Iron of the Sky Read online

  Iron Of The Sky

  Ryan Downey

  ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-54398-832-1

  ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-54398-833-8

  © 2019. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Special Thanks To My Editors:

  Rita Mermaid, J-Dizzle (aka Professor Manhands), Bee, SO (aka The Kid), El Jefe, Sneeze, Newbie, Delco Joe Moranis Goldblum, Mikeropenis Ramrod, Varga Girl, Kane Man, Gatorade, Red Jimmy, The Indian, M&Ms, Doc, Heather Reformed, Ask Alexa, and NoMerce E

  Cover Art By Allie Osipov

  Additional assistance/information provided by: Jessica Kline, Tim McGee (Bonner ’07), Elisabetta “Lulu” Spadafora, Ryan Rathfon, Erika Rathfon, Hillary Paige Stockard

  And Sylvester Stallone via Rocky “The Italian Stallion” Balboa

  For always reminding me that it’s not about how hard you hit

  To The Sunbathers, Stargazers, Moon Dancers And World Changers

  Enjoy all of life’s little romances

  And To Niki

  Keep Looking Up

  PROLOGUE

  It was common in those days to believe that the sky, like everything else, was controlled by the gods. That anything seen that could not be explained by their version of modern science, must be a sign from the heavens. Some of these signs were taken to be omens, warnings that man was in big trouble with its celestial parents. Death from above. A comet brought pestilence in the whip of its tail. An eclipse was god turning blind eye to a flood. Meteor showers turned king against king. Brother against brother. These people worshipped Ra, among others, for the same reasons anyone worships; fear and desperation.

  On a night as any other the newly appointed king sat idly in his throne with nothing to do. His age was of little consequence to those who feared him as were his noticeable defects, necrosis, scoliosis, and so on. A yawn past his overbite nearly turned whistle through cleft palate. As he readied himself to retire for the evening, a subject armed with the painfully boring task of standing guard on the balcony adjacent to the throne room came running in to inform the young king of what his tired eyes beheld.

  He gazed upon Khonsu, god of the night sky. Glowing full and bright, Khonsu, who had come to prominence in this particular dynasty, was armed with the all too important task of slaying the king’s enemies. In His travels He kept careful time for a people who would rule for centuries. And at some point or another He may or may not have created the universe.

  So entranced by his protector the king could barely hear what his foolish subject was prattling on about. It seems one of the stars had fallen from the sky and fearing it may be portent, the young king felt it warranted immediate tending. The spotter was sent of course, along with several other well-suited footmen. Patriots to a nation who charted the stars for millennia and built a map to them here on earth, their mission was simple and duty clear. Return the star to heaven.

  Late in winter, the stars had already been sticking around for dawn. The hours of the night were fixed, the land riddled with landmarks and the star that ditched the constellation party early was easily found in less than a week. Their horses would get little rest as their find was a great gift that would certainly please the king. The Egyptians were experts at moving huge rocks and the horse would serve as good a slave as any.

  His majesty was in the middle of a game of senet when they reached the gates. His opponent was letting him win when they entered the court to tell the king the good news. Their journey had taken less than a full day’s time and while several were wary that the find was a bad omen, the rest were simply pleased because he was pleased.

  Kings have no use for a dusty old space rock sitting around so his subjects set to breaking it up further (unbeknownst to the king most of it still lay where they found it) to mine the interstellar ore. With the Bronze Age coming to a close and a new age dawning, they had become pretty handy with metals, precious or otherwise. They were to each craft something special. Something unique. Which of course meant the king was going to get a succession of useless trinkets, bowls and goblets that made food and beverage taste funny, and scepters a fraction of the size of the one he already wielded. The pharaoh was gracious enough to yawn his way through the parade of disappointments. Brushing the last of the insults aside, the young man up and left for the great dining hall for dinner.

