The Wastelands (Part II of the Runner Series)

Chapter 6

I last visited the airship hangar during my street thief days, when I had snuck into the Palace airfield with an aim to disarm the army's flying behemoths. My knowledge of the impressive ships' innerworkings are based solely off of what I recall my brother, Frye describing to me, enough that I was able to locate the lines that feed the helium and sever them. The airships were grounded for a week after that stunt, delaying a shipment of drafted Commoners into the Wastelands.

The memory of the life I lived before the rebellion causes a smile to pull at my lips. I trail my fingers against a length of rope pinning a hovering ship to the ground, scarcely believing that not so long ago walking amongst these beasts was to risk my life.

My eyes flick up to the backs of the soldiers striding ahead of me, led by Will. Once again I am distracted and trailing behind. It seems strange that I spent five years of my life working alone, surviving purely by my instincts while scheming and plotting my way around the monarchy, that I now find myself following the orders of a queen and a commander, marching along with a troop of soldiers.

I scuff my feet against the ground, wondering what my past self would think of who I have become as of late. Would she scoff at the plush bedroom I sleep in and mock the way I am ordered around?

I catch up with the rest of the troops at the airship nearest the end of the building. The soldiers are standing at ease, conversing with each other in low voices while a couple of hangar workers roll back the canvas flap of the hangar, making way for our ship to lift straight up into the air. For now, our ship, Phoenix, sits patiently and I hang back from the group, craning my neck upwards to take in the sight.

The airship glints silver in the afternoon sunlight, draped and crossed with the thick ropes used to secure the enormous helium-filled cavity to the wooden undercarriage. I last saw an airship this close on the day of my near-execution, when Will and the rest of the rebels rappelled down from above and into battle with the Palace guards.

I rub my neck absentmindedly, recalling the cold touch of the axe as it grazed my skin. Being held down over the executioner's block, too weak to fight back while hundreds of people looked impassively on is a memory that will likely never release it's hold over me. There are still nights that I awake in a cold sweat, believing myself to be trapped below ground at the mercy of Harmen, the King's head Inquisitor. On those dark nights Will holds me, whispering assurances until I stop trembling and my heartbeat returns to normal.

I watch Will now, standing at the front of the group and discussing matters with the pilots, looking over the airship, gesturing and asking questions.

I bite my lip as I watch him. He looks so confidant; I can sense the implicit trust the soldiers have in him as they wait patiently for his orders. Will has fallen into his role as commander seamlessly and while I couldn't be more proud of him, there is a part of me that twists with the ugly and unfamiliar threat of jealousy. He seems so sure of himself, his place in the world and what we are doing while I struggle to understand my own purpose.

Meg is a queen, Will is a commander, but what am I? No longer a thief, not quite a soldier, not a leader nor a follower.

Someone nudges me, breaking through my thoughts.

"Have you ever been in one of these?" Marc asks, nodding towards the ship.

I shake my head. "Never flown in one, no. Have you?"

"Just the one time."

"Right, of course." Marc was one of the rebels rappelling down into the courtyard on the day of the rebellion. "It's safe, isn't it?"

"As safe as you can expect a wooden box floating in the sky to be." He grins at me.

I smirk, glancing around at our fellow soldiers. "It's a smaller group than I anticipated." We are a group of ten soldiers plus two pilots, pitiful really when you consider that a typical airship can hold at least a hundred people.