Chapter 4: An Experience Beyond Hope

Diving to the nearest base level, Bjorn hastened toward the docks. A crackle in the morning breeze flowed through the air. Another storm was near. Citizens clustered under shelters, taking cover from what could come.

Massive long-sloped loading ramps descended in a spiral wave toward the outer edges of Kabutar. Hand trimmed by the city’s best carp-masters, the buoyant Oxygen Infused tube-vines could have taken any shape necessary, but the lower ramp’s design encouraged walking rather than floating. According to Bjorn’s father, Below’s air pressure made it impossible for Airbornes to hold aloft by pectoral alone. Thus, he needed to practice walking on unaided leg muscles.

Horns signified the air fleet’s arrival. Departure would come quick enough. Even here on the outer edge of Cloud, some rain could fall. No one cared to labor in such slime.

Hurrying along, Bjorn soon reached the dock’s bottom level. While angling away from the ramp, he noticed a garden focused around a cluster of wilted OI floater vines drifting in a patch of low-growing bog algae. In need of a fresh infusion of caddisfly larvae, the sagging plants stank of soured garlic. A host of mauve-tinted spores hovered above a nearby lifeless yellow-slimed worm bed. Too much rain was drowning the worms and smothering the vegetation.

The techistorists called for more insecticides, traps, and wraps. The arborist argued for trimming limbs, thinning the canopies, and controlling specific areas of Cloud. They said Mother Tree was under the attack of a parasitizing fungus; she needed more sunlight.

Reasonable Airbornes rejected such foolish chatter. Mother Tree was self-sustaining, immune to aggressive insects, and capable of repelling dangerous fungi. Besides, what idiot would risk opening Cloud to excessive sunshine.

The Ancients offered a more reasonable explanation for cause and effect, a rare phenomenon called Seasonal Changes. It made perfect sense, but the heretics continued whispering tales of dried-out leaves, broken limbs, and seeping sap.

Whatever caused the strange happenings, the Voice of Untruth grew bolder by the day. No wonder a rage was within the clans.

—

Dozens of air-ships lined the petrified red-alder docking slips. Anchored and connected to the centralized windmill-powered turbine station by graphene charging cables, the ships topped off their internal banks of miniature lithium-ion batteries. For days now, families, tradespeople, and other individuals had been traveling between the nests.

Holiday seasons stirred people to visit relatives, search out temporary jobs, take tours, or enjoy the opportunity to view the Capital nest. None other than guards, shipmates, and upper-class citizens wore HB mantles. As a rule, cruise ships deployed Rand Solar shielding screens throughout. Freighters and the like only offered deckhands limited temporary protection. Most lower-class nest travelers booked passage on ships with HB-controlled passenger compartments and remained inside until the journey ended.

Varied activities cluttered the dock. Some Airbornes floated on their back, face-up, praying towards the east, chanting to the morning breeze. They pleaded with Ava, the supposed goddess responsible for keeping Mother Tree safe from the dreaded infections of ancient times. Others were busy maneuvering lift-oriented machinery and wheeled containers. Aside from the odd occasional scent of soured fruit, Bjorn believed Mother Tree was adjusting to a new Seasonal Change. The theory made perfect sense.

On the horizon, airships tacked towards the sky harbors of Kabutar, materializing by the moment and growing more extensive as they neared. Although crafted out of oxygen-infused lumber, the ships deployed hot air balloon systems for additional lift control. Even maximum OI-infused wood lacked sufficient buoyancy to float unaided when outside Cloud’s buoyancy field.

Ancient machines manufactured the balloons and other necessary sailing materials. The durable substances required superior cutting and shaping; tools for the work came as another product of the old machines. A cover of Rand Solar shielding stretched over the balloon system and most decks and gangways.

Merchant and cruise ships took to the southern docks. Military vessels came in from the north, displaying ‘Mair’ flags in white on blue cloth. Bjorn floated higher for a better view; his father commanded the federation fleet. Watching the Captain descend the docking ramp stirred Bjorn’s pleasure as well as his pride. It meant that Dad was home. But the vessel with the rectangular secondary flag always came in at the rear and was not yet in sight.

Merchant’s started off-loading supplies. Pack volitans and other winged workers swarmed the decks, gathering messages and lightweight packages. The cruise ships lowered ramps, and hordes of passengers came ashore.

The military vessels arrived, some berthing and others hovering in offshore guard formation. Then came Amera, identified by the secondary flag designed with stars on blue and red strips underscored by the ship’s name. Bjorn eased to the surface and stood still, supported by the strength of his short spiny legs. Let Dad see and know that his son was sturdy enough to travel in Below without taking to the air.

Taller than most males and sporting substantial pectoral fins, Bjorn’s father wore a custom-designed HB shroud. The white, blue, and laced shades of modulating colors were specialized to reflect wealth, power, authority, and dignity. But it was not the uniform that made the Captain—instead, the individuality of Radoon Gydlin gave the uniform a Captain’s authority. Looking on, Bjorn felt a swelling in his lateral tail fold. No one trifled with his father.

Then the silk merchants arrived. They were here because Captain Gydlin had brought silk garments from Garia, one of the more significant craft cities. Waving them to discuss further dealings with his assistants, Captain Radoon Gydlin walked down the gain plank and soon stood face to face with Bjorn. Two guards, maintaining a length for privacy, trailed in behind his father.

“Are you ready, son?” He greeted Bjorn with a tap of his caudal fin.

“You know I am, father.” Bjorn smiled but restrained from showing great emotion before others. His legs were beginning to hurt, and the caudal greeting from his father had almost caused him to lose balance. Still, he refused to float.

His father laughed while winking his spiracle. This promise of a visit to the surface for Bjorn’s fifteenth birthday had been long in the coming. “Now, son, you must keep one thing in mind.” Although his tone implied unembellished conversation, his eyes sparkled with joy. “You’re coming along to observe. Our surface world behavior may seem odd at first, but give it time. One day you’ll understand the reasoning behind our methods.”

“You have told me this earlier, father.” Bjorn rippled his rear spiracle. “I’ll avoid troublesome questions.”

“Good.” The Captain glanced at the ships, nodded once, then smiled at Bjorn. “Now that’s out of the way. We have a little time before we leave. Are you hungry?”

“I plan to eat surface food,” Bjorn said. “If that is acceptable?”

His father laughed out loud. “You will indeed taste their gritty slop, Bjorn; I suspect no more than once. But we have a long day ahead of us, and a journey through unfiltered sunlight goes harsh on the body, HB-cloaks or not. You will need strength. Let us also eat before departure. Take a load off your legs. Let’s drift over to the eatery.”

Bjorn grinned. His dad had noticed.

They went to an off-trail diner, a lower-level place with gray, thorn walls and open-table roosting. Near the front, a few shabby tanks of submersibles reeked of neglect and decay. Further in, shadows gathered beneath a canopy faded to the murky gray of rain clouds—even the potted tube-trees stank of rot, weariness, and death.

Bjorn watched his father appraise and then ignore the cluttered environment. Maybe the diner had a reputation for great food, or perhaps the Captain was making a statement. Either way, they took a roost and settled for service.

The Captain ordered: Fresh oysters, bloodworms, and a side of algae snails. The food tasted decent but a bit stringy and far from fresh. They chased it down with squeezed clam juice.

The pallid yet callous local clientele chatted beneath their breath, barbs sometimes quivering with a dangerous rattling sound. Bjorn glanced at the guards, a comfort in such a disturbing place. Not that his father couldn’t deal with danger. Bjorn knew how often the Captain trained in the arts of physical combat. Indeed, when alone and unobserved, Bjorn also practiced using the battle gear.

Although many questions tugged at his thoughts, Bjorn’s expectations of the near future left him speechless. Staying quiet might nudge the captain into taking control of the conversation. It did not happen. Bjorn’s father spoke in idle chatter as if something more severe than usual preoccupied his thoughts.

By the time they returned to the docks, the ship’s crew had unloaded the silks and were now busy loading trash into the holds of the Amera. Pack volitans and their carrier pets would deliver the packages. The rubbish, Bjorn had read, would be dumped over the barrens west of the surface colonies. Some of the workers loaded garments, customized air filters, and fermented Cloud dew. Rumor had it that walkers used the filters to brave discovery within the barrens, using the intoxicating drink for courage along the way.

Drift-walking near his father’s side, Bjorn stepped foot on board his first airship. Beneath the Rand Solar shielding canopy, the vessel employed a double-balloon lift system customized for ships used for surface visits. The dual-lift design enhanced airspeed while enabling better maneuverability and reliability. The bow's forecastle reared above the upper deck and promoted improved visual of external and internal conditions. Although open on all four sides, the Rand Solar shielding topped the Amera from bow to stern.

At last, he thought, an experience beyond hope