  In the food preparation area, the cook was feverishly finishing his particular craft. He probably should have been more nervous than he was, it was a dish he’d never prepared prior. The fish was an unfamiliar species. Most were for people who rarely ate fish living on the world’s second largest river. People who worshipped half the animals on the land. And a people who farmed in a land arid on its best day and prone to drought, famine, flooding, and locust. Still they maintained a primarily vegetarian diet and a strange and decadent fish would not suffice alone, no matter how well smoked and seasoned.

  Accompanying the fish that would go relatively untouched was a vegetable barley soup, the chef’s specialty, and honey bread cakes, the king’s personal favorite. And there was the usual assortment of nuts, dates and figs, olives, a fragrant mélange, exotic candies, and a myriad of rare delicacies no peasant would ever taste.

  Much like most kids his age, he could really pack it in. He sat completely stuffed on the terrace following his lavish banquet. Two harpists and a double oboist comprised the band set to be entertaining him as he let out exhaust into the chill of the night air. Shifting in his seat, he contemplated all possible reasons why his breath was now visible, figuring it was merely demons being exhumed thanks to divine intervention. A man appeared in the doorway and begged the guards to allow him audience. The king looked up wistfully and waved his fingers casually to let him pass. The guards were substantially more nonplussed and nearly tackled the man when he removed his offering. Desperate not to be impaled, he assured them he meant His Majesty no earthly harm, but had taken a tad longer to finish than the evening’s earlier presenters. Convinced in his sincerity and aware of his history of loyal servitude, the king allowed him to step forward and received the gift. Darkness would not hide it once unsheathed as it caught the light of the moon and recast it on the spectators. Quite taken, the king did more than nod him aside. Special favor was taken upon the gift and the metal worker graciously thanked and rewarded. He would treasure it always.

  Always would last nine more years. Less than a decade later and the boy who would be king became the slightly older boy who would be dead. While out in battle, clutching his favored gift which now lay on a nearby nightstand, his horse got tripped up, toppling his chariot, and fracturing the pharaoh’s leg. A fractured leg was entirely too complex a condition for their version of modern medicine. Within a few hours he would be riding Ra’s chariot to be united with Osiris and Thoth in A’aru, the Field Of Reeds. At the age of 19, he had lived more than halfway to his life expectancy. Not bad for an Egyptian. Once mummified, he would be buried in one of the few tombs in all the land not to be completely consumed by the sands of the Sahara, alongside his most prized possessions and beloved living servants.

  Now at the mercy of the elements, their race to be discovered would be up against more than just sun, wind, and rain. What binds all things is not death. But decay. All things fall apart and deteriorate. Rot away, rust up, get eaten, break down, or erode. Recycling down to nothing. Lead is the final stage. Then of co
urse there is the long-standing tradition of the natural enemy.

  It wouldn’t be long before his successors, discontented with changes implemented during his dynasty and throughout his reign would do their damnedest to eradicate all evidence that he and his family had ever existed. His influence reversed and name fell silent. But critics be cursed and archeologists be praised, damnatio memoriae would be no match for the innate quest for knowledge and the unending search for truth in a seemingly infinite universe.

  PART I

  Knocking Up

  The woman upstairs didn’t stir. The knock at the door didn’t wake her. Neither did the doorbell. He was wide-awake in his recliner. The recliner no one else could sit in. The one directly in front of the television, obscuring some of the other views in the room. The knock only confused him. The neighbors would occasionally let him know when the TV got too loud. It was Saturday Night At The Movies and Channel 6 was playing Raiders, which meant the volume was cranked. Every crack of the whip was so sharp, it felt like old Indy was using it to swat flies off his ear lobes.

  Thumb pressed firmly on the down arrow, the volume returned to a level that made each thwack of punch landed on Nazi face far less exhilarating as he anxiously awaited further indignant raps. When none came he began the slow crawl to what, at least he would deem, reasonable level. Until the ding-dong. Clear now that he had a visitor he glanced up the stairs to spy any signs of life and finding none ran to descend the staircase leading to the front door as to avoid another awakening ring. He held his breath all the way down.

