Flying the Storm

20.





Engineer

“You boys isn’t gonna believe this! Tell them where you was today, Hammit! Tell them what you told me!”

Hammit fidgeted with his spoon. He hated attention. Why he even told Morley… Maybe if he ignored him, he’d go away. Everyone knew that Morley was as twitchy as a garbage fly.

This time though, Morley was determined. He sat down across the table from Hammit, looking at him like he owed him something. Hammit kept his eyes on his slop. He stirred it with his spoon. Today it moved like axle grease: Cook was probably in one of his moods.

Other folks sat down with Morley. A couple sidled up to Hammit, and everyone looking and expecting.

“Tell them!” whined Morley.

Hammit finally looked up. A row of oily faces looked back at him, all eyes and streaky creases. He sighed through his nose.

“I’m eatin’” he said, shovelling a spoonful in. It was salty and meaty, in that order, as usual. There wasn’t much to chew on, but he chewed anyway, just wasting their time.

“Oh come on, Hammit! You got to tell them why you was late for slop!” Morley looked about ready to strop. “Well if you won’t, I will!”

Hammit waggled his spoon. Go on.

“Fine ‘en. I’ll tell you.” Morley looked around at his audience. “He was in the H-A-M.”

Gasps and mutterings. Somebody asked. “The High-Air Mess?”

“You gotcha!” exclaimed Morley, pointing at the asker. “The High bleedin’ Air Mess! And you know why he was there?”

Nobody did.

“Only ‘cause a bleedin’ commander has taken likes to him!”

More gasps.

Hammit glared at Morley. “I just fixes his craft,” he said.

“So you does, so you does. But why you, Hammit? You is a sub-deck greaser. Why is you even allowed on the hangar deck with the flyboys?”

“I knows his craft,” replied Hammit. Why was he even talking? Damned Morley.

“Naw, naw, naw. That ain’t the whole of it. Ain’t no reason you’d know that craft no better than a hangar-decker. Naw, you keepin’ somethin’. You keepin’ somethin’ from us, Hammit.” Morley eyed him crookedly.

“I don’t owe you nothin’,” said Hammit.

“Aww, Hammit, we all your friends here! We’s interested, s’all.”

“Well you c’n go interest in somethin’ else.”

Morley drummed his fingers on the table. He looked round at his audience. A sly smile twitched on his face. “You know what I reckon,” he said. “I reckon that commander’s got the shine for you, Hammit. I reckon you actin’ his cabin boy!”

Everybody was laughing. Everybody except Hammit. He pounded a fist on the table. Everybody shut up.

“I saved his life!” he shouted, his face warm. He wasn’t supposed to tell anybody. Curses on you, Morley.

Morley looked triumphant. Everyone else was stunned. “How’d you do that?” somebody asked.

Hammit breathed out through his nose. “I found a sabotage on his craft,” he said.

Some folks gasped. Morley’s dumb smile had been wiped off. Even he was shocked. Folks muttered. Hammit went back to stirring his slop.

“Someone put a sabotage on a commander’s craft?” asked somebody. Folks leaned in closer.

Hammit nodded. “Little ‘splosive on the ‘nol-line. All set up so that so much ‘nol had to go past ‘afore it went bang.”

“That’s cold,” said one of the listeners. Folks nodded and muttered it was so.

“He reckons it’s someone wants his job,” continued Hammit. He didn’t know why he was still speaking. Folks never normally paid him much mind.

Folks nodded at this, grunting. It made sense to them. Only Morley still looked confused. He leaned forward. “I still don’t ‘stand, Hammit. You ain’t told us what you was doin’ up on the hangar deck a’ first place!”

Hammit didn’t reply.

Morley’s eyes widened. “You’s tryin’ to get transferred! You think you’s too good for a sub-decker!” Folks were getting angry.

“No, Morley, I just…I just been helpin’ up there in my free times!”

