Gray Skies by Brian Spangler Page A

Declan tried to wave, but his father was hidden by the guards poised around him. Declan lifted his feet higher. Pain in his knee yawned awake, but he pushed against it, and quickened his step. He heard his father’s raised voice again, yelling at the guards that they had no right to take what wasn’t theirs. Declan tried to swallow the dryness in his mouth, and say something, but these were the executive floor guards: a single word could demote you to a no-band citizen, or, even worse, have you exiled from the Commune.
    From the distance to his dwelling, Declan could see blood running from his father’s nose. They’d already hit him. Heat flushed his cheeks, and he found some of the adrenaline from the earlier scuffle with Harold. His knee fell sideways once, and a rattle of what felt like crushed stone turned inside, causing him to stop for a moment. Biting his lips, he held back a scream, and pushed on.
    When he looked up to his dwelling, he saw his father’s balding head bounce against the wall, as one of the guards pushed him. Declan thought that he’d felt the thud of his father’s body, as he picked up his legs to run faster.
    “What are you doing?” he yelled at the guards. “Let him go!” His father’s body crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Blood trickled from his nose, and now a bruise was forming around his eye.
    “Declan, no!” his father wheezed. “You don’t understand.”
    The guard that had held his father against the wall didn’t say a word. He didn’t offer an explanation, or a nod of his head. Instead, he pushed his gloved hand up, gripping Declan’s neck. All motion stopped as the guard squeezed his fingers. It was stronger than anything Declan had ever felt, and, at once, the air he needed was gone, cut off from the vice grip of the guard’s hand.
    “Now, you should know better than to charge an executive guard,” the guard stated in a flat tone. “I remember that they used to teach courtesy and respect in class.” Pin-lights were forming in Declan’s view as the other guards rocked their heads up and down, agreeing. Two of the guards chuckled, while the third held an objection in his expression, but said nothing.
    When the world became distant, the guard relaxed his grip just enough for Declan to suck in some air. A shallow breath came to him then, dimming the pin-lights, and arresting the blackness that had threatened to close his eyes. Declan sucked in the air, and steadied his step, removing the clumsiness that had settled in his legs. He watched his father get back to his feet, and saw what it was that he held close to him: his mother’s satchel, the one that had been issued to her when she was promoted to four bands. His mother had carried that satchel to and from work every day. It was a symbol; it was authority. Only the executives in their Commune were given them, and she had carried it proudly, at first. Later, Declan thought that it had become a burden to her. Each evening, she placed it carefully in the corner of their dwelling, away from everything, leaving it alone until the next day. At times, he’d caught her standing over it, staring at it, her face empty of emotion, except for maybe disdain, leaving him to wonder if she regretted working as an executive.
    When his mother and sister had fallen ill with the flu, the satchel had remained in the corner, untouched until now. His father clung to the stained sheepskin leather and leaden buckles, arms wrapped around it, protecting it.
    “He’s just a boy, leave him be!” his father pleaded. “He was running to me, that’s all. He wouldn’t charge an executive guard! We raised him right. He knows better!” Declan swallowed bitter disappointment when his father loosened his clutched hands on the satchel, but he was relieved, too. Not just because the guard had released his grip, but also because he knew his mother had grown to hate the satchel. Declan gasped and choked in air. Staggering forward, he reached