Thistle in the Sky | #NONC2022 | ✔

Chapter Ten

Nightfall found Farah pacing the Ariomma's catwalks with the restless energy of sleeplessness. Exempt from watches thanks to Jhaṛa and Baskoro's reluctance to let her anywhere near the gondola, she was required only to do her job and to stay out of the crew's way, a running order that usually implied a curfew. However, Farah knew her chastisement would only be lukewarm if she was confronted. Few people on the ship felt the urge to play power games with a thistle.

Farah threw a longing glance up one of the ladders to the top of the envelope. Aside from her twice-daily trips to chase off suckerfish and mend the damage the Tideless left on the ship, the Ariomma's topside was now out of bounds. Even the ship's lookout position had been moved to the gondola after Arief disappeared. Without someone on top of the envelope, it was a token gesture. Lookouts in the Tideless watched for pirates, predatory or suckering fish swarms, sky-whales that could knock an airship tail-over-gondola, and other unfriendly vessels. At least two of those knew to approach from an angle that couldn't be seen from a gondola, and the rest did far less damage with advance warning.

Farah was tempted to climb the ladder regardless. The ship's interior was claustrophobic, and the lure of the night sky was as powerful as her desire to escape the lurking shadows of the catwalks. Every lightbulb-flicker made her squirrelly. A still-crowded mindspace did not help. Gemi had orders to remain in the radio room, where she forsook her cot and fiddled with the equipment to take her mind off of Arief. Jhaṛa too was awake—not unusual at this time of night—and Baskoro was on watch in the navigation room. Farah probed his mind several times, but found nothing of use.

The last crew members still awake were second-pilot Dumadi at the helm, and Esfandiar. At the moment, the latter was loitering in the mess hall. Farah kept her attention on him warily. Like Jhaṛa, Esfandiar's mind was the opposite of Baskoro's clear, well-formed thoughts. Where Jhaṛa's were simply too fast to follow, however, Esfandiar's were arguably not thoughts at all. He "thought" in blunt impressions and strong emotions that made telepathy feel akin to trying to identify curry ingredients by sight alone.

Right now, that was especially the case. Each pass within range of Esfandiar's mind hit Farah with a powerful impression of herself, and the accompanying emotions were not pleasant ones. She suppressed a shudder. He was still stewing about whatever Baskoro had prevented him from unleashing on her today. The temptation to move out of range was strong, but though the length of the ship allowed it, she did not feel safe taking her attention off the man until he was safely asleep.

He did not go to sleep.

Of the people still awake on the ship, Gemi retired first, so exhausted, her thoughts had become little more coherent than Esfandiar's. Jhaṛa went next. Now Esfandiar was alone save for the crew members on watch. Farah tensed as he began to move. There was an intentionality to his mind that she did not like at all as he sauntered to Jhaṛa's cabin and stopped outside it. He was listening for any sound inside. When none came, his satisfaction was tangible right through his thoughts.

He was not going after the captain; that much Farah could tell. His thoughts were orange like the catwalk lights, and even as Farah tracked him, he stepped away from the cabin. He began to climb the stairs towards her.

Farah's paralysis shattered. She bolted down the catwalk to the first upward ladder and scaled it like a spider. When she reached the axial catwalk, she skulked along it, glancing over her shoulder even though Esfandiar was still on the keel catwalk two stories below. She couldn't let him see her shadow. With the translucent gasbags and catwalk lights ready to silhouette her without remorse, that ruled out every route except towards the tail of the ship.

It had to be intentional. Esfandiar passed the crew's quarters and kept walking without a pause. He was not prone to nightly wandering. Farah reached the backup control room at the rear of the ship and crouched in its doorway in an attempt to wrestle her breathing back under control. Her heartbeat hurt. She couldn't stay here. Esfandiar would arrive in minutes at his current walking pace.

She could hide, or she could slip out in a different direction. Bolting back along the axial catwalk was an option she considered now. It would let Esfandiar know where she was, but she was faster and more nimble than him: she could lead him in an endless loop through the ship's catwalks until one of them grew exhausted. But Farah knew that one would be her. Esfandiar had the stamina of a diesel engine, and unlike Farah, he always got enough to eat aboard the ship.

Running was not an option. Hiding might be, but another probe of Esfandiar's mind revealed his intent. He would search every inch of the backup control room if he did not see her take the catwalks. He was out to get her. He would not stop until he found her, or until the morning came. Farah threw a desperate glance back the way she'd come. She could run to buy time to figure out a strategy. Or she could run and shout for help.

She didn't trust anyone on the ship to help her.

Fear—real fear—leaked like tar through Farah's body. Half the crew would take Esfandiar's side. Farah stood no chance if they hunted her together, and Baskoro and Jhaṛa might turn a blind eye. They could tell the authorities she died in an accident. Erase all records of her existence. Even if the authorities suspected a cover-up, nobody would investigate the disappearance of a thistle.

But more than all that, the thought of Kaz getting involved skewered Farah's chest like a knife. If he knew she was in danger—if he heard her cry for help—he would try to protect her. To intervene and deescalate the situation. Esfandiar was past the point of deescalation. He would kill Kaz, or take him hostage and torture him to secure Farah's cooperation. It had worked against her before. It would work again.

The risk of danger to him was just too high. Farah would have to act in self-defense, and she would have to act alone.

She did not want to do so in the backup control room. Her eyes flicked to the wall, where a ladder ran up to a ceiling hatch. Esfandiar was still half a minute away. Farah unfroze again and bounded up the ladder. A twist of the hatch handle yielded a promising click, and a sharp check from her shoulder knocked it wide. Farah leaped through into a maintenance access room for the ship's gargantuan tail-fins. Its other door led outside.

The hatch didn't lock from the topside. Farah shut it quietly, then grabbed the other door's handle and fumbled with the latch. It too clicked. She yanked the door open and filled her aching lungs in a flood of sea-salt air. Freedom. But she needed boots. Farah scoured the pairs lined up beside the door until she found her size, donned them, and slipped out through the door. She shut it behind her just as Esfandiar reached the backup control room below.

He hadn't heard her leave. She had time.

Farah backed away from the door. There was no time for a safety harness, but even if there was, she wouldn't take one. The boots would keep her safe so long as she didn't jump. Still, Farah cursed the way they slowed her down as their magnetic soles kept her anchored to the metal mesh beneath the Ariomma's skin. There was nowhere to hide, and no way to run. Farah drew her knife and moved to the middle of the envelope, where she crouched, counting to ten and back to calm her frayed nerves. She had nothing to do but wait.