Angel Eyes
By William Vitka
Copyright © 2013 by William Vitka
The woman. She didn't have anything. That always seemed to be the problem. And when she did have something, it got taken away.
While the airships and shops soared overhead, she contented herself with nothing. On the ground. Sometimes in rooms. When she could convince owners to let her have one.
No. She didn't turn tricks. Couldn't bring herself to.
Not because she loved a man. Or any man, really. She just couldn't. What mattered, to her, was that she could look at her own reflection and not wince. Be it in a passing store window or a puddle. So far, she hadn't shied away from her own visage. She could back into her deep grey eyes and be happy with who she was.
All while dealing with the fact that there were things you loved, and there were things that loved you.
She knew two brothers. Good guys.
"True men can but try," the elder said one night while the three shared a bottle of bitter red wine. "Spose that goes for women, too," he said with a smirk to his younger brother. "Give you an extra pull on the bottle if you can name the source."
Both brothers looked at her.
She smiled. Said, "Gawain."
They slid the bottle to her.
Neither wanted to make her. Didn't work that way. They were there, and so was she. That was all. Well, the younger, maybe ... Maybe he wanted her. But he was coy and shy and distant.
Perhaps at the end of all this there would be time. Space to invite love. But not while there was so much evil above them. The Authority. Dropping trash from their bloated blimps that farted steam and ash. Sometimes they'd steal people. To serve as slaves or concubines or experimental subjects in the awful name of progress.
Her parents and brother were among those taken.
She had stayed safe by hiding. Like a coward.
She refused to be a coward anymore.
***
When the brothers thought she was asleep, she'd hear the older one say, "Figures you'd find someone out of time. I know we're freelance now, but be careful." And then he'd laugh in a hushed way while the younger scratched his head and exhaled through his nose. Looked to her with smart sharp eyes that also seemed to be so scared.
Like she'd say no.
Like she'd rebuke him.
Just bad timing. That's all.
She had things to do.
But at least the brothers were there.
And she guessed that's what mattered.
***
Black, carbon-heavy rain pelted them. Just was that way now. Polluted to hell. Whatever came from above had to pass through the exhaust of the Authority ships. Instead of cleaning the city, showers made everything filthy.
Not that the streets ever seemed to be clean.
Life on the ground, even if you were one of the lucky few to secure a shelter with four walls and a roof, was brutal. Ugly. Oppressive.
Most people slept in the streets. In alleys. Or against the war-ravaged remains of buildings. They were protected from the elements by crawling into wooden shipping crates. When none could be found, cardboard would do. And the next rung down was to bury yourself in newspaper. Then hope it didn't get too windy.
She and the brothers lived in a dead-end alley. They propped scraps from shipping containers up to give the alley a poor roof. Under it, they slept in separate cardboard boxes. This was their lovely "shit shack," as the elder brother called it.
The name stuck.
"I want to kill everybody in the world," she said.
The younger brother locked eyes with her. Squinted. Didn't quite believe her. Wasn't sure how hard she was. He said, "Hell of a thing to say. You might still have kin on this rock. Consider that."
She exhaled through her nose. Glanced around. Glanced at the black dew sitting around their ramshackle shit shack. Glanced at the other shit shacks that cluttered the alleys. At the puddles in front of and behind the cardboard boxes they slept in. At the monstrous, tall apartment complexes all falling over. Falling apart. She looked up to the glowing, floating dirigibles full of powerful people.
She wondered what horrors her family had been subjected to.
She glared at the younger. Squinted the way he did with calm, cool, killer eyes. Avenging angel eyes. She met his gaze. "I mean it."
The younger nodded.
An old man passed by the mouth of their alley. The man dressed like he was worse off than most. He dragged along a young girl. Maybe nine. She wore a small stained sundress. The old man coughed. More and more. He fell to his knees. Horked up something crimson and thick from deep inside his lungs. He dropped the little girl's hand.
The little girl smiled. She started running away, realizing she was free.
This is us, whether we like it or not.
The elder brother brought over a steaming packet of rice and beans. Some military survival meal he'd stolen from one of the docks that refueled the blimps. It was wrapped in flame-resistant packaging so it could be heated right over a fire. He handed it to the woman.
"Carbs are good for killing," the elder brother said. "Keeps you going."
She took it. Asked the brothers, "Don't you two need some carbs?"
The younger brother hefted a bottle of whiskey and winked at her. "Carbs."
***
"We can't go with you, but we can get you onboard an Authority vessel," the younger brother said. "Able to arm you, too. At least give you the tools."
She didn't bother asking why they couldn't – or wouldn't – come with her. She knew.
Wasn't their fight.
But she was grateful for the help they'd given her.
"Thank you," she said.
The younger brother looked at her. That nervous waver in his eyes. Like he desperately wanted to say it – the it all young men fear – but he was scared. So he didn't say anything. And neither did she. Both young warriors let the thought hang there between them like smoke in a closed room.
The younger broke the moment by handing her a sheathed combat knife. Two old copper syringes full of adrenaline shots that'd help her stay on her feet if she was beaten up too much. A set of goggles that would protect her eyes from the brightness of the sun up there above the smog.
