The Elementalist

20. Hangar 12

Hangar 12Well past the military checkpoint now, Voi pressed her palm to the car window as the shining structure she’d spotted before rose into full view. It was a hangar—one meant to house not one, but two great airships. Several more structures were spaced out in the distance even farther than the eye could see. “Does the captain own all of this land?” Voi asked of anyone who would listen.

“Not likely,” said Troy. “Most, if not all of this property belongs to the Borellian Aero Corps.” Or, as it was colloquially known, the Aerokorppa.

Milia offered drolly, “Considering the notorious hubris of Neverri, he probably believes he owns the land. The man still insists that his employees and the press refer to him as ‘captain,’ after all, despite the fact that the war and his service in that rank have long come and gone.”

As conventional gossip would have it, ‘Captain’ Andre Neverri was filthy rich though also rather eccentric, causing many of his elít equals to shun him from their social circles. As such, the man took to a life of solitude, forever hard at work on his next great aeronautical invention.

It all started after his wife, a mysterious woman, hailing from no town of any particular distinction, fell victim to a mysterious condition for which there was no known cure—catatonia, the papers often suggested—restricting her to confinement at a private facility in order that a decent quality of life might be preserved. Other rumors suggested that the woman had gone insane and Neverri was in denial, attempting to hide the truth.

Under the charge of Borellian honor, the captain refused to consider euthanasia or a divorce. Instead, he continued paying his wife’s institution bills and declared himself ‘available’ under Borellian polygamous marriage laws, which had previously been enacted to promote population growth after the Trysteese g******e. To this day, the captain continued occupying an entire mansion alone—save for his house servants, that is. And though Neverri was known to court the occasional fine lady, not a single one had been invited back to his grand estate since his wife’s illness came to be.

Voi scoffed at the idea of this local tale. The Borellians do love their myths and legends. Instead, she focused on the scene ahead. They were arriving at Hangar 12, it seemed—one of the smaller structures meant to house aeroplanes. Voi sunk in her seat with a huff, disappointed she would not be seeing one of the captain’s famed airships.

A few other vehicles were parked beneath an auxiliary shed beside the hangar. Men wearing flat caps and grey coveralls, bearing the Neverri company logo stitched onto their left breasts, walked around freely or stood about idly. Driving past the large hangar doors, Voi noticed two soldiers standing on guard with their rifles. Two more were posted near an adjoining lean-to at the side of the hangar.

Troy pulled up behind a small procession of cars, and they patiently awaited their turn to receive instructions. An official stopped them with a raised palm then approached Troy’s side with a clipboard beneath his arm. He motioned for Troy to roll down his window.

A chilly gust flew in, causing Voi to shiver in the backseat. Troy glanced up at the tall man, who peered back at the passengers while shielding his eyes from flying dust. “Names, please,” said the Borellian in accented Windi, drawing out his ‘S’s.

Troy began with an air of decorum, “We are here by courtesy of the League. I have with me Special Envoy Milia Furlan,” the woman lowered her sunglasses to the tip of her nose then raised them again, “and the AAC’s candidate test pilot, Miss Voi Román.”

Voi smiled and waved.

“We were told we’d be joining the aero corps liaison, Colonel Snipes, upon our arrival.”

The official scanned the list of names on his clipboard. Eventually, he nodded then backed away, pointing them in the direction of the parking shed. “Pull forward, please.”

Troy rolled up his window then half glanced over his shoulder as they proceeded. “Well, that was easy.”

Milia scoffed. “What were you expecting, Troy, for him to drag us out of the car for a frisking? We aren’t convicts, for heaven’s sake; we’re proper guests. Of course it would be easy.”

He narrowed his eyes in the mirror.

“Besides,” said Milia, “the frisking won’t come until we’ve reached the doors. You’ll be off squaring away our lodging arrangements by then anyway, Troy, so that doesn’t concern you.”

“Frisking?” Voi shifted to watch the soldiers posted at the hangar, anxiously noting how they searched people before admitting them inside. “Captain Neverri doesn’t seem to be taking any chances when it comes to security.”

“Things here are to be kept confidential,” said Milia. “The captain claims to have built an aerocraft capable of tapping into an occult energy source long thought to be myth. Such a claim demands the presence of armed guards, in case something were to go wrong.”

“Such as?”

“Theft, namely. That and the presence of spies is also a possibility. One only needs to recall the deeds of a certain rogue Borellian agent to understand why.” Milia also mentioned that while the captain held Sector One clearance, Voi was to continue practicing the utmost discretion. Besides, Milia didn’t entirely trust the man, and his critical opinions of the League made for a strained relationship between the two.