“You piece o’… That’s where you been slinkin’ off to whenever there’s a lull! I lost count o’ times when I say ‘Hammit, pass me that-’ or ‘Hammit, lend a hand with-’ just to find you ain’t there no more! You sneakin’, slinkin’ piece o’ work.”


“A man gets bored with piss all to do!” yelled Hammit, defiant. Morley would not get the best of him.

“What you lookin’ to get transferred for, anyhow? We gets everythin’ a greaser could ever want, right here, in the sub-deck. We works, we get our slop, we get chits for the whores and a dry bunk! What else you want, Hammit?” Morley cried. Then he lowered his voice. “You too good for us? That it?”

“Not better than these folks, but I’m sure as shit better than you!”

Some folks laughed. Hammit felt good saying it. Morley looked black-affronted. He was fuming.

“You watch it, Hammit,” he growled. He stood up from the table and stormed off out of the mess.

The folks at the table moved off on their own ways too, leaving Hammit with his slop. He felt pretty good, showing Morley up like that. Nosing bastard deserved it.

He shovelled in a spoon of slop. It had gone cold, but Hammit didn’t care.

That night, long after the shifts had changed, Hammit lay wide awake in his bunk. He was tossing and turning, too cold without the blanket and too warm with it, and all the time his mind was running like an open valve. If he still had any chits, he’d have gone to the brothel. Best thing for it, if you can’t sleep.

It was that cursed Morley that had wound him up, he knew. That damned, no-good, pick-prying Morley with his “you think you’s better than us” jabber. Why did it matter to him, whether Hammit was transferring or not? Morley was the laziest son-of-a-bitch in the whole of the D deck, maybe even all the decks, so what exactly was riling him up so bad about somebody moving up? Folks had done it before, Hammit knew. Sure, he could understand if folks were left with a whole load more duties to cover, but everybody knew that the D deck was full of extras not pulling their weight. Extras like Morley, who might actually have to start doing some work if Hammit moved up.

Hammit smirked in the dark. That explained it then. Morley was afraid of having to get off his lazy ass.

Did Hammit feel bad for Morley? No. It’d do Morley some good to start lending a hand now and then. Might even put some muscle on his scrawny bones. Maybe he felt a little bad for the other folks on the deck, since they’d have to put up with the bitching and whining, but it wasn’t going to change Hammit’s mind. He’d been up on the hangar deck for the first time since he’d been drafted. He’d smelled the ‘nol on the fresh wind and he’d even seen the sky through an elevator hatch. After that, there wasn’t anything could talk him into staying in the sub-decks. He was a changed man. He was a hangar-decker.

A piss. A piss might help him sleep. Hammit rolled out of his bunk and tramped along the corridor towards the head.

The steel was cool on his bare feet. It was nice, but it wasn’t anything like the breeze on the hangar deck. When he felt that on his face and cutting through his overall… It made him remember things. Things from before. Things he didn’t even know he remembered. Now he fearsome wanted to feel it again.

His piss rattled pleasingly in the urinal. Hammit closed his eyes and imagined he was pissing outside, off the edge of the ship. How far would it fall? Where would it land? Would it land at all?

But then, the outside was dangerous. The Gilgamesh was the only safe place left. Folks on the ground had all gone mad: only brave folks like the marines and the flyers could go land-side. They were trying to fix things, bit at a time, chasing the savages and rescuing folk and such. The Chaplain said that it was still a war of sorts, even though the big war was supposed to be long finished. Far too dangerous, he said, for soft folks like the engineers.

Still, Hammit itched like he’d never itched before to see what it was like out there. He didn’t know why it hadn’t bothered him until now. There wasn’t even a porthole for three decks up or down, so maybe it was like they said: out of sight, out of mind. He’d been fine and happy for years, not even thinking about the outside, working for his slop and chits. He had everything he’d needed, but in the last few days that had changed. Something was missing, though he still couldn’t figure what.

