Interracial Relations

“Look!”

Kari's clear, loud voice rings out even over the blasting wind and crashing seas below. Four pairs of eyes swivel to follow her pointing hand, out towards the east, and squint to see another airship winging towards them.

Sebastean is on his feet in an instant, sword in hand, but everyone else seems pleased. When he relaxes enough to really look, it becomes clear that their fellow travelers aren't a threat.

The other airship is of Pteros design, short curves tapering quickly to needle-sharp points, and closed instead of open-decked. The canvas awning over the rear deck is pulled back as the ship, emblazoned with the name Jormungand, pulls up even with the Gantrillian. Several Pteros can be seen pulling ropes to wheel in the thick covering.

Oden signals to them with a hand motion, then runs inside to slow the Gantrillian to a hovering stop in midair. The Pteros do the same, and in only seconds the ships are alongside one another, latched together by a chain of magnets, and greetings are being exchanged.

Evan hangs back, wary. “Is that common, for people to just pull up like that?”

Aelia shrugs. “They're harmless. These are traders, though apparently Oden knows some of them from a few years back.”

“I just didn't think we were that easy to find.” Evan hasn't forgotten that they're running from Seraphic pursuit, and feels unsettled at the fearlessness with which his friends were approached. The whole situation could have been a trap.

“Well, it's like I said when we left. It's not really about hiding, it's about keeping the Seraphs out of Halfmoon. They do mean well, at least to their way of thinking, and if Sebastean isn't there, they won't lay a finger on anyone.”

“So if they were looking for us, they'd find us?”

“Oh, probably. But we have them at a disadvantage out here, so they won't jump to attack us.”

Evan is surprised to hear that. “What advantage could we possibly have out here? They can fly, I can't.”

Aelia's eyes sparkle dangerously. “Me.”

Evan peers down at the ocean a hundred feet below, teeming with enormous beasts. That's a lot of water, he muses, with a glance at Aelia. “I see what you mean.”

“Ha, I'm not sure you do. If I had the energy, I could probably flip one of those things right up onto a Seraphic airship.”

Looking at the football-field sized shark/octopus crusing along below, Evan shudders. He wouldn't want one of those anywhere near him.

The Pteros ship's crew are a cheerful, loud group of older males, the youngest being thirty-four. Evan realizes these are the oldest people he's seen on Fallen, although in fact the Seraphic soldiers he helped to fight almost a month previous were similarly aged, he doesn't know how to recognize aging in that species yet.

Oden and two of the men are laughing over some memory, and the captain of the ship is talking quietly with Sebastean. Kari flirts with the last two, leaving Evan and Aelia to examine the deck of the trader's ship. Crates litter the corrugated platform, marked with words in dozens of languages.

The captain, a man called Mearr, clears his throat loudly, commanding attention. “Sebastean tells me you're evading Seraphic pursuit. As a matter of fact, we were on our way to Halfmoon, so if there are any messages or items you'd like sent back, we'd be honored to carry them.”

He continues in a grave tone. “The Seraphic soldiers described to me fit a sadly familiar description. There's a new fringe group, and it's getting bigger every week. They call themselves the Seraphic Priesthood, and claim moral and ethical superiority over everyone on Fallen, including Seraphs who aren't involved with them. Needless to say, they're dangerous and unreasonable.”

Sebastean cuts in. “And they've been attacking people all over the planet, not just Halfmoon.”

Evan notices Aelia's look of alarm at this, and speaks up. “I thought they were only after you, for being a half-Seraph?”

“That's the run of the mill Seraphic attitude. This is new. This is bad.”

“Because,” Aelia shouts, “We don't know that these people will leave Halfmoon alone, like typical soldiers would!” She looks furious. “We shouldn't have left. For all we know, these maniacs are hurting our neighbors right now!”

“So we turn around,” Kari suggests, but Mearr shakes his head, thick spikes of black hair swishing like a mane. “Of course that's out of the question. They are after you, specifically. Apparently you've killed a number of them.”

“Eight,” Sebastean grimaces, supplying the number in question. “But that was just me.”

“All the same, you're wanted people. My advice is to go to ground somewhere instead of staying on the move. You're easier to track, this way.”

Aelia shrugs. “I'm a watercaster. Over the ocean, they wouldn't dare attack us.”

“You're one girl. We all know what it means to be right, to these idiots. They'll sacrifice a thousand of their own lives just to scratch your little finger, if they decide it matters.”

Everyone's quiet for a second, although Evan notices Kari passing a strip of paper to a Pteros man. He strains to see what it says, and sees that she's slipped him the communicator code to the Gantrillian.

“You all right, son?” Mearr asks, sounding troubled.

“What?” Evan jumps. “No, I'm fine, why?”

Aelia answers. “Your eyes. You were Channeling, why?”

“I didn't even realize it. I was just trying to read... something on a box.”

Sebastean laughs. “So you Channeled? What were you going to do, blast the words off it? Try and keep it in your pants, Evan.”

Mearr rolls his slanted eyes and continues, but Aelia keeps hers on Evan, making him feel slightly uncomfortable. She looks curious, that unique kind of curious that people look when they can't identify a strange smell.

“I advise the southern island of Nostlack. There's a very small Pteros settlement there, we're mining for Orichalcum, and you'd be welcome. I'll send word, if you agree it's a good place.”

Sebastean grumbles something about “hiding like bugs,” but Aelia tears her suspicious look from Evan long enough to nod. “Sounds good. Are you still going to Halfmoon?”

Mearr smirks. “The Seraphs dislike us enough to attack our outlying villages, but they manage to swallow their vast pride just long enough to use our ships to transport supplies. We're the best and they know it. Everything on my boat is Seraph-ordered. We'll be fine in Halfmoon.”

“Tell a Seraph boy named Syrhe that we're fine, and where we are. He's loyal to Halfmoon before Dackorec, don't hesitate to trust him. In fact your shipment is probably for his mission.”

“Figures,” Mearr chuckles, “The people they trust are the people who work against them. Never forget this, young warriors; Tyrants always unmake themselves. Mark my words, it'll be someone they've wronged personally that ends this pointlessness.”

Sebastean grins wickedly as the crews part ways again. “I'd love to.”