The elder brother strutted up to them. She noticed the massive six-gun on his right thigh. A brilliant, silver machine meant to deal death. She wanted it, but would not ask. She knew from the way he wore it, and the way his hand hovered over it, that the gun was his.
He tossed her a long brown trench coat. "Recyled from sofa coverings. It'll help you blend in with the Authority fuckers." He tossed her a stopwatch on a long chain. "Hit the button once, that primes it. Hit it again, you've got five seconds until it goes boom." He tossed her a wide-brimmed hat. "Keep that hair of yours under control." Last, he handed her a heavy, sawed off, double-barrel shotgun inside a leather holster. "Wear that on your thigh so that the wood grip is about level with your hands when they're at your sides. Might need to pull fast." He smirked. "Don't say I never gave ya nothing."
She said, "Ammo?"
The younger reached off to the side. "Yeah." He handed her a thick bandoleer. "Only twelve shells. All we could scrounge. Use em smart."
She nodded. Started to tear up a little. Felt her eyes get wet. She sniffled. Happy. Happy because these two guys wanted her to succeed. Happy because she might finally be able to go after the Authority.
The elder brother put his hands on his hips. He closed one eye at her. Grimaced. Still not convinced she was hard enough.
He walked out to the mouth of the alley. Into the pelting, carbon rain. Where the old guy was in the process of coughing away his life. He made a gun shape with his index finger and thumb. Cocked his thumb slow. Aimed it
at the old man's head. He dipped his hand to his side and suddenly the big revolver was there. He cocked it. Aimed the death machine.
"Even now," he said. "Even here. We're all happy when a pedo gets sent along." He pulled the trigger. Thunder rang out. The old man stopped coughing. Stopped moving.
The elder brother looked back down the alley. To her. He lit a cigarette. Said, "Kill now, cry later."
***
The three walked in a triangle. Through the detritus. Through the human waste and filth. They cut a swath through what remained of the underclass. Gave packaged food to families who had nothing. The brothers beat the faces of men caught hurting women and children.
She asked, at one point, if the violence they were bringing to already broken men was necessary.
The elder didn't look up from the bloody mess he'd made of someone's face.
And the younger said, "We can't abide them going gentle."
She said, "Dylan Thomas." Sighed. "You can make a lot of excuses if you try. Especially between the lines of poetry. But everyone here's already suffering. Why bring more misery."
The elder said, "This from the girl on a mission to end the lives." He dropped the man he was punching. Stared at her. "I can see what he likes in you."
The younger winced.
The elder said, "Morality is what you make of it. Don't blink. Especially if you've set yourself up as a killer. What we're doing is scaring the shit out of anybody down here wants to do wrong. You want the same thing, just on a higher level. So don't bullshit me. You want to do what needs doing? Do it."
Her lips became a straight line. She spat into the rain.
The younger brother looked at her. Almost pleading. Said with his eyes, Don't challenge him. You know he's right. And if you go for that double-barrel at your thigh, or that knife on the side of your boot, then that's all folks, because he's too fast for you. Not because you're a girl. Because he's been doing this for so long.
She nodded.
The younger handed her a flask he had hidden in his brown trench coat.
The three drank together for the last time.
***
They watched the airship come down. Sleek and shiny. A fat pearl lined with metal. It wasn't one of the big ones. Nothing anybody lived on. Just a patrol skiff in for refueling. Change of guard, maybe. Hell. Didn't matter why the thing was docking. All that mattered was that it was.
"That's your ticket," the younger said. "Brother'n I'll help with resistance. You get on board. You'll have a few minutes before they realize something's up. So haul ass. Get close to Capital ship Delta. The one with blue ribbons. The science ship. Their prize. That's where they're experimenting on people. And you jump. Do not dock. Jump and roll, then make your way through."
She had no idea how the brothers always knew what they knew. Smart and sneaky.
As the younger brother said, they'd been at this for a long time.
She watched a handful of Authority goons strut off the skiff. They wore tight brown cargo pants with long brown jackets. Had goggles and devices over their mouths called rebreathers – portable air purifiers to keep the upper class and 'better' humans from inhaling the shit air down on the ground.
Her fingers played over the wooden handle of the sawed-off.
The elder said, "I can take care of the six off the skiff. They're dead. Just don't know it yet. But I need one of you to rush the control room at the dock. Other to get on board. Suppose you two know who gets each job."
She and the younger brother nodded.
***
The elder brother stepped out into the street. Casual. Biding his time.
His boots clacked against the broken stone.
One of the guards stationed at the dock noticed him.
He kept walking. Just strolling. Head down in the rain.
When the guard finally called out and held a hand up to stop the elder brother, it got loud.
The elder was a blur. She didn't even see him draw. His hand was empty, swaying by his side. Then it was up and aimed. He fanned the hammer of his monstrous machine. Six rapid-fire claps of thunder rang out. Six Authority guards dropped. Each one's goggles shattered by high-caliber hell.
She and the younger brother ran. Her with the combat knife out. Him with a crowbar up and ready.