Done and dry, Hammit turned to leave the head. There, in the doorway, was Morley. On his face was a smirk, and in his hand was a shifter-wrench. Hammit froze.

“What you doin’ up, Morley?” said Hammit, eyeing the shifter.

Morley just snarled, and came running at Hammit. Hammit jumped aside; the wrench whistled past his head.

“Morley!” he shouted, “You be careful Morley! I’m bigger than you!”

Morley took no heed. He swung the heavy wrench at Hammit again, so hard that he lost his balance when it missed. Hammit saw his chance and took it, dragging Morley headfirst into a cubicle wall. Something cracked, and Morley yelped.

“Dammit Morley! Don’t make me hurt you!” Hammit was getting angry. What right did Morley have to start on him?

Morley rubbed his head and spun to face Hammit, hunched and showing his teeth. He didn’t say any words, just screamed from his gut and threw himself at Hammit again. Hammit tried to get out of the way, but his foot slipped in something wet and he fell onto his back. Morley stood over him, and lifted the wrench high. Hammit flinched and covered his head.

Then there was the loudest bang, loud as a rupture, and Morley went floppy. He dropped the wrench and staggered back into the cubicle wall, sliding to the floor. Blood was smeared all down it. Morley wasn’t moving any more.

A hand grabbed Hammit and pulled him up. Hammit couldn’t stop looking at Morley, just sitting there all limp and still.

“Engineer!” said the man behind him. Hammit only barely heard.

“Engineer!” shouted the voice, louder this time. “Commander Petrus needs you on the hangar deck.”

Hammit turned around. The man was taller than Hammit, dressed like a flyboy. He was tucking his gun into its holster. “Did you hear me, Engineer?” said the man.

Hammit nodded.

“Alright then, let’s go.”

The flyboy walked out of the head. Hammit followed to the door, but couldn’t go further without looking back at Morley. He was dead, that was for sure.

Poor Morley, dying in the privies. Nobody deserved that, not even Morley. It was no place to die.

Hammit followed the flyboy back through the corridor, past the engineers’ bunks, where a gawping, muttering crowd had gathered. They went quiet when the flyboy passed them, but still stared gape-mouthed at Hammit. He grabbed his boots as he passed, pulled them on quickly and kept moving.

“What you done, Hammy?” said someone. Hammit said nothing. Everything seemed unreal.

The flyboy led Hammit to an elevator. Inside, he risked a look at the man who’d killed Morley. His hands were crossed behind his back, and his face showed nothing. If he was feeling even a bit bad about Morley, Hammit couldn’t tell. These flyboys were cold killers.

The elevator doors slid open with a hiss and the flyboy led Hammit out onto the hangar deck. The air was cool and smelled of ‘nol. Hammit couldn’t help gawping at all the craft lining the sides of the deck, lit by the bright lights in the dark metal ceiling. He’d been up here a few times now, but every time he was just as amazed at the number of craft.

There was nobody around, it seemed, apart from by one of the craft: Commander Petrus’s craft. It was being fuelled and checked by a big team of engineers, inside and out. Belts of shells were being fed into the forward and tail guns. A trolley of supply boxes was rolled up the ramp into the craft: rations, water, medical supplies.


Hammit could tell Petrus was leaving for a while.

Commander Petrus came onto the hangar deck by a side door and walked over to the side of his craft, where Hammit and the flyboy were standing now.

“Thank you, Arkwright, that will be all,” said Petrus. The flyboy nodded and left.

For a minute, the commander and Hammit just stood and watched the deck crew work.

“I would like you to check her over after they have finished, engineer.”

Hammit nodded. “Yes sir.” Now it was making sense. Petrus trusted Hammit to check for sabotage.

When the crew had finished, Hammit started checking the aircraft. He knew the manual inside out, so he checked all of the places he would have sabotaged, if he’d had the mind to: the ‘nol tanks and lines, the control surfaces, intakes, landing gear.