Voi filed that bit of information away, her attention quickly returning to the uncomfortable prospect of being frisked. She folded her arms self-consciously.

Milia left her metal briefcase in the car with Troy, as its contents were… questionable. Together, she and Voi walked to the back of the hangar. Arriving personnel dressed in company attire huddled together in line, bolstering themselves against the cold with the warmth of each other’s bodies whilst discussing what work remained to be done. “I hear the new test pilot for the Manta Ray is coming today,” one man said quietly in Borellian.

“What’s that,” said his coworker, “going on fifteen?”

They laughed.

“Honestly,” the first man added, “it’s the aether core that’s the problem. It’ll be a miracle if the next pilot comes out sane.”

Voi blanched. Slowly, she turned to Milia, but the diplomat didn’t appear to be listening—at which point Voi had to remind herself that Milia didn’t speak Borellian. Voi faced forward again, frowning in confusion, for she knew of only two types of aether: empty space and the all-pervasive energy field which adepts tapped into for their abilities. Neither, as far as Voi was concerned, was capable of being manipulated with technology.

The first type was clearly incompatible with the men’s talk of an ‘aether core,’ as a core full of nothingness could, in fact, do nothing. The second option seemed more relevant to Voi, though she could hardly fathom how one might possibly link practical technology to a medium which, apparently, could only be manipulated by an elementalist. After all, rumors of aether-driven technologies supposedly used by the Trysteese were considered myth for a reason.

“Milia,” said Voi, “what ‘Manta Ray’ do these men speak of? And what does the aether have to do with it?”

The woman gave a long sigh. “Not now, Voi.” She eagerly bounced on the balls of her heels. “Almost time for our frisking!” Her tone was disturbingly delighted as if she was actually looking forward to the formality.

“Move along, please,” one of the soldiers urged in Borellian as another stood on guard. Voi noticed that the two men ahead of her had identification badges, which they flashed at the guards and, therefore, received no frisking.

Now, it was her turn.

“Step forwa—” The first soldier, a young man perhaps a few years Voi’s junior, paused when he noticed two women standing before him. He blinked momentarily, stammering, “Um… I need you to spread your feet apart, please. Arms in the air.”

Voi followed his order.

Keeping his face politely away from her body, he patted her quickly, almost superficially, along her sides. Down then up again. He then stood and gave her a once-over. Satisfied, he nodded briskly then said, “Okay.”

Voi let go of her breath. That wasn’t so bad. The poor man probably had the harder time of the experience, judging by his flushed face.

When Milia arrived, the soldier realized it might be necessary to switch to Windi. Once given a translation, Milia did what was asked of her. When told she could go inside, however, she refused. Instead, she shook her head, making a tsk-tsk noise. She said in an oddly positive tone, “Your superiors should be ashamed.”

The young soldier just stared at her. “Dammoir?”

“You Borellians, of all people, should be more thorough with your frisks. Do you not recall the security failure from within, the case of Kyra Feruupa?”

He wrinkled his brow, clearly confused.

“Are not the women who are invited to this establishment just as potentially dangerous as the men, if there were any danger to be had this morning?” Her tone was deceptively innocent.

The soldier turned to his comrade, who returned an equally baffled look and shrugged. “I only meant to be polite, dammoir. I meant no disrespect.”

“Ah,” said Milia, holding a finger in the air, “but in doing so, soldier, you’ve accomplished the very thing you wished to avoid: disrespecting me.” Her tone darkened considerably.

The soldier shifted on his feet. “Dammoir, there must be some sort of mis—”

“I suggest you give me another frisking, Mister…”

“Priavete Lemmeu,” he said, clicking his heels together.

Milia smiled, removing her sunglasses then folding them away. “Priavete Lemmeu,” she repeated, attempting a Borellian accent. “Why don’t we try this again, hmm? No harm, no foul. We’ll just be a bit more thorough this time, won’t we?”

Voi couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Milia…”

Indignant at first, the private puffed out his chest then stepped forward and proceeded to conduct a second frisking. His hands moved carefully along the inside of Milia’s fur-lined coat as she stood with her hands folded behind her head, feet spread apart. Then, with more speed, as if hurrying to get the ordeal over with, Private Lemmeu gave Milia the more ‘thorough’ frisking she was looking for. Voi could only tell because of the ridiculously pleased smirk on her face.

Once finished, the private rose to his feet and stepped back, taking a deep breath as he made a noticeable effort to stay calm.

“Thank you. Thank you very much, private,” said Milia, wrapping her coat around herself again. “With more frisks like that, applied without discrimination, this hangar will be a much safer place, I think. Good job!” Milia strode into the hangar, leaving the two soldiers speechless.

