The Skies Beneath Us

0 - Arrival (Pilot)

After three hours, the silence becomes deafening. No one talking, no music, not even shuffling. Everyone silent. The only sound being the drone of the engines; with them playing the same buzzing tone constantly, it is more than enough to drive someone insane on its own. Combined with the inhuman silence inside, and the very uncomfortable seating arrangements, it became unbearable.

The only consolation came in the form of a small port-hole slightly offset from my seat. Through it, the scenery outside leisurely floated by; clouds of all shapes and sizes passed beneath and above. The sun shone low above the horizon causing the normally blue sky to burn in harsh oranges and dark reds and, as time went on, it became visually clear that it was morning with the motions of our world lifting the sun higher into the sky reverting the fire-like colours back to the cyan default.

It was nearing the end of the third hour, with the sun now firmly planted moderately high in the sky and my restlessness -along with that of the other passengers- becoming abhorrent, when my destination drifted into view. First, the very top of the huge central tower of the Administration building poked through a break in the cloudline. Next came the rest of the imposing tower. Floor after floor emerged from behind the wall of clouds; some still lit artificially from the night prior, others gleaming in the morning light. Multiple landing platforms dissimilar only in application and occupation hung, suspended by both thick cables and steel supports, from the uppermost levels of the building to provide private mooring for those of importance and power.

Finally came the platform on which it stood. And what a platform it was. A floating artificial island of steel and plastic suspended just inside the cloud line acted as the foundation for the tower and surrounding buildings and warehouses that dotted its base.

The gleaming whites and light greys of the entire ensemble reflected the morning rays in a simultaneously majestic and imposing manner. The deep blues of the huge sloping windows adorning the sides and tops of the taller buildings complimented the lighter cyan of the surrounding sky giving the structure a natural look. Overall, the island glowed like a beacon, resonating the wealth that it was built on.

It was a huge contrast to the dull, dark and rusted metallic colours of the Airship I was in.

My attention was abruptly refocused from the window on my right to the front of the seating area by the sound of boots on metal piercing the silence. I wasn't the only one who noticed as everyone else sat in boredom mirrored my actions to witness the arrival of our team lead.

Appearing from the shadow of the bulkhead, standing at 5' 11" above her seated audience, was Ray Carter. A Terran woman, born to a family of farmers in Texas, she was the first in a streak of 16 generations to not take up the land; instead, she left Terra behind as soon as she could for reasons that still escape me.

Ray was completely armoured. Her entire body was entrapped by layer after layer of worn, scarred and reinforced protective plating and exoskeletal machinery; ammo and deployable explosives were wrapped around her torso, waist and over her right shoulder; a single, smooth, opaque plate forming her expressionless helmet fully obscured her face. Her attire was clearly intended for operations on the hellish surface, and I was very content in letting those operations fall into her hands rather than mine.

When she was certain that she held the attention of those present, Ray lifted her arms up, the enhanced exoskeleton jumping to action to assist against the weight of her armour, and removed her helmet with practised ease. Her now unmasked blue eyes scrutinised her audience. And, for the first time in over 3 hours, speech was heard inside the airship.

"We're here. Kit up; be ready in five."

And with that, she left. The only sound heard after those eight words were the retreating echo of Ray's boots hitting the metal floor before that too faded when the bulkhead resealed. It was silent once again; that was, of course, until those present fully emerged from their catatonic state of boredom and set to work readying themselves for the mission ahead.

I too began to sift through my belongings to gather my equipment; coms, my pistol and ammo were all that was needed, but I was never one stop at necessity. Fuelled by paranoia, twenty Taskirn dollars, my binoculars and a borrowed portable integrity field generator also found their place inside the varios pockets and pouches on my person.

"You won't need those."

The sudden voice and its proximity sparked reflex before I was fully aware of who spoke. Instinctively I placed my right hand on my holster, ready to grab my pistol if need, whilst outstretching my left arm in a pitiful attempt to stop any advances from anything hostile.

All I was met with, however, was laughter.

"Haha, sorry man, didn't mean to scare ya there."

Relaxing as the familiar voice and offensively disarming smile was gradually registered by my admittedly sluggish conscious, I was able to dedicate resources to shooting Johnson Nova, a close friend, a mock glare.

"I hate you, John."

"Pft, I try." John replayed, dismissively waving his hand. "But, seriously, most of what ya packed is gonna end up as dead weight."

He was right, of course, at this moment paranoia was the only reason I over packed practically useless items. But I still had my reasons.

"I know that there isn't any intended combat, but, you never know. Plus they're 20 years ahead in tech and they have the people and resources we don't hav-"

"Let me stop ya there." John interrupted, raising his hand to stop my hastily constructed excuse. "This is a stealth mission; you're paranoid. Overreactin'."

"It may be paranoia now, but when it's needed, it's called hindsight." I replayed, briefly smug at the poetry of my words; but that was short lived.

"Yeah, whateva'." John replayed, dismissively waving his hand for the second time. "Just, remeba', you're carryin' that."

With a friendly pat on the shoulder, John turned and set off back to his designated seat on the other side of the compartment; however, with a quick raise of my hand, I caught his attention.

"Was there something you wanted, John?" I inquired.

He wasn't one to simply walk up to someone for the sake of it. He always had a reason; whether it was to ask a question or to crack a joke, he had his motives. When I asked him, a brief, almost unnoticeable emotion flashed across his face, before he reverted back to his usual cocky smile.

"Nah, just came over to say 'hi'."

And with a simple wave, he walked the last few paces back to his seat. I watched him leave with a critical eye; the way he talked, his gait and stride, it just wasn't him. Something must be on his mind, but it would have to wait.

We have a train to catch.