He took a long time to finish. Hours, it could have been. He found that when he was concentrating on the job, he stopped thinking about Morley. His shocked face, the little squeak he made as he died.

Hammit did a thorough job. Everything seemed to be fine. The craft was as spick as if it was brand new. Hammit told Commander Petrus so, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Good,” said Petrus. “Here.” He tossed Hammit a folded bundle. “We shall leave soon, then.”

Hammit looked at the bundle. It was a flight suit, thick for warmth. “We, sir?”

“Yes, you are coming with us.”

Hammit couldn’t believe his ears. “In…in the aircraft, sir?”

“Yes, in the aircraft,” replied Petrus tersely. He was already walking towards the door.

Hammit stood, dumbfounded. He was going in an aircraft. He would get to see the outside. Suddenly he forgot all about Morley.

By the time Petrus returned, Hammit had put on his flight suit and was standing proudly by the aircraft. Petrus had three men with him: a lieutenant and two armoured marines. Hammit eyed the big marines warily. He remembered the brutal fights that sometimes broke out on the common deck, over a whore or a spilled drink. Engineers did not come out of those fights in one piece.

Hammit clipped himself into his seat: just behind Commander Petrus’s. One of the marines sat next to him, behind the lieutenant. The other marine was strapped into the tail gun turret. Hammit could hardly control his excitement. He was going to fly.

The craft rolled forward, led automatically along a floor track to an aircraft elevator. There was a thump as the wheels were locked to the elevator. Then, with a shudder, the aircraft began to rise towards the ceiling. Hammit stared upwards through the big cockpit canopy. The craft’s engines started with a whine.

Then the huge iris door in the ceiling began to open. It started as a little hole of dark blue in the black metal, which got bigger and bigger until it filled Hammit’s vision, now scattered with little white points of light. Stars. The word was old to Hammit, from another time. How he knew it, he couldn’t remember.

But it didn’t matter. He was looking at the sky.

The elevator reached the flight deck. It stopped. Hammit could see Commander Petrus flicking switches. The sky was everywhere now. Far away, Hammit could see it touched the dark ground. More little yellow lights flickered in patches in the black.

The elevator started moving again, this time spinning slightly to point the craft into the wind. Through the headset, Hammit could hear Petrus talking to someone on the radio. The engines started to roar at Hammit’s sides. The wheels let go of the elevator with a thump, and the craft rose into the air above the deck.

Then Hammit felt the weight in his back as the craft pulled him forwards, leaving the lights of the deck behind as it sped off into the night.

He was looking at everything he could. The sky, the lights on the ground, the soft glow of the displays.

“I suppose you’d like to know where we are going, engineer?” said Commander Petrus’s voice over the intercom.

“Yes sir,” said Hammit, watching the stars.

“We are going far to the north to look for something very important to my superiors, something that they are very scared of, for God knows how long.”

“Yes sir.”

“Your job, engineer, is to keep this craft working, no matter what happens to it. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” said Hammit. He’d have done anything Commander Petrus asked him to, right then. He grinned like a madman in the dark. He was flying.





- Echo Three, say again.

~ Command, I am staying with the infantry.

- Echo Three, this is not advised. Your position is about to be overrun. Beaucoup hostiles converging on the ridge, east and north-east. Proceed to evac point immediately.

~ Negative, command. Won’t leave them to die.

> Three, get your ass down here now!

~ Can’t do that, One. You know I can’t. They’ll all die here.

> Jesus Christ, Martins! It’s what the infantry are for!

- Echo Three, all high-value assets are leaving the area. Dust-off in sixty seconds. Proceed to evac.

> Command, requesting permission to join Echo Three on the ridge.

- Negative, Echo One, we cannot risk the assets.

> My hands are tied, Martins. You’re on your own.

~ I know, sir.

> Volatile is on, Martins. It’s all or nothing now, friend.

~ Thanks, sir.

> Give them hell.

~ Roger that, sir.