Chapter 1: Crack

Locke looks like a thumbprint smudge with her brown clothes against the cream sky from where she stands at the ship's railing. She sniffs in a deep breath and says it's going to rain, and we all know what that means--that we'll be working until the storm has dissipated completely.

The Helichrysum isn't a ship formatted for anything spectacular and instead is more like our leader, a Jack of all trades who hasn't bothered to master any of them. Whoever has the most money has our loyalty, and with recent build in New London, the Faction is paying out the nose for energy gatherers. We all tossed in coin, and Locke fitted the Helichrysum with energy gathering nets that overlay the dome with a chain link look. The thick, clear dome above the deck keeps us with our feet on the ground and even our heads out of the clouds. Besides, with the atmosphere the way it is up here, no one needs to breathe the pollution, and smoking, though Locke does it, is forbidden to the rest of the crew for our health.

"The nets are up and the ship is idling. We have only one coal worker shoveling to keep us afloat." I don't want to interrupt Locke's thoughts, but this is information she requested of me an hour ago when we first spotted the dark cloud. I oversee the speed of the ship, controlled by a coal burning furnace. Despite controlling the speed, I don't control where the ship goes--that job belongs to Locke's other go-to boy, a tall man with lanky arms and legs whose job keeps his lungs much more clear than mine.

She doesn't say anything because she doesn't have to. She's still smelling the air, and I wonder if I watch her long enough if I'll see her tongue flick out between her lips like a snake's. Her shoulders are hunched like she can feel the static in the air around us, and while she's only commanded over three other lightning gathering missions, we are quite sure that she can read the moods of the weather.

"Shouldn't you go to your cabin, Captain?" I suggest. The deck is the most dangerous place to be during a lightning storm. All hands on deck make sure the net doesn't snap and release the lightning anywhere other than our collection tanks down on the third floor of the ship, the same floor a where we keep the coal and furnace. Me and a few other grunts that usually shovel coal will stay on deck. We all know that if something horrible happens during the storm, we'll be drawing straws to see who gets to wear the jet pack outside the ship to fix the problems, lightning snapping around us and storm trying to blow us off course. Everyone thinks this is dangerous, but so is breathing soot day in and day out, and I have an incessant cough that's getting on my nerves. Lightning strike would be a good way to die, quick and painless and not filled with blood coming from my lungs, which seems to be a new fear of mine--like I needed more up here.

"Ready, Rocket Boy Finn?"

Locke speaks and it startles me. I hadn't expected her to say anything to me, much less to tease me. It seems I always get the short straw.

"I'm going to stay here," Locke says. When I look around myself to see what she means, she clarifies, "On the deck," with an annoyed tone that suggests I should've expected her to offer her services to me.

"Are you sure, Captain? You know it's dangerous," I say.

The small sigh that Locke emits quickly is like a cat's hiss; it's a warning that further prodding will only end in pain. "Forgive me, Captain. I won't question you anymore," I say.

I still don't have to stand beside her and hold her hand. I join the other coal fellows, all six of them, as the sky turns from cream to a deep gray. The sun is sinking, and it's hard for me to tell whether the sky is getting darker from lack of sun or because of the storm. There are no stars or moon out tonight, so I guess it's the storm. Locke seems to know with her hunched shoulders and nose poked to the dome of the ship.

The rain starts before the first fork of lightning splits the night in half. It's far off, but Locke steps away from the dome to join us. I keep my back straight in defiance. Locke is tall and I push my chin up so that she's a couple inches shorter than me. Without any urging from Locke, the ship's driver turns so that the nose of the ship heads towards the last lightning strike. The thunder rolls over the ship in waves and rocks us with jolts. Anyone not on deck or doing their job is probably tying their belongings down in their rooms and praying they survive.

The closer the lightning gets, the more shallow my breathing becomes, and Locke's closeness doesn't calm me in the least. She, like the other men at my side, are pulling their tinted goggles over their eyes to keep them from burning out of their sockets. The first piece of lightning that hits the dome sizzles over the net and illuminates the deck in an electric white. I am sure that those in the town blow can see us glowing.

A metal rod atop the ship draws more lightning towards us, shocking the net and blinding us even with the goggles. I want to rub my sore eyes and crawl into bed but instead I try to take elongated blinks while looking over the surface of the dome for problems.

"There!" a man calls. He points to a crack in the dome near a portion of the net.

"If it cracks all the way through--"

I don't want to listen to the 'what ifs.' We all know what happens when we're caught in a storm with no dome for protection.

"Rocket Boy!"

I turn to face Locke who has quickly retrieved the rocket pack. She shoves the heavy pack into my arms, and the other men respond quickly. I push it onto my back while they hand me a small bag of sand and a tube of glue. Locke is tugging at the leather straps of the pack and tucking them around me so tightly I'm sure I'll feel the straps later in the form of bruises.

"Go!" I don't know who issued the command, or even if it was my own voice, but I press the button on the rocket pack and zoom up towards the dome. I've flown many times with the pack, but it always takes some adjustment. I almost run into the top of the dome before I lessen my touch on the button and come down into hover mode. Leaning my abdomen forward and kicking my legs back, I glide over to the crack, growing larger by the moment. From this range to the net, my eyes are burning from the brightness like two small fires in my skull. I concentrate on the crack, pushing glue from the tube into and around the crack. Atop the glue, I press liberal amounts of sand, holding it for seconds until the glue hardens and dries.

Seconds move into minutes, and I finish my task, though my fingers are glued into a knife form covered with sand, and it'll take hours to wash off. I can hear the whole ship collectively sigh as the crack is solved temporarily and I descend to the deck.

"Tori, move on!" Locke calls to the driver. "Our collection tank is full!"

In other words, we have no need to linger in the storm. I am more than happy to unsnap the straps and let the heavy pack fall from my back to the wood below me. I want to collapse, too.

Locke holds out her hand to me, and I take it. The other coal workers scramble to pick up the remaining sand, glue and pack and put them back where they belong. The air clears the farther we get from the storm, though the thunder rumbles behind us, reminding us of what we're trying to escape after foolishly jumping into it.

Locke's face is stoic, and her eyebrow is raised. "What?" I ask as I try to take my hand back.

"Your hand is glued to mine," she says, lips thin. I can tell she's trying to keep her cool.

I look down to our joined hands, hers pressed against my dominate hand that was covered with sand and glue moments ago--and now covered with Locke.

"... sorry." I still smile. It's too funny not to.

Locke's lips curl into a half smile. She doesn't laugh, but I can tell from the jovial look in her eyes that she thinks it's funny, too.

"Let's just fix this," she says and drags me into her cabin. "Come on, Rocket Boy," she says. I pretend not to hear the hoots of the coal shovelers behind me.