Chapter 14 – The Teach and the Dingle

“Shipments of microfiber and polymer shielding ready to be transferred.”

A man tipped his cap at Sarge, who was standing before the transfer terminal that verified large crates of goods. Normally, the process was more or less automated, a system of lifts and trolleys moving them to dropoff points for Gliders to pick up or store in their warehouses.

Ever since the Icarus bombs detonated, the mayor implemented stricter customs control of goods entering the city. Even if they were simply construction materials produced by the factories at ground level, the red tape required personal inspection, signing off before transfer.

That job often came down to Sarge, who worked closely with Jolly to manage the warehouse, when she wasn’t delivering herself.

With a vacant nod, she gave her signature and tapped the console in front of her. The next moment, an entire pallet of goods began to hover before shooting down a set of magnetic tracks. It would end up a few blocks from headquarters. Afterward, it was a matter of pushing the pallet into the warehouse. Machinery housed within would intercept, sort, and compact the goods into packages that were shot from a cannon for Gliders to deliver.

As she turned to leave, the familiar tuft of messy, farm-boy hair caught her attention.

“Dingleberry, what are you doing here?”

“Eh? Ah, Sarge. Jolly told me that I have a package waiting from my folks. Needed a signature to claim it.”

Tapping on a console for confirmation, a crate the size of a basketball was dumped before him. It was a gift package full of farm goodies to make sure that he and the others were eating well. Current technology could compact an entire fridge worth of items into a portable box and put it on ice for the trip.

With one arm, Dingleberry gripped the handle and hoisted it into the air.

“Geez, they don’t have to send me the whole farm every month. That’s one thing good about the city life. Don’t need a jack to lift these boxes.”

Fancy tech made gravity one-fourth the normal within the city. As a result, the 50-kilogram crate hardly made him struggle. Combined with biceps used to wrestling the cows, he could easily fly back to headquarters carrying it.

“This is the first time I’ve been back here since I entered the city. Feels weird that they have to flag everyone down now and document them.”

“Tagging the unknowns. All Flyers have a unique code etched onto their wings, but for No-Flyers, they have to rely on standard ID cards.”

“You make it sound like we’re branded like our farm animals. Speaking of which, I wonder which one they sent me this time. I’m going to head back and find out.”

Dingleberry took off the platform, gliding through the air with vigorous flaps that intermittently twitched like it struck a nerve. These hiccups between the wings and spine took time and usage to iron out before the connection fully synchronized. He looked back and noticed Sarge right on his tail, her icy glare as she silently trailed making him a bit nervous.

“Something… you need from me?”

“I’m taking the same route. Don’t mind me.”

But mind Sarge he did. After all, her words were blunt and to the point, and the way she looked at him at times felt like he was being judged. Perhaps, he wasn’t used to people, having lived on a farm. The eyes of livestock seemed all too obvious, so he didn’t have to guess hidden meanings in other’s gazes.

“How do you like it here?” Sarge unexpectedly asked him.

“Good, good. Arwain and the others make me feel like I contribute, despite hardly being able to hit the field. Though it may be that I have access to good grub, but I don’t mind the job of feeding you all. ”

“That’s not true.”

“What’s not?” Dingleberry froze, unsure which part of his statement she rebutted.

“The stroke of your wingspan has become more uniform. The center of your core is more balanced. Rotate the base of your wing to draw out more torque, and we will make good use of you soon.”

“Yes, Sarge!” Dingleberry instinctively replied in response.

He wasn’t quite sure how his previous statement led to an analysis of his flight training, but Sarge was put in charge of his development. She meticulously worked his wings through all sorts of exercises like a drill sergeant on her recruits.

Unknown to him, Sarge had just as much of a problem with being awkward. Her compliments tended to sound more like evaluations, despite her best efforts. Her praises were laced with the expectation of what came next.

Veering away from such instincts was a struggle. It was not long ago that she had been an instructor in aerial dance, which ingrained her commanding tone and eye for detail.

She could still recall the spotlights falling upon her dancers, rhythmically gliding through the air in beauteous form. The tune of classical music traced a cascade of wings that fell in sync, bringing the stage to life like a single entity moving as one.

Of course, she wouldn’t be a Glider if her success in training young, promising flyers in the art had continued uninterrupted. Conflict persisted among those seeking to reach the top quickly. As it often were, those with money were the first to seek her out, but then, make excuses just as easily.

Guidance that was too tame or too rough.

Performances where the lead role was bought.

Results, constantly inquired, to keep pace with lofty expectations.

Sarge had grown tired of it all. So she quit and found another job. And it just so happened that she caught sight of a reckless flyer who constantly overextended himself in the pursuit of thrill.

Instructing and correcting – she had spent over a decade on that and was ready to give it up from frustration. However, watching over others was in her blood. And there was no doubt that a group of random flyers needed some of that to function as a team.

Queen saw that benefit and instantly brought her on board. The others weren’t quite so thrilled as Sarge drilled delivery basics and more into them, despite being a novice herself. Still, it was rare for a person to grasp and teach competently on the fly. Silver Stream was lucky to have her.

“Er… Sarge. Where should I put all this stuff?”

Dingleberry’s question broke her reminiscing as they arrived at the headquarters warehouse. Her body had been running on autopilot to load the stash of construction materials into the sorting robot station.

“Did you confirm the contents?”

“Not yet. Guess I’ll open her up.”

Dingleberry pressed a button on the crate, which created an opening that hissed and popped. A fountain expanded from the top opening, spilling out onto the warehouse floor. Several hams rolled from it, causing Dingleberry to flail around catching them. Next, a bushel of corn and yams bobbled out, creating a small pile around the crate. It was enough to feed the team for over a week.

“The purpose of the quick release packages are to open them inside a storage container to prevent spillage. Since you made this mess, fetch some bins and clean up on the double!”

“Yes, Sarge!”

With a panicked flap, Dingleberry scrambled to meet her demand ASAP. He felt like he would be strung up like the fall victims that he saw Sarge save if he didn’t.

Sarge eyed the newbie flyer and her mouth curled into a rare grin. She didn’t mind training people that responded in earnest. Arwain, Jester, Queen and Jolly – she could clearly see how much they wanted Silver Stream to succeed. They each had their own talents that drew her toward them.