Voi covered her face with her hand and shook her head.

* * *

Spotting Milia in the hangar later, Voi charged over to her, demanding, “Isn’t there some sort of virtue of Orden against that kind of shameless behavior? I mean honestly, Milia, not once did I ever take you for that kind of woman.”

Unperturbed, the diplomat shrugged. “It was a terrible excuse for a security check he gave. Surely you noticed this as well.”

Voi planted her hands on her hips; the woman did have a point.

Milia sighed. “Alright, perhaps my behavior was somewhat uncalled for.”

“You don’t say.”

“But you must understand, Voi, we emelesiacs of the elemental nature are physical creatures of the highest order. You may not have experienced it yet so soon after doing away with your urche pills, but there’s a reason I’ve been driving you so hard to practice your skills often; there’s a downside to remaining inactive.”

Voi frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Milia glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers. Though some of the personnel were watching them, no one seemed particularly inclined to join their conversation. Seeing this, Milia continued. “You and I are subject to abnormal levels of aetheric energy fluxes, due to the capacities of our, well, talents.”

Voi quirked an eyebrow.

“As nature would have it, the more we expose ourselves to this energy, the more our bodies grow accustomed to the exposure.”

“And the more we crave it?” asked Voi.

“More so crave the effects of the exposure, which are similar to those of an adrenaline high. However, it’s all really a bit more complicated than this. You see, high exposures to aetheric energy encourages a rather voracious appetite for the… baser, more sensual pleasures in life, giving way to urges which can be difficult to control. These ‘urges’ become particularly acute during periods of elemental inactivity when our senses are much duller. They’re like a built-up charge that must be released. At that point, we start to crave and even obsess over forms of stimulation which simulate the sensations we feel while interacting with the aether—sensations that make us feel more ‘alive.’

“For you, Voi, that might involve an experience like flying. However, it may also include the use of certain drugs or naturally exciting activities such as running, fighting, lovemak—”

“Milia!” Voi hissed in embarrassment. Two men, only about fifteen paces away, kept their eyes on the women, apparently curious about their presence.

“Oh please,” said the diplomat, tossing a hand. “Everyone knows s*x is a one hundred percent natural activity. But to sum things up, this is all part of what is known as ‘post-initiation fixation syndrome,’ Voi, and until your body can learn to tell the difference between natural physiological stimulation and abnormal aetheric stimulation, your hormones will remain in a state of flux.”

“Doctor Moore mentioned something about this,” Voi replied. “He said controlled breathing may help to subdue the symptoms temporarily and that regular exercise was recommended.”

“Yes. This phenomenon never truly goes away, but it does decrease over time. However, by occasionally submitting ourselves to even the simplest of stimulating pleasures, we can take the edge off some of these urges. If only for a moment… Ah, look,” said Milia as she saw a man approaching. “Here comes the colonel. Impeccable timing!”

Voi glanced over Milia’s shoulder. Beyond the colonel, she spotted a small group of personnel congregated around an object cloaked by a tarpaulin. Even beneath the cloth, it had an unusual shape. “What sort of aerocraft will I be flying, exactly?”

Milia turned around, giving the object a skeptical look. “Whatever it is, it’s capable of reaching very high speeds, which would give our mission the swiftness it needs to be carried out with discretion. The captain also boasts of the craft’s hovering capabilities, which should be very useful in taking more precise photographs from the confines of the cockpit if necessary—not that high-speed photography is a problem, mind you. In any case, superior maneuverability and speed should protect you from being pursued.”

Voi’s eyes widened. “Do you think it likely someone will try to come after me?”

“Truth be told, Voi, there’s no telling what we’ll find in the Fambrach Mountains. Contact with Darmoil’s last dependable asset in the region was made over two years ago. There was once a mining operation in the region, though that was shut down after Heil Soryul was imprisoned for using citizens as free labor. Due to the invasion of pirates during the Rapine War, the natives of the mountains currently live under the protection of anti-aerocraft laws. Only the Maker knows what they’re up to now.”

Milia smiled at the aviatrix. “Nothing is certain, Voi, which is why we’re sending you in: to break through the vagueness and get us right to the heart of the matter.”

“I see.” Voi didn’t find this the least bit comforting.

“Briefing the recruit already?”

The two women looked up from their conversation simultaneously.

A lean, middle-aged officer with greying hair, dressed in a highly-decorated khaki uniform, stood before them, his hands folded attentively behind his back. He greeted each woman with a nod. “Ms. Furlan, Miss… Román, I assume.”

“Yes. How do you do?” Voi smiled and extended a hand to her fellow Apexian.

