerodrome and stains the fresh-cut grass the color of mustard weed.

Whitney's made quick work of moving in. When you'd stepped into the shower there wasn't much to the room but a narrow porthole and a pair of bunks, but from then until you traded with her she's managed to plaster her half in a scrapbook of trinkets and cellophane tape. It's pictures, mostly: old photographs, postcards, and a couple illustrations not quite big enough to make out from where you're laying. A paper airplane rests on the end table under the window, and over her bed hang a record jacket and a travel poster for a place called Port Dyson.

The jacket you might recognize. It's pale blue and features a rough-looking coyote leaned back in the shade of his stetson hat, six-gun on his hip and a notch out of an ear.

Josey Robins - Open Sky

You could swear you've heard the name before, but not a lot of Avalonian music makes it across the ocean.

That's not all, though. You don't like to think of yourself as a snoop, and you've been doing your damndest not to, but the longer the shower runs the more your eyes wander to the leather-bound journal she left open on the bedspread. Her handwriting is fast and sloppy, but you recognize your name on the left page. The right seems to have something sketched in it, but she snaps the cover shut before you can work out what.

"How's about you mind your damn business, huh Cap'n?"

Her words are backed by a piercing glare, no less effective for the bedraggled, dripping fur and the towel wrapped around her.

"Sorry."

"Bullshit y'are. Now you 'gonna look away, or you fixin' to watch me change, too?"

It hadn't occurred to you, but the disgust hits home anyway. You obey as casually as you can and her towel drops to the floor with a muted thud, only to be replaced by the yelp of a zipper before you can think of anything witty to say.

"Thanks," she says. To your relief, she sounds genuine.

You turn back to find her wearing a pair of faded jeans and a fresh flannel shirt. It's red this time, and free of the stains that decorate the one she'd worn flying. She's rolled the sleeves back to the elbow and left the collar undone, revealing a bit more fur and a silver chain bearing a spent rifle casing and a wooden charm in the shape of a barn swallow. A bit of chest, too, but you're quick to hide your interest. She doesn't call you on it, and instead flops nosily into her bunk and joins you in staring at the ceiling.

"...Hey, I didn't mean to get snippy. It's just I ain't ever had to share a room before. Kinda' used to privacy."

Rich kids.

"You'll get over it. Worked on the railroad a couple years back; we slept six to a barrack. Give it a few days and you'll be too lazy to be self-conscious."

"Don't get me wrong, Cap'n. I been campin' n' huntin' plenty; it ain't so bad with family, or a good-sized crew. This is just a little different, you know? It's a bit more intimate. Besides, it's 'gonna be here awhile, I don't know you so good, n' well, you're a human--."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

The hurt in your voice surprises you, but you blurt it before you can stop yourself. She flicks an ear.

"It's nothing. I didn't mean that."

"Yeah? Well your rack is your space. All yours and only yours."

"I get'cha, Cap'n...;"

She hesitates, paying the record jacket a glance that suggests it embarasses her a little.

"...you, uh, don't mind the decoratin' do 'ya?"

"It's fine, Kid."

The silence gets tense fast, especially since you can't help but notice her keeping an eye on you. With flying and even the jackscrew there was an easy camaraderie to things: You traded stories. She explained how the term "flea-breedin'" could be stylized as a verb or noun, and meant something approximate to your "motherfucking" or "motherfucker". Bar and hangar talk, like you were old friends But now something's got her on edge.

And she's right, it isn't like your railroad buddies. You need to trust each other, even if she's more experienced on the stick than you. Even if you're a human, like she said. You look back to find her sketching in the journal but think better than to ask her what.

"What's your deal, Kid? Everything was hunky-dory when we were flying. What'cha keep looking at me like that for? I ain't gonna spy on you or whatever, I promise."

She sighs and sits up on an elbow, flipping the journal back over a knee.

"It's like I said. Feel better when I have a job."

"Something to do with me being a filthy human?"

"Forget it, okay? I shouldn't have said it. All that stuff I said on the wing stands."

"Even though you've been flying longer?"

She cocks her head and her eyes narrow.

"This some kind of a test, Cap'n? 'Cause I don't appreciate it. If you don't trust me, you can say it to my face."

"Same to you, Kid. No one's trying to put one over on you; I promise."

"Yeah...,"

She rocks to her feet again and paces over to the window to stare down at airfield lights.

"...well, maybe you ain't."

"Then what do you know that I don't?"

"Nothing," she grunts, "that's the problem. We been here how many hours? And I all I see is one truck and not hide nor hair of cargo. There's somethin' weird going on, Cap'n. A reason they're keeping quiet. I'm tellin' 'ya. I got a bad feeling, and I've learned to listen to mine."

"They're probably just hung up on some administrative bullshit. How would you know this ain't normal, anyway?"

"Every piece of cargo from every freight forwarder? And we don't know where we're going? Cap'n, I grew up watching airships load. Bro and I would bike down to the aerodrome to see 'em off. It ain't like this...,"

She trails off to scan the field again.

"...Who the hell doesn't tell their escorts where they're going? How are we supposed to know what to expect? What weather, let alone threats? What good could it do to keep us in the dark?"

You have to admit it puts a bit of a lump in your throat to hear her say it.

"Relax, Kid. Reckon they'll tell us once we're underway."

If only you were as certain as you'd managed to sound. You'd been telling yourself you just don't know the ropes, but it really doesn't make much sense. Whitney rocks on her heels and flops back into her rack.

"Really? It don't strike you odd at all? Shit, Cap'n, I swear this place even smells off."

Presently she fishes a silver flask from a bag at the head of her bunk, and in a long, fluid motion pops the cap, takes a swig, and screws it shut again. A shiver runs up from the base of her tail and makes her ears and whiskers droop a little. Then she rolls to offer it to you, smelling freshly of scotch whiskey. Maybe you aren't hiding your nerves as well as you think.

"To sketchy first times, Cap'n?"

You almost second-guess yourself, but fetch it from her anyway.

"Reckon a toast 'fore getting underway is probably good luck or something, right, Kid?"

"Worth a shot, ain't it?"

You nod and take a swig.

"To sketchy first times."

She smiles weakly.

"And maybe a little adventure?"

"Maybe a little."

You settle back against the wall and let the warmth from the liquor work its way up from your stomach up into your face. Whitney keels over and shuts her eyes.

"Wake me for supper, won't 'cha, Cap'n?"

"Yeah."

You set your watch and join her, burying your nerves in the booze. It feels a bit better to have her there, and this time sleep comes easily.