  First door open, visitor revealed, sigh of relief exhaled. He hadn’t seen her in several weeks. Maybe closer to a month or two. Far too long regardless, a good hug and kiss of cheek would bring them back. As she began to ask him how he was doing, blaring cop sirens resounded. She made a scared face that always made him laugh. “They finally found you?” she implored and he laughed even harder. “Don’t worry, I have a disguise,” he assured and put a finger mustache to his upper lip. Her laugh was drowned out by the ever-growing intensity, then thanks to the Doppler Effect, they had to wait even longer after it passed. The cops caused the woman upstairs, Gillian, 26, hot, no last name given or warranted, to stir, but sleep maintained. He had by now forgotten all about her. The small talk didn’t last for even if she hadn’t showed up to his house in the middle of the night, he would be able to quickly discern that she had something to tell him.

  “Alright, out with it,” he commanded. “What say you who arouses me from my slumber at this ungodly hour?” Her distraction by lightning bug, Phontinus Pyralis, broke. “You weren’t sleeping, shut up.” He was defeated. “Well,” she began collecting her thoughts. “I think I finally realized what bothers me so much about people who believe in astrology.” Smiling, the struggle to not say anything began for him. “Oh?” He could allow himself one little word. “It isn’t that it’s completely arbitrary. Which it is.” That modifier lit his eyes. Big as a weather balloon, if his pride continued swelling exponentially, he would bust. Always so reluctant to follow his lead, even when she knew he was… onto something. The iconoclast had trashed the pseudo-religion so many years ago and she had only ever half agreed with him.

  “It’s not how horoscopes are vague and interchangeable.” He had heard people quote him, to him, many times over the years without the quoter quite knowing it was he they were reciting. But never so satisfyingly. “Or how the stars in the Zodiacs are nowhere near one another thus making the very idea moronic.”

  A laugh escaped. Surely she had practiced in the mirror before leaving the house. Which reminded him. “Say, where is uh-.“ “Oh, I wasn’t going to wake him for this.” He hadn’t seen her without him in some time. Then, with no beat missed, “It’s that it clearly illustrates how painfully un-self-aware people are. They’re so oblivious. Most people already believe themselves to be generally good people. Which they’re not.” He could cry. “The hypocrisy compounds when on top of that they add exaggerated qualities of traits that they either possess minimally or not at all.”

  And there it was. His mouth agape. She gave him the answer he’d always looked for but never reached. The joy and pride almost distracted him from the fact that he knew that wasn’t it. “Very good,” he said in a calm hesitant voice. Then he waited until her face fell a bit. “And.”

  “And I’m getting married.” “There it is,” he exclaimed putting her into a bear hug. The elongation of embrace served purpose twofold. Time was needed to suppress tears fighting for freedom. And, like him, she didn’t seem to want to let go. She had no tears to hide. Hers escaped on the walk over.

  The release brought a mutual gaze that said all there was to be said between them. Both fluent in unspoken conversation.

  A few cars drove by, one of the drivers honking thinking he was funny. A couple walking their dog, a golden retriever, forced him to take a step forward and while normally he would jump at the chance to make a furry friend, he let Gaia pass by unpetted. Before offering sincere congratulations, his gaze turned if ever briefly, to the sky. Searching for a recognizable cluster of stars, something tangible and familiar. Finding none, he turned back to her so as not to let the moment grow awkward. He had missed his chance and found himself lost in the city lights with nothing to hold onto, but a few sweet memories and the heart of a love lost so very long ago.

  Familiar Landscapes

  There was no wine for dinner. She grabbed her cloth shopping bag with the tropical fish and sea turtles on it and bolted out the back door. Passing down the narrow alley between her neighbors’ houses. She could hear the clunky old mower had finally started up. Standing on tipped toes with hands keeping balance on top rail of the chained link fence she strained to see the mower at work. No such luck. If there was anything to be seen, she was the one to catch it. The girl with glasses far too big for her face gave up and scurried down the alley hopping puddles and dodging trashcans.

  They were heavy, those glasses, and the bounce in her step would often jostle them loose, prompting a quick finger push to reset. The warm spring air felt good on her sensitive skin and she did her best to not let the rebirth of flora upset her allergies.

  The elderly gentleman who ran the local liquor store welcomed her as always with an inviting smile. In the neighborhood forever, he was one of those guys who knew everyone. “What do you say, Miss? His glasses rested firmly on his nose as he checked inventory and as she fixed hers. “Having company tonight, Charlie,” she beckoned from the aisle of whites. “The Chesters?” He even knew their friends. “No, they’re out of town. Early vacation. The Ripleys.” “Ah,” he nodded and went back to his checklist. She huffed as she lifted a large bottle of Sauvignon Blanc by means of scrawny arm before heading to the aisle of reds. Then, upon choosing a Cab that hailed from the same vineyard, made her way to the counter.

  “Will that be all, sweetheart?” he asked ringing her up quickly. “Yes, Charlie,” she said with a smile. She was very fond of his nickname for her. He put the bottles in her bag from home and she paid cash, of course.

  Her walk home was narrated by cicadas making their return. She thought of sweet, old Charlie and how she wasn’t even sure if that was his first name. She didn’t know his full name and whenever he introduced himself he’d always add “like the horse,” then make a silly face. An introduction that incited an immediate liking to him.

  Terror struck and thoughts of Charlie vanished. In an instant she found herself running on the street where she lived. She was cleverly illusive though, heading down side streets, she knew to head in the general direction rather than lead them straight there. “Look who bought us booze,” was the last thing she heard before her feet were taking her faster than she thought she could go. The bottles kept clanking against one another and a second fear arose thinking they may break. Pulling them up and wrapping them tight, she pressed them firm against her undeveloped chest and for once was glad she didn’t h
ave boobs. Managing to get a hand free, she took her glasses off. For the most part she knew the layout of the terrain and even though she was blind as a bat without them, she was dead in the water if they fell off and got lost again. The lucky rabbit was gaining ground as obnoxious taunts like “stupid bitch” were becoming progressively distant. An odd insult as she was neither.

  Cutting through Mrs. Hobbs backyard, she burst through a gate, ripping her shirt, but taking her straight to a gravel road that ran between houses. Fast as she could, she spun, ducking behind the O’Reillys’ garden shed and buried herself behind a wheel barrow. There she stayed until the stampede of trampling hooves faded and she caught her breath. “Shit.” Those jerkoffs cost her one of her favorite shirts. The one with pink butterflies she had bought herself at the mall with babysitting money. With her glasses back on, she followed the gravel road to the main street and made her way home.

  Going through the back door to the kitchen she placed the bottles on the table and put the bag back on top of the fridge. She reexamined the damage done to butterflies and deliberated if it was salvageable. Removing the wine key from the drawer next to the sink she opened both red and white. It had been offered to her many times, but she had always declined. She poured halfway to the top of a red solo cup and cheersed herself. To a most daring escape. As the Sauvé Blanc calmed her nerves and settled her mind, she could once again hear that mower. That rusted collection of clunky bolts and blades. Mind settled, she pondered what it was exactly that made that lawn one yard up and three yards over grow faster than all others.

  Irish Goodbye

  She found him. Not the other way around. It was customary practice for high school boys to chase baby bunnies like hound dogs on a track. And while he had pursued a great many already in his few years, on this day a surprise happened by.

  He didn’t have much money. Most teenagers don’t. Landscaping is not going to make anyone rich, unless they own the company. And even then. But he spent summers making relatively decent wage working for a business owner whose company would go under before the young landscaper would graduate college. His anal, obsessive-compulsive leanings made him a valuable asset to his employer and a total pain in the ass to everyone else. Order of the day was a daunting one. Three properties in the same development and to fit them in meant a 6:00 AM call time. Hours of meticulous hedging and scrupulous clipping. The last thing a teenager wants to do once he makes it to Friday night is to be in bed in time to get up at cockcrow on Saturday. And like a good teenager, he wasn’t. The woods weren’t going to drink in themselves.