The younger hit the first guard standing outside the control room across the face. The impact drove metal and glass into flesh. The guard dropped screaming. And the younger responded by slamming the hook of his metal tool into the guard's eye.
He headed into the dock's control room. Hopped a short copper fence. He gripped the guard inside by the throat under the chin. Grabbed him before the bastard could pick up the oblong radio microphone. He heaved up with his legs, spun the guard around, and punched the man's head and spine into the ground.
Snap. Crackle. Pop. No more guard.
The radio squawked. "Auth-421? Auth-421 respond. We have reports of gunfire."
The younger grabbed the mic. "Hi. Hello."
"Auth-421. What's going on there?"
"Nothing. We're fine. We're all fine. How are you?" He shrugged. Said to her, as she jumped onto the skiff, "Saw it in a movie once."
She let herself laugh once, hearty, as the younger smashed the radio with his crowbar.
She waved to him. Throttled up the skiff's controls.
He waved back.
The elder put his hand on his younger brother's shoulder.
Both smirked as they waved goodbye to her.
She shouted, "See you, cowboys."
She decided she'd make it back. No matter what.
***
The skiff steered like a boat. It operated on buoyancy. Light, but floaty, and it felt heavy in the controls. Even grounded her whole life, she managed. Brought the thing up into the clouds. Above them. Where the sun was.
Ye gods.
The sun.
She'd never seen it before. The bright orange sphere that blinded. She put her goggles on to protect her eyes.
She'd never seen the bright sky, either. The real sky. With its Maxfield Parrish clouds all churned up like the foam of waves.
It took her breath away. That there was this beauty here. Waiting just above the filth and grime and blood and pain of the ground.
She looked out onto the Authority fleet. Ships bobbed like white bubbles in a blue ocean. Austere airships that housed a civilization's upper classes. Government. Celebrities. Scientists.
She shook her head. Cleared it of pleasant thoughts.
She was up here for a reason.
Find the Delta ship. Guide the skiff to it. Jump. Hope the skiff hit something important.
And there the fucker was. With its flapping blue ribbons.
She turned the rudder. Punched the throttle up. Felt the ducted fans along the skiff's side hum and throb. The ship shook.
On cue, security ships noticed her. They changed their course to intercept.
"Come on, you bastards," she said. "Chase me."
They did.
She found herself ducking reflexively as bullets from their rifles bounced against the ship's wood and copper. Ducked more as the bullets ricocheted and punched holes into the glass around the control room she was in.
The guards finally got smart. Started putting holes in the air sac holding the skiff's gondola.
She pulled back on the rudder, forcing her ship to head up. Trying to give herself some time before gravity and quick-leaking gases could set her down.
She was so close.
But the ship wasn't going to make it. So she pushed it up, as high as it could go while losing both steam and gas. When it reached its apex, she pushed it farther still. Wanting only to glide on the air and get her as close as possible for the jump.
Bullets screamed by her head. Glass shattered.
She leapt.
She tried to grab for her hat as it flew from her head, but failed.
The skin of the Delta airship's inflated shell
got closer and closer. She was falling into it. She unsheathed the combat knife from its place on her boot and drove the blade through. She wrapped her hands around the handle and held herself. Allowed the friction of the long cut to slow her descent.
Above, her skiff plowed into Delta. There was a terrific screeching of metal as it plunged deep between the folds of the airship.
She dropped onto the platform below and smiled.
If nothing else, the Authority had lost its prize.
Delta would never stay airborne.
She laughed and slapped the brass railing of the platform.
***
Of course, this meant she didn't have much time, either.
Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.
***
She spun the radial lock on the outer door. It hissed. A hot burst of steam exploded from the hinges.
Inside, klaxons screamed. Emergency calls went out over the ship's radio.
Delta was going down.
Get to the emergency dirigibles. Evacuate. Get out. Get out now.
"Blah, blah, blah. This thing's gonna be in flames before you have a chance to do anything," she said aloud to nobody.
She found herself in a long hallway. All blue steel with perfect pear-shaped bulbs housed in copper and brass. Everything puked steam. But it was clean. Industrial. Efficient looking.
Men in white lab coats ran. Hollered. Frantic.
She grabbed one. A young man with a defined nose. Panicked eyes. Splotches of blood marred his apron.
She yelled into his face, "Where do you keep the experiments."
He squealed, "What?! Who gives a shit about them? We need to leave. Now. Now now."
She pulled out the shotgun. Thumped him across the nose with it. There was a crack. The kid in the lab coat was trying to catch his own blood as it cascaded down. She said, "Tell me. Now now."
"Oh gob," the kid squirted. "Gob wha th'fug. Do lebels down. Cender ob da shib."
She said, "Thanks." Then thumped him across the nose again.
***
It was worse below decks.
An abattoir. Old blood caked the walls. They seemed more maroon than blue-steel. A nightmare where the underclass was stripped and tested on. A nightmare where people were still screaming, even now, while Authority goons rushed and ignored them.
She made her way. Cautious. Saw signs painted in block letters that read: