Falling Sky (16 page)

The words he's speaking are artifacts from another time. I can hear them, with my father's voice, his inflections, this kind of solemn weight they always carried. Like magic words from a story.

We were never really good at figuring out what day it was—either by date or by day—but every so often, we would observe the Sabbath, repeat the ritual words as our ancestors had done.

And then there was the Star of David.

My father had told me that his mother had given it to him when he was just a boy, an heirloom passed down through her family. It was made of gold, a worthless metal in the Sick but worth something once upon a time. I always thought it was special because our surname was Gold. Family names might also be worthless in the Sick, but Dad made sure ours wasn't.

He wore it all the time. Even when he bathed he had it next to his skin. I was always worried that he might lose it, but somehow he always kept it safe for all those years.

Ultimately, I was the one who took it from him.

I can still see those moments so clearly. See it gleaming around his neck, in that same moment that I saw the light of reason go out in his eyes. I didn't know that Dad had got the Bug. I don't know if he knew. But I realized, in that moment, what was happening.

I suppose I panicked. I don't even know what I was thinking. But I reached for the Star hanging around his neck and snapped the chain pulling it to me.

Then? Then I ran. I ran as far away as I could. It's a moment I relive again and again in my mind. A moment I'm still unsure of. For a long time I told myself there was nothing else to do. I couldn't shoot my father.

But there are times that I think I allowed him to live on like that. Like a thing. Allowed him to become what we'd always hated. Out there, with the ability to infect others. To hurt others. Killing him might well have been a kindness, to others as well as himself. But . . . that's not the way things happened.

But right now, with those words in the air, so much more musical than they ever were before, I can't help but feel him beside me, as if he were right there on the bench. Something loosens inside of me, some tension I didn't realize was there, and tears spill from my eyes.

I sit like that for a little while and when I open my eyes again, I realize the others have gone and the rabbi has stopped speaking. He's looking at me curiously.

“I'm sorry, Rabbi,” I say. “I'll get out of your hair.”

“No need for that,” the rabbi says, shaking his head. “I haven't seen you here before.”

“That's because I'm brand-new in town,” I say.

“That's not an insignificant achievement,” he says.

I smile a bit. “I'm well aware of that.”

“I'm going to take it from your reaction that you're a Jew,” he says.

I nod. “The last in a long line. My father, he taught me some of the prayers. I hadn't heard them in a long time.”

“Well, I'm glad you came to sit with us, then,” he says.

“Me, too.”

“We have regular services every Shabbat,” he says. “We would love to have you join us.”

“I'm not sure I'm the praying kind,” I say.

“Yet you're here.”

“True,” I say. “I just wanted . . . needed something from my past right now.”

A half smile curls his lip. “Why does it have to be in the past?”

“I just mean it reminds me of my father.” I look at my hands, clenched in my lap. “I've lost him and practically everything he gave me.”

“Surely not everything.”

“Almost,” I say. “His airship, even his Star of David.”

The rabbi frowns. “How do you lose an airship?”

“It was taken from me,” I say, feeling fire spark in me.

“Oh, I see.” He places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry. And what of the Star of David?”

I frown and look away. “I lost that in some trouble a while back and . . .” I don't tell him the rest. Don't tell him I kept the revolver and lost the Star.

He holds up a hand. “Please,” he says. “Wait here. I have something I think can help.” He shuffles off into a back room and comes back a few minutes later. He holds out his hand, and sitting in it is a coil of gold, upon which sits a Star of David. “Please,” he says again.

I look at him, surprised. “You want me to take this?”

“To replace what you lost.”

“Rabbi, I can't—” It's true it wouldn't be worth much as barter to your average person, but it definitely has value and significance.

“It is mine to do with as I like, and I would like for you to have it. Or do you wish to offend your new rabbi?”

I exhale, then reach forward and take the Star. “Thank you,” I say.

“Just consider coming back again. That will make it worth it.”

I nod. “Okay, Rabbi. It's a deal.”

“Your father would be proud of you,” he says.

“How do you know that?”

“Because he obviously cared enough about our culture to teach it to you. That you're here, that you still care about these things, well, wouldn't it please him?”

I nod again, this time more slowly. “I suppose it would.” Then I shake my head. “But what's the point, Rabbi? I don't have children; I'm not likely to.”

“You still have some time left.”

I stand up. “In this world? I don't know that I even want that. And so whatever's been passed on dies with me.”

He flashes that half smile again. “Then I suppose it's a good thing you're not the last Jew in the world.”

Then I smile. I suppose the future of the Jewish faith doesn't reside in me.

“Can I ask you a question, Rabbi?”

He says, “Of course. But let me guess. How can I still believe in God in this world? With all this going on around us?”

I wince. “I guess you get that a lot.”

“Probably even more than you think.”

“And what do you say?”

He sits down next to me. “People wonder how God can let all of this happen. The infection, the chaos, the death. They see it as a sign that He—or She, however you want to look at it—doesn't exist. That if He did, He would stop it.”

“Wouldn't He?”

“And if He did? Then what? He fixes everything for us and then what do we do? Come to depend on God to make things right all the time? People said the same in ages past. Through all the persecutions, the expulsions, and the genocides. Why didn't He stop them? Maybe it's as simple as we were given this world and allowed to act with free will in it. And maybe, just maybe . . .”

