{"sf1_id":1349887,"sf2_id":"J1Oak8Qm","title":"Silver Lining (Chapter 5)","author":"DecoFox","words":7868,"posted_at":"2018-07-10T01:17:00.000Z","tags":["Action","Adventure","Airplane","Art deco","Border Collie","Couple","Decopunk","F/M","Female","Flight","Flying","Interwar","Love","Military","Mystery","Novel","Retro future","Sci-Fi","Science Fiction","Sky","Steam Punk","Straight","Swing","Vintage","War","Western","Western Swing","airship","combat","dieselpunk","tomboy"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1349887-silver-lining-chapter-5","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/J1Oak8Qm","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/84/29/8429e3ab-35f4-48ed-8e2d-64f71b2149e4","description":"#5 of Silver Lining\n\nGreentext\nSecond Person Present\nNovel-Length, by chapter.\nWIP\nNote mild violence, probably not worthy of an actual rating\nYou, a newly minted combat pilot with all the associated buckle and swash, find yourself signed up to escort an airship carrying mysterious cargo to places unknown. It feels good to be the real deal finally, just like in the books and moving pictures, even if they did assign you a border collie for a partner. And besides, the two of you aren't in over your heads or anything, right?","content":"Chapter V, Donkey Riding\n\n\\\u003eThe 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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eThe door latches shut behind you with a muted snap, and suddenly the commotion of the mess hall is stifled to a murmur.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eA heavy silence settles as you catch your breaths, cut only by the low, wheezing whistle of Whitney panting through her canine teeth.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eEven that settles before long.  \n\\\u003eThen there's nothing, save for a ringing in your ears and the throb of your pulse beneath your skull.  \n\\\u003eA 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.  \n  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003eThat had always been your least favorite emotion.  \n\\\u003eYou reckon it's a lot of people's least favorite.  \n\\\u003eBut you were the real deal. You were a flying mercenary. You could handle it, couldn't you?  \n\\\u003eYou'd better, because for once Whitney doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry to show you up.  \n\\\u003eShe 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.  \n\\\u003eThe both of you tense for every corner and whirl at every sound, but each time there's nothing to hear or see.  \n\\\u003eBit by bit viscous solitude seems to seep in from under the doors and tug at your ankles like mud.  \n\\\u003eThen you break out of the cabin and into the superstructure, and it hits you like a brick wall.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou stop short and lean forward on a railing, Whitney settling beside you.  \n\\\u003eEcho'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.  \n\\\u003eWhitney edges her way closer to you, stopping just short of leaning on your shoulder.  \n\\\u003e \"Where the hell is everyone,\" she whispers, her voice seeming to echo even under her breath.  \n\\\u003e \"Guess they weren't kidding about the security.\"  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003eYou're no expert, but you're pretty sure that checks out.  \n\\\u003e \"No shit, but here we are. Guess you're right; whatever they're doing it must be pretty fucking important to keep hushed.\"  \n\\\u003eHer paw inches along the railing until it bumps into your hand.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003e \"I ain't ever seen an empty airship. Kinda' fucking creepy, you know?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Scared of the dark, are 'ya Kid?\"  \n\\\u003e \"It ain't my favorite.\"  \n\\\u003eA bit of a growl washes out in the breath behind her words.  \n\\\u003e \"What do 'ya reckon we do, Cap'n?\"  \n\\\u003eWhat the fuck is she asking you for? This is her errand.  \n\\\u003eThen 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.  \n\\\u003e \"Work our way down to cargo and figure out what the fuck is up. Come this far, ain't we?\"  \n\\\u003eThe line of her muzzle flattens grimly.  \n\\\u003e \"The hangar's closer. You know, we could just hide until launch and then....\"  \n\\\u003eShe stops herself and blinks away the glint of fear that's been gathering in her eyes, then shakes her head with some finality.  \n\\\u003e \"No, you're right. I ain't a coward. Lead the way, Cap'n. I got your back.\"  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n  \n\\\u003eEcho 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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003eYou'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.  \n\\\u003eWhen 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.  \n\\\u003eShe'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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eHer 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.  \n\\\u003e \"Get a little cocky, did 'ya?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Ain't feeling very cocky,\" she whimpers, more than a little shakily.  \n\\\u003eShe pulls herself away again, this time keeping hold of both guidewires.  \n\\\u003e \"You reckon anybody heard that?\"\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eWhitney 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.  \n\\\u003eThe light clicks off again, the snap ringing like a gunshot in the silence.  \n\\\u003eShe exhales slowly as she releases you, whiskers dancing a little.  \n\\\u003e \"You okay, Cap'n?\"  \n\\\u003eYour 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.  \n\\\u003e \"Then I guess we're even already.\"  \n\\\u003e You nod, gathering another lungful of air.  \n\\\u003e \"That was quick thinking, Kid.\"  \n\\\u003eShe shrugs as she slides off you, wearing a weak but self-satisfied grin.  \n\\\u003e \"I ain't perfect, but I ain't dead weight either, you know?\"  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003e \"...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...,\"  \n\\\u003eHer head falls back against the structure and she stares up into the darkness, the catwalk dangling just a few feet out of reach.  \n\\\u003e \"...now we ain't goin' back, either.\"  \n\\\u003eShe seems to dwell on the last word for awhile, her eyes shimmering even in the twilight and her breathing shuddering as it slows.  \n\\\u003eAs 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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003e \"Hell of a first day, huh Kid?\"  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003e \"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--.\"  \n\\\u003eShe stops short as you take hold of her ears and ruffle them a little.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eHoly fuck, she was soft, and you're not sure why you did it, but she seems to settle a little.  \n\\\u003e \"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?\"  \n\\\u003eShe sighs, a little bit of a growl working its way out from under her breath.  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003eThat 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.  \n\\\u003eFortunately the feeling sticks with you a second, even after she doesn't bother to take your hand.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eShe 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.  \n\\\u003e \"You okay, Kid?\"  \n\\\u003eShe glances to where you're looking and flinches a little.  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003eHastily 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.  \n\\\u003eYou do your best to hide your disgust as she buttons the shirt again.  \n\\\u003e \"It ain't that bad, just ugly. I'm good to move, Cap'n. I've got your back.\"  \n\\\u003eYou're honestly a little surprised; there's scarcely any pain in her voice at all, and no more fear than before.  \n\\\u003e \"Doesn't it hurt?\"  \n\\\u003eShe nods enthusiastically.  \n\\\u003e \"Didn't until you fucking mentioned it. Now it hurts like all hell. Fucking sticky too. I hate sticky.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Sure you're okay?\"  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Can't say I like it either.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah, well do you think we could get a move-on while I've still got my shit together?\"  \n\\\u003eYou nod, turning for a ladder.  \n\\\u003e \"Can you climb with that?\"  \n\\\u003e \"I'll deal.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Let me know if you need help. I could support you from underneath and give you a break if you need it.\"  \n\\\u003eShe snorts.  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n  \n\\\u003eYou press on, sinking deeper into Echo's guts as you work your way down the ladder toward the keelway.  \n\\\u003eWhitney'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.  \n\\\u003eThe 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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eThen, for the first time since you'd escaped the dining room, you hear voices.  \n\\\u003eYour heart leaps into your throat again and you drop prone about as fast as you can without falling.  \n\\\u003eWhitney's beside you in an instant, and you stare at each other a while, listening.  \n\\\u003eThe voices are quiet at first, then louder as you wait.  \n\\\u003eThey 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.  \n\\\u003eIt 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.  \n\\\u003eThere's something familiar about the chant, even as the wilder parts of your mind entertain ideas about pentagrams and demon summoning.  \n\\\u003eSomething from your childhood, you could swear, but you can't place it.  \n\\\u003eAt least not until Whitney starts whispering the words, ears pricked and straining.  \n  \n\\\u003eWas you ever in Vallipo  \n\\\u003eWhere them girls put on a show?  \n\\\u003eWaggle their arse and roll and go,  \n\\\u003eRiding on a donkey!  \n\\\u003eWay, hey, and away we go,  \n\\\u003eDonkey riding! Donkey riding!  \n\\\u003eWay, hey, and away we go,  \n\\\u003eRiding on a donkey!  \n  \n\\\u003eThen suddenly you aren't on Echo anymore.  \n\\\u003eYou're on the wharf back home.  \n\\\u003eYour real home.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou don't know where you are or how you know, but you know.  \n\\\u003eAnd the dockhands are chanting it as they load lumber on the ships moored there.  \n\\\u003eYou can't be more than four years old, and your parents are there, but you can't see them.  \n\\\u003eYou can feel them there, and it's all so fucking real. It feels less like dreaming and more like waking up.  \n  \n\\\u003eAnd then it's gone, and Whitney's jabbing you in the gut with a paw.  \n\\\u003e \"Anon, you okay? You'd fucking better be, because I ain't doin' this shit alone.\"  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003e \"Fine. Just ain't heard that song in a real long time.\"  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Think we ought to risk a look?\"  \n\\\u003eShe shivers and rubs her forehead with a paw.  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eYou'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.  \n\\\u003eIf she's right,  \n\\\u003eIf it ain't gold that's lurking down there....  \n\\\u003eWell, what the fuck else would someone go to such lengths to protect?  \n\\\u003eSlaves? Some sort of weapon?  \n\\\u003eWhy would they keep you in the dark?  \n\\\u003eWhat did they think you would do if you knew?  \n  \n\\\u003eYou don't remember much of the last war; you were young at the time, but you do remember being afraid.  \n\\\u003eYou remember that one night you couldn't sleep and had sat on the edge of your bed reading comic books by candlelight.  \n\\\u003eThe Eurasian Collective was fighting with Europa, and trying their hand at conquering Avalon where the latter had failed almost a century before.  \n\\\u003eThe Eastern Union had sent troops, and war bond advertisements hung in the windows of your favorite candy store.  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eYou didn't want to go to war, and your uncle had said you wouldn't have to.  \n\\\u003eBut what if war came to you?  \n\\\u003eOf course it never had before, not since Eastern Union had cast off the rule of Europa's cruel and foolish king.  \n\\\u003eBut what if it did?  \n\\\u003eWhat would the communists think up next?\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eWhat were they really capable of?  \n\\\u003eWhat if they built a higher-flying airship, or one that's harder to see?  \n\\\u003eCould they bomb you like they'd bombed Avalon and Europa?  \n\\\u003eThe enemy wasn't supposed to be able to get to you. They never had before, but what if, this time, they could?  \n\\\u003eWhat if you didn't see them coming?  \n\\\u003eYou didn't even have a shelter.  \n\\\u003eIt was all something Superman could have stopped if he were there.  \n\\\u003eBut he wasn't.  \n\\\u003eSo you read, and didn't sleep.  \n\\\u003eYeah, you remembered the shit out of that night, and this felt kind of like that.  \n\\\u003eYou had to know.  \n  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eIt'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.  \n\\\u003eThe voices are louder now, loud enough for you to make them out yourself.  \n  \n\\\u003eWas you ever in 'Frisco Bay  \n\\\u003eWhere the girls all shout, \"hooray,  \n\\\u003eHere comes Johnny with ten months' pay!\"  \n\\\u003eRiding on a donkey!  \n  \n\\\u003eYeah, that's the fucking song, but you shoo your subconscious away before it can get ahold of you again.  \n\\\u003eYou glance to Whitney, who's pressed up against the open side of the door trying to peer through the gap.  \n\\\u003e \"See anything?\"  \n\\\u003eShe shakes her head, but raises her paw to stop you.  \n\\\u003e \"Hold up, I think I've got an idea.\"  \n\\\u003eShe fishes in her shirt for something, paw emerging a second later with her flask.  \n\\\u003e \"Courage,\" she whispers, taking a shot from it.  \n\\\u003eThen 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.  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003e \"What are they doin'?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Loading crates. Big fucking crates.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Like a lot of shit on them?\"  \n\\\u003eShe shakes her head again.  \n\\\u003e \"No, I mean tough. Like, you couldn't shoot through it tough. By the looks of it they ain't light either.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Markings?\"  \n\\\u003eShe squints a little.  \n\\\u003e \"Not that I can see.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Explosives, you think?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Nah, can't be. I'd smell 'em.\"  \n\\\u003e \"And you've got nothing?\"  \n\\\u003eHer brow furrows a little.  \n\\\u003e \"No, I definitely smell something. Something...,\"  \n\\\u003eShe pauses, whiskers dancing as she probes the air again.  \n\\\u003e \"...wrong. But whatever it is, it ain't explosives.  \n\\\u003e \"Anything else?\"  \n\\\u003eShe holds her paw up again and closes her eyes, drawing another lungful of air through her nose and holding it there.  \n\\\u003e \"...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.\"  \n\\\u003e \"See anything that might tell us where we're going?\"  \n\\\u003eShe pans the flask again, but shakes her head.  \n\\\u003e \"I've got nothing. But here, you try.\"  \n\\\u003eShe motions for you to switch places. You swap hastily, and she passes you the bottle as you cross.  \n\\\u003eYou can't help noticing it's quite a bit lighter now.  \n  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003eTwo 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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eOne seems rather eager to get going. He smokes a rapidly-shortening cigarette and taps anxiously at the side of his rifle.  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eIn the bay below men move thick, gray crates in groups of four and six, their coats slick and glistening with rain.  \n\\\u003eThey strain under the weight as they stack their burdens, and heave and shuffle in time to the rhythm of the chant.  \n\\\u003eBy the looks of it they're just about done.  \n\\\u003e \"See anything, Anon?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Rifles. Some sort I've never seen before. Big ass magazine in the stock, but I can't tell the action.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Must've had 'em propped on the wall when I was lookin'. Swap sides again?\"  \n\\\u003eYou nod, passing the flask back to her and settling to your original side.  \n\\\u003e \"What about you, you ever seen those before?\"  \n\\\u003eShe considers for a moment.  \n\\\u003e \"I don't think so. They look Avalonian to me though, and nice ones. Wonder where the fuck they got those.\"  \n\\\u003eThere's more than a little accusation in her voice, but it's interrupted by a murmur from inside.  \n\\\u003e \"Hey Danny, you hear something?\"  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003e \"It's nothing, Ken. You're paranoid.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Well I'm going to check it out. Watch the bay, alright?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Whatever you say, man.\"  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eYou already don't like where she's going with this, but at least you're too distracted to look down.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eThe only problem is you don't know how the fuck she's planning on making that jump.  \n\\\u003eIt's a few meters, at least, and a small target at that.  \n\\\u003eIf you miss, you've got the better part of thirty feet to fall.  \n\\\u003eThat's assuming you don't punch through the envelope,  \n\\\u003eOr hit your head on a beam on the way down,  \n\\\u003eOr hang yourself on a tension wire,  \n\\\u003eOr--  \n\\\u003eYour heart stops as the smoking guard pushes his way through the door.  \n\\\u003ePanic flashes across Whitney's eyes. You can feel the cool burn of it too, and you're sure its showing.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eShe gives you a final, pleading nod,\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eand leaps.  \n\\\u003eEven in the moment there's some grace and confidence in her form.  \n\\\u003eDespite the look in her eyes, there's nothing desperate in her movements, and her trajectory is smooth and practiced, like a grasshopper's.  \n\\\u003eHer tail flows out behind her a split second, filling out like a banner.  \n\\\u003eAnd then she's swallowed by the shadows, landing with no more than a click from her claws.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eShe looks back at you, eyes glinting amber in the darkness.  \n\\\u003eCould you even jump that far?  \n\\\u003eDid you even have the guts, if you could?  \n\\\u003eThe guide rail wire is digging painfully into your hands and the muscles in your arms are starting to complain about holding you erect.  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003eA long second passes as the guard sweeps the keelway with his flashlight.  \n\\\u003eFinally, as the beam closes in, something snaps in your brain. You shut your eyes, take the deepest breath you can, and jump.  \n  \n\\\u003eJumping never felt like flying to you.  \n\\\u003eOthers seemed at home with it, or even liked it, but you'd never understood.  \n\\\u003eBack 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.  \n\\\u003eYou'd only ever done it once, no matter how much they called you chicken.  \n\\\u003eThey'd come out laughing and racing to do it again, and from higher, usually.  \n\\\u003eAll you ever felt was your head spinning as you looked over the edge, and the sick, churning feeling of freefall.  \n\\\u003eYou hated every millisecond of it, and you hate every millisecond of this.  \n\\\u003eEven 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.  \n\\\u003eEvery 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.  \n\\\u003eThe flashlight completes the last few degrees of its scan, and, finding nothing, hunts further down the keelway.  \n\\\u003eThe both of you sigh with relief, and the next thing you know you're resting a little on each other's shoulders.  \n\\\u003eWhitney's paw is still on your ribs; no doubt she can feel your heart beating.  \n\\\u003eShe must, because she moves it to your shoulder.  \n\\\u003e \"You don't like heights, do you Cap'n?\"  \n\\\u003eShe 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.  \n\\\u003eThrowing vanity to the darkness below, you wrap your free arm around her waist and hold her perhaps a little tighter than you ought to.  \n\\\u003eShe seems to understand that pretty well.  \n\\\u003e \"Well I ain't 'gonna let you fall, so take it easy.\"  \n\\\u003eHer grip is remarkably steadfast, and you're glad to have it.  \n\\\u003eAs the guard wanders further down the walkway you let your voice raise a little.  \n\\\u003e \"How the fuck are you so good at this?\"  \n\\\u003e \"Climbed a lot of trees; broke a lot of bones. Besides, you ain't my first acrophobe.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Well don't go spreadin' it around, huh?\"  \n\\\u003eShe taps your shoulder.  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eThen another.  \n\\\u003eYou don't recognize them at first.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eSharp, hollow pops that ring metallically through the walls.  \n\\\u003eBut then a string rattle off like firecrackers, and you hear shouting in the background.  \n\\\u003eTwo and two come together very suddenly in your mind.  \n\\\u003eGunfire.  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eHe bashes his way through the door and another chain of fire erupts.  \n\\\u003eYou glance to Whitney, but she's already sizing up the rigging for a route back to the hangar.  \n\\\u003eTo your dismay, she lets go of you.  \n\\\u003e \"You can do a pull-up, right cap'n?\"  \n\\\u003eCome on, she doesn't think you're a total pussy, does she?  \n\\\u003eYou nod hastily.  \n\\\u003e \"Then follow me, 'n follow close. Do what I do, and don't look down. Got it?\"  \n\\\u003eBefore 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.  \n\\\u003eSuddenly you're glad you went through a bit of a fitness phase as a teenager.  \n\\\u003eSure it was mostly out of insecurity, but maybe not everything insecurity makes you do is such a bad idea.  \n\\\u003eYou really should have stuck with that, but you suppose now is as good a time to get back into it as any.  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eBy the time you're to your feet she's already dangling from the next, tail brushing across your nose again.  \n\\\u003eSo you jump again.  \n\\\u003eAnd again.  \n\\\u003eYou strain a little harder each time, but she scarcely seems to tire.  \n\\\u003eProbably helps that she couldn't have weighed much over a hundred pounds, but you wouldn't have thought she was all that strong either.  \n\\\u003ePerhaps 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.  \n\\\u003eFortunately the next leap lands you back atop the bay, and it's an easy drop down to the keelway again.  \n\\\u003eYou and Whitney debate silently with each other in front of the door, but you don't hesitate long.  \n\\\u003eIf there's any chance of finding out what the fuck is going on, this is it.  \n\\\u003eYou crouch and scuttle your way through the door.  \n  \n\\\u003eA thick perfume of brass and spent powder flavors the air and picks at your tear ducts until your eyes water.  \n\\\u003eThe cigarette guard is crouched behind the railing wall, rifle slung in his off hand with its butt in a pile of brass.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eHe 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.  \n\\\u003eThere's fear in both of their eyes, but the fallen man's are mistier.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eThere's a desperate, pleading glint in them.  \n\\\u003eSomething deep inside you flops like a landed fish as you dodge behind a crate for cover and draw your pistol.  \n\\\u003eWhatever 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.  \n\\\u003eIn a quiet moment you hear her whimper.  \n\\\u003e \"Holy fucking shit.\"  \n\\\u003eHer voice is weak and sickly.  \n  \n\\\u003eA trio of rounds crack over your heads, and then another rings the railing like a gong.  \n\\\u003eYou hear her gasp even as your ears set to ringing, and she huddles tightly against your shoulder, the revolver trembling in her grip.  \n\\\u003eShe's pressed close enough for you to feel her pulse surge under her fur.  \n\\\u003eIt's at least as fast as yours.  \n\\\u003eBut 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.  \n\\\u003eEvery time you start get a good look, Whitney grabs you by the shirt and pulls you back down.  \n\\\u003eOne 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.  \n\\\u003eIt's soft and warm and for a wonderful second it doesn't feel like you're being shot at.  \n\\\u003eBut you press on, and bit by bit you piece the room together.  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003eYour 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.  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003eMafia, you guess, though you suppose it could be anyone.  \n\\\u003eBut who else, and what the hell would they be after?  \n\\\u003eWhat did they know that you didn't?  \n\\\u003eWas it drugs?  \n\\\u003eWhitney would have smelled them, wouldn't she?  \n\\\u003eYou'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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou'll have to descend the stairs, cross the bay floor, and then climb up again.  \n\\\u003eAt least there's a way out over there.  \n\\\u003eYou've already burned through a good portion of your day's allotment of bravery, though.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eTaking stock of what's left, you crouch and check on Whitney. She's panting like she ran a mile.  \n\\\u003e \"How you doin', Kid?\"  \n\\\u003eShe just nods, the look on her face not inspiring much confidence.  \n\\\u003e \"We're going to have to cross--\"  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003e You squeeze her paw.  \n\\\u003e \"Then follow me, follow close, and do what I do.\"  \n\\\u003eFunny how saying that almost makes you feel like you have the first idea what you're doing.  \n\\\u003eThen the gunfire dwindles again, and you leap around the corner.  \n  \n\\\u003eThe stairs are steep and slick with dew, and in your haste you might have slipped once had Whitney not caught you.  \n\\\u003eMuch 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  \n\\\u003eYou'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.  \n\\\u003eBut they've got bigger problems than loose crew now, don't they?\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou'll have to take that risk.  \n\\\u003eSo you run, the smoky air driving needles into your eyes and burning your lungs as you gulp it.  \n\\\u003eYou count each footfall, and each round that cracks by or glances the ground by your feet.  \n\\\u003eSeven of the first and five of the second, and then you're in cover again and you've got Whitney by the paw.  \n\\\u003eYou press your back into a crate while you catch your breath.  \n\\\u003eWhitney's right about how solid these things are. Even when you throw your weight into it it doesn't budge.  \n\\\u003eWhatever it is, you're glad it's there.  \n\\\u003eParticularly as the gunfire picks up again, though you can scarcely hear it anymore.  \n\\\u003eBut you have to make another run, and then another.  \n\\\u003eSo you grab Whitney again and move.  \n\\\u003eTwenty paces, and then another fourteen.  \n\\\u003eNine rounds at least, but you're pretty sure you lost count.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eEither way the both of you are still breathing when you clamber up the stairs on the far side.  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eJudging by the light jostle and shimmy you've been feeling in the deck, you'd guess they're mooring crews.  \n\\\u003eThose must be some brave motherfuckers, even under the cover of dark. Now way in hell you'd go out there.  \n\\\u003eOf 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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eYou do your best to suppress it as you reach the outer railing and lean for a look in the crate.  \n  \n\\\u003eFrom this side of the truck you notice a body you hadn't seen before.  \n\\\u003eHe's slumped back against the rear window, glassy eyes staring blankly at the half-loaded cask.  \n\\\u003eIt'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.  \n\\\u003eIt looks to be dull and vaguely metallic, but that's not what stands out to you.  \n\\\u003eIt's that his hand is all fucked up.  \n\\\u003eEven in the shadows you can tell.  \n\\\u003eAnd not shot, either.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eIt looks... burnt?  \n\\\u003eYou lean further, pressing against the handrail for a closer look.  \n\\\u003eYou catch a glint of light as it crosses the inside of the crate.  \n\\\u003eIt looks like the same shit, but you can't make out what.  \n\\\u003eWhatever it is, it ain't gold, and it ain't any sort of drug you've ever seen.  \n\\\u003eYou lunge for a few extra degrees, then your world shatters like some kind of crystalline vase.  \n  \n\\\u003eThen 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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eA gut-wrenching pain tears at your chest like a pack of alligators, and your ears have given up on ringing and gone outright deaf.  \n\\\u003eA moment you think you must have fallen, but then Whitney's crouched over you.  \n\\\u003eShe's shouting something at you, fangs gleaming white when she spreads her jaw wide enough to catch the light.  \n\\\u003eBut you can't hear a damn thing save a distant, aching tone.  \n\\\u003eShe's tearing into your shirt with her claws, popping buttons and ripping them out if they resist.  \n\\\u003eHer eyes are panicked, and maybe even watering.  