After a brief hesitation, he shook her hand with a firm grip. He maintained a neutral expression, though his piercing grey eyes lingered on her longer than she cared for.

Slowly, she retrieved her hand.

The colonel cleared his throat then replied, “Your journey through the desert wasn’t too arduous, I hope?”

Voi smiled at the irony; the scrublands had been flatter than a sheet of yellow flimsy. “More like a pleasant stroll, when compared to my journeys flying the Belareaux.”

“Ah, yes, the Belareaux—an earlier Borellian contraption, if I’m not mistaken. A wild and capricious ride. Or so I’ve been told.”

“She’s a bit sensitive at the controls, I’ll admit, and requires a deft touch. However, in my experience, the Belareaux flies true and happens to be much tougher than she looks.”

Colonel Snipes peered at her, seemingly judging for a potential threat.

Milia bustled all of a sudden, breaking the silence. “Ah!” she said eagerly. “Tell us, colonel, how does our aerocraft look?”

He grunted, snapping out of his intense stare. “Ask a Borellian to build you a flying machine superior to those the Haran used during the Rapine War, and what does he turn out?”

“Something that flies, I’d hope,” said Milia.

“Well, on ground tests, it works just fine—up until the point a pilot takes to the controls. Beyond that, I’d say the thing is about as useful as a Ramboit.”

Being familiar with this abstract sculptor, Voi felt compelled to comment. “Well, if that’s any indication at all to the captain’s scope of vision, then I take it he’s created something quite remarkable—perhaps even a little ahead of his time.”

Colonel Snipes gave another grunt. “Now you see the problem, Miss Román: no one yet seems capable of grasping what the hell that Borellian bastard’s conjured up!” He gave her a look up and down. “No offense.”

Voi feigned neutrality on the matter with a bland smile.

The colonel’s expression grew conflicted as he went on. “Normally, I wouldn’t be so quick to judge a pilot whose acquaintance I’ve only made through a dossier and a brief conversation, but I have to say, Miss Román, your antique taste in aerocraft hardly seems compatible with Neverri’s more progressive sensibilities. While others are building their planes out of metal, you’re still flying around in a traditional flimsy.” He unfolded his hands from behind his back. “You won’t find any linen-and-wood contraptions here.”

“A matter of personal taste, colonel, as well as my own skepticism towards using such a cold and lifeless material. However, I should like to remind you, in regards to your poorly concealed disparagement of the early Belareaux planes, that all greatness starts small. Primitive, even. After all, the Belareaux models were the first of their kind, informing the standards that most Western aeroplane developers subscribe to today—standards I wouldn’t be surprised to see observed even in the captain’s forward-thinking creation. You see, unlike their Darmoilen counterparts, the Belareaux planes opted for a system of ailerons rather than wing warping—which, I’m sure you’ll agree, is the superior approach.”

The colonel raised his chin. “Go on.”

“I’d even venture to say that the greatest artists, inventors, and thinkers of our times were inspired by those who came before them to one degree or another. And besides, I think we both know what they say about those who completely shun history.”

“Hmm.” Colonel Snipes spoke to Milia though kept his eyes on Voi. “This one is… interesting, I’ll say. Given her reputation, I suppose this shouldn’t come as a surprise.” He looked at Milia. “How did you come across her, being the busy stateswoman you are?”

Pretending to be flattered, Milia brought her hand daintily to her chest. “Well, I daresay I can hardly take credit for the discovery, colonel. I merely wrote the job specifications.” She dipped her head sideways, smiling proudly. “Stringent as they were.”

“This is all very amusing,” Voi lied, “but I’m beginning to think I may never meet this controversial Captain Neverri, let alone do any actual flying.” If there was one thing Voi liked less than social posturing, it was standing around and doing nothing of worth—which, in the most intolerably roundabout way, was exactly what social posturing amounted to, as far as Voi was concerned.

Colonel Snipes arched his eyebrows. “Well, she certainly has bite!” He gave a mellow laugh, wagging a finger at her. “You may grow on Neverri after all.”

“If I do any growing,” said Voi, “it will be in my ability to deduce the precise problem with the captain’s so-called Ram-boit.” She made sure to pronounce the name correctly with an exaggerated opening and rounding of the lips—as in the Borellian rom-bwah, not ram-bo. At least he had the sense to drop the T, Voi mused. After all, most Apexians lacked even this minor insight when first stumbling upon such foreign words in flyers or newspapers or what have you.

Colonel Snipes seemed taken aback by the correction of his pronunciation, slightly puffing out his chest.

Voi smiled.

“Fair enough,” he said, “just don’t let Neverri catch you saying that. As for me, I sure as hell don’t intend to keep the two of you any longer.

“This way, ladies.”