“Yes?” I ask.

He smiles, and his teeth are surprisingly clean and even. “Maybe He's even rooting for us. Maybe He still has hope because he believes in us. Wouldn't that be interesting? Maybe He wants to see us do it on our own.”

The rabbi's argument hasn't convinced me by any means, but it has given me a lot to think about. A different perspective. Here I am, expecting for someone to fix this or flush it away. Always someone else's problem. My own concern has always been survival.

“Do you have a place to stay here in Tamoanchan?” the rabbi asks.

“I'm afraid I don't,” I answer. “I wasted too much time sitting in the bar.”

“Then why don't you stay here for the night?”

“Really?” I just manage to stop shaking my head. “You'd do that?”

“I have a small room back here with space enough for you to sleep. I can't offer great comfort, but I have some soft pillows, a blanket.”

“You don't even know me,” I say.

“No. Not yet. But I'd like to. And you need to sleep.”

Have I really become so calloused from the world that I'm on the verge of refusing this offer? But my fingers run over the edges of the Star in my hand and instead I say, “Thank you. That would be a big help.”

I stand up. He stands with me and I shake his hand. “I don't even know your name,” I say.

He smiles again. “It's Naftali. Naftali Cohen.”

“Benjamin Gold,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Our people wandered for many years, looking for a home. Sometimes, though, it takes a little help.”

The rabbi gets me set up in his extra room, but before I go to sleep I step outside for a moment and look up at the sky. At the stars.

It stills me for a moment. So many tiny little specks of bright fire lighting up the night's blackness. I remember being a kid and thinking that those were all the bits and pieces of the world that the Sick blew away, hanging over our heads as a reminder of what was. It was only later that I learned they were other stars, billions of kilometers away. I've often wondered if any of those stars have planets like ours and if any of them are as fucked-up as our dear old Earth is. I wouldn't take bets.

But it's beautiful, and peaceful, and with the smell of the ocean blowing in the air, I have a moment of calm. I hold up the Star the rabbi gave me. It's different from my father's old star—the planes are a little straighter, it's a little thinner, but it's also slightly bigger. I trace its lines with my finger. Then I take the chain and carefully drop it around my neck. The star falls against my breastbone, and something clicks into place inside of me. There, right then, one more thing is right with the world.

I look back up at the stars and some of my calm fades, as if stolen by the wind. Because staring up at the sky I know how badly I want to be up there. High above the ground, high above the sea, in another world. And closer to those stars than I am now. Closer to those reminders of how life used to be.

It's then that I make the decision. What I want to do. What I need to do. No more sitting around waiting. No more losing my grip on my future.

I'm going after the
Cherub
.

I wake up the next morning feeling better, clearer, than I have in a while. I didn't even have many nightmares.

Rabbi Cohen isn't around when I get up, so I make my way out into Tamoanchan and start to look for Diego.

I don't know where he lives, or where he works, but I do know that he has a ship, the
Osprey
. So I ask around and head down to where they keep the airships. Diego is key to my plan, or at least the seed of a plan that is starting to take root in my mind.

Tamoanchan's way to keep the airships less visible is to keep them close to the ground. The area they've chosen is near a hill crowned with trees. It's a good idea. The trees provide extra cover and shadow, and with the sun in your eyes you might miss them all clustered on the ground. Of course many of these dirigibles would take a while to get up into the air if anyone was attacking, but they're hoping stealth will do the heavy lifting here. And it's a solid plan.

I scan the curves of the airships until I spot the green and silver colors of the
Osprey
.

I get stopped, though, before I get too close.

“Only authorized people can pass,” a woman says. I notice she's missing the top half of her ear.

“I just want to talk to one of the captains.”

“Then you'll have to talk to him back there,” she says.

“It will only take a few minutes,” I say.

She puts her hand on her sidearm and I back away, my hands up. “Sorry. Just . . . do you know Diego?”

She gives a quick nod. “Sure.”

“Can you tell him I want to talk to him?”

“Tell him yourself,” she says. “I think he went to the Council building.”

“Council building?”

She sighs but gives me directions. I suss that Brana isn't the only leader here on Tamoanchan. Just the elected leader. They have a Council that helps make the major decisions.

I wind my way over to their headquarters, trying to think of a way to get inside, only it turns out I don't have to.

As I approach I see Diego having an animated discussion with a tall, slender blonde woman outside the building.

“You're lucky you're not grounded,” she says, loud enough for me to hear.

With my scarf up, I get closer and duck around the corner.

“You would ground me?” Diego asks.

The other woman answers slowly. “You let a Feral get on the island.”

“I had no idea it was even there.”

“Well . . . it's just about killed your goodwill with the other Council members. Your judgment is suddenly in question.”

“Vera . . .”

“It's not up to me,” Vera says. “I wanted you to stand up for the fifth seat. I was pushing for it. But the resistance is just too much right now.”

“So you're saying there's no chance for me to stand in the coming elections.”

“Not unless you pull a miracle out of your ass.” Then, “I'm sorry, Diego.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But not as much as me.”

I poke my head around just in time to see Diego storm off. I quickly follow, giving him a decent lead but keeping a careful eye on where he's going.

In the end, he makes his way back to the Frothy Brew.