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eBut maybe it doesn't matter, because someone else steps into your vision.  \n\\\u003eYour 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.  \n\\\u003eOne of those weird, slender, wooden rifles with the big-ass magazine in the stock, like before.  \n\\\u003eIt definitely isn't anything you've ever seen before; it has curves like a fucking dolphin.  \n\\\u003eIt doesn't seem that matters now though. Whatever you saw in that crate, evidently it was too much.  \n\\\u003eYou're almost too shocked to care, but then Whitney dodges between the two of you, and the world starts piecing itself together again.  \n\\\u003eStarting with the blind panic you ought to be in.  \n\\\u003eYou gasp for air and throw yourself against your body weight, and then gasp some more and gather your core muscles to try again.  \n\\\u003eWhatever time she bought you, it can't be long.  \n\\\u003eYou've got to protect her.  \n\\\u003eYou've got to be that guy from the movies.  \n\\\u003eIt's always just a flesh wound, right? Surely it's just a flesh wound. You've just got to get up.  \n\\\u003eDistantly 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.  \n\\\u003eAnd then another bark, and another.  \n\\\u003eYou 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--  \n\\\u003eShe's extending her paw to you, the guard turned and facing the open bay.  \n\\\u003eShe speaks again, and this time you actually hear her a little.  \n\\\u003e \"Get up, asshole. You ain't even bleedin'.\"  \n\\\u003eHer 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.  \n\\\u003eThe 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.  \n\\\u003eShe shudders under your weight but holds firm.  \n\\\u003eYou 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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eThe guard swaps his magazine and turns his attention inward, and you notice a sizable dent in the handrail next to him.  \n\\\u003eRight where you were.  \n\\\u003eA few inches higher and whatever it had been would have been right through your heart.  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eYou've got a lot of questions, but you aren't feeling particularly up to asking them.  \n  \n\\\u003eWhitney 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.  \n\\\u003eMost 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.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eWhitney 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.  \n\\\u003eYou 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.  \n\\\u003eShe smiles weakly as she settles.  \n\\\u003e \"Bet when you were givin' me all that lip this mornin' you didn't think I'd be carrying you back home that night.\"  \n\\\u003eThe twinge of embarrassment in your throat suggests she's absolutely right, but she doesn't wait for you to say it.  \n\\\u003e \"Guess we make a pretty good team though, huh?\"\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eHer smile broadens, then after a few seconds it goes slack again.  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003eYou consider that a while, silence falling again.  \n\\\u003e \"Sure, Kid, and I reckon we do.\"  \n\\\u003eShe 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.  \n\\\u003e \"I've got to know though, why didn't I get shot back there? What the fuck did you do?\"  \n\\\u003eShe shrugs.  \n\\\u003e \"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.\"  \n\\\u003e \"Same guy?\"  \n\\\u003eShe nods, a little sadly.  \n\\\u003e \"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?\"  \n  \n\\\u003e\"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?\"  \n\\\u003eShe recoils a little at that last part, muzzle pursing in a half-snarl.  \n\\\u003e \"The fuck's that supposed to mean?\"  \n\\\u003eTo your surprise, she actually looks a little hurt.  \n\\\u003e \"Nothing, I just--\"  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah, yeah; fuck you. And for the record, I do too have a vanity mirror.\"  \n\\\u003eShe flicks it out of her pocket and makes a show of straightening the fur around her ears, glaring at you all the while.  \n\\\u003e \"Then why the flask?\"  \n\\\u003eShe raises a white eyebrow.  \n\\\u003e \"'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.\"  \n\\\u003eYou..., would never have thought of that.\u0026nbsp;  \n\\\u003eActually, yeah, you wouldn't have. You seize the opportunity to return her glare.  \n\\\u003e \"Well, clearly I didn't think of that.\"  \n\\\u003eShe considers that a second, then rolls her eyes.  \n\\\u003e \"Cap'n, I didn't mean--\"  \n\\\u003e \"Yeah, yeah; fuck you.\"  \n\\\u003eShe rolls over and flicks the light off, leaving you alone with the sound of the rain and propellers.  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"Silver Lining (Archival Version)","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1349886-silver-lining-chapter-4.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1349888-silver-lining-chapter-6.json"}}