6. The Flight of the Hawker #2
It strikes me that Drake always seems to be one step ahead of me. I try to tell myself that’s a good thing.
“Oh, he’s terrible when he’s in one of these.
Asleep in seconds. I’d love to ink a moustache on him one day.
” Cosmer’s tone has a hint of – oddly – something like affection.
It’s like he’s talking about someone’s grandfather falling asleep in his oatmeal, not a sky captain sleeping on duty.
There are things at work here I don’t understand.
Maybe Drake notices it too. His mouth has become a fine line. But he doesn’t say anything.
We’re travelling quickly now, over more of Hevalla and villages that look identical to ours.
Squinting out of the window, I ask Cosmer, “How can you tell where you are? It all looks the same to me.”
“A combination of things. These are telescopes.” He jabs a thumb at the small brass objects by his head. “And you get to know the shapes and colours of countries and bodies of water when you’ve been flying over them long enough. I go by the sun, moon, and stars, too.”
Drake scoffs under his breath.
But Cosmer hears, and spins around. “What was that for?”
Drake speaks coolly. “The correct answer to that question is, you go by your compass, your maps, and the coordinates you’ve been given. What would your officer have said, if he’d heard you just then?”
Cosmer’s face contorts. “Are you high or something? I am an officer.”
“Is that so? Hevalla’s army really is getting desperate.”
Cosmer faces the window again. His words, which are said cheerily, sound forced. “Now I get it. You were a ship’s comedian! That’s great. We could all do with some more laughs.”
Drake sits straighter, his fists in his lap.
I decide I need to cut in before anything else is said.
“Okay. Let’s all just calm down for a second.”
My choice of words irks me. I sound like their mother.
But what choice do I have? I have to put a stop to whatever this is.
My words work. For a moment, there’s only silence.
But it’s taut. The machine has been hot this whole time, but it’s like we’re now being steamed. My clothes are clinging damply to me. The back of my neck is tingling. And I’m very aware of the smell in the cramped space, which is an oppressive combination of leather, metal and men’s sweat.
Drake leans forwards again, looking at the control table.
“You do not need so much thrust,” he says flatly. “You will fry your lasers.”
Cosmer whirls around again. His face is vaguely starting to match the colour of his hair.
“You know what?” he spits. “Why don’t you just have my seat? You clearly know all there is to know about ships.” He pulls a lever forcefully, only half-looking at it. “And hey, why not just eject the rest of us idiots while you’re at it. You’d be doing us a favour at this point.”
I stare at Drake. There’s a fire waiting to light in his eyes, like a spark has been let loose, as he says, “I won’t need to eject anyone if you keep ragging your lasers. You will kill us all just fine.”
Within the space of two seconds, Cosmer completely lets go of the ship’s wheel, and I watch in horror – shriek – my body on a precipice, as he grabs Drake by the collar.
“Who in Cosmos do you think you are?” he yells.
I’m yelling, too. “Cosmer! The wheel—”
But he’s not listening, and his voice drowns out mine.
“Are you not aware of the situation you’re in? You’re a prisoner of war. Nothing. No one. Rhavnan scum.”
“Dezeeves!” I cry, grabbing his shoulders from behind and shaking him. “Dezeeves, please get up!”
Why won’t he wake up?
The ship is shuddering in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.
Cosmer loosens his grip, just slightly. Looks at Drake sideways. With –
Recognition.
“Wait. I know you! You were on the Dragoness, weren’t you?” A dangerous smile creeps across his face. “I saw you. You were the one running with those other soldiers, while the rest of your crew were fighting for their lives. For their country! You…” He’s gleeful. “You’re a deserter. A coward!”
It's like I blink and miss it – the moment Drake gets up, out of his seat and leaps at Cosmer, throwing repeated blows at him. He avoids or blocks every one and gets in a swing of his own. His fist collides with Drake’s nose, drawing blood, before they crash into the control table.
Drake pins Cosmer there – and Cosmer stops fighting back. Stops moving. From shock?
I’m suddenly very aware Drake is, at surface level at least, much stronger than him.
He could kill him.
I give up on Dezeeves.
“Let go of him!” I yell, hoarse. I fly out of my seat to try to pull Drake off him – but something stops me, and my hands drop to my sides. I can’t seem to get any closer. Has my fear got the better of me?
“Drake, stop!” It’s like the sound is being ripped out of me. Like it’s my heart that’s there, on that table.
But Drake is immoveable. I’m reminded of when I resuscitated him. The effort it took to pound his chest.
He raises his fist.
Cosmer watches it coming, his big brown eyes wide. He’s so still. Motionless.
But then he rolls to the left, and the blow Drake would have aimed at Cosmer’s head smacks hard into the table. The whole ship lurches. Cosmer takes the opportunity to duck under Drake’s arm and grab him around the neck from behind. Drake thrashes. I don’t think he can breathe.
The whole time, the ship shakes more, and faster.
And then I feel it. My stomach dropping. My head reeling. The sensation that we’re falling, falling, falling.
I recoil away from them. Curl myself into a ball on the floor between the seats, my hands over my ringing ears as I scream.
I wait for death.