Crow is soaring high above the southern ice fields of Ijask, and Sam is standing at the bow, wearing a t-shirt.

There is something wrong with this picture.

His arms are spread, resting lightly on the wooden ledge, and his eyes have taken on that bluish glow that is typical of a weather working.

Logan can feel his concentration, his joy, from his position at the wheel, and it’s his job, as always, to make sure Sam doesn’t get carried away, doesn’t get lost in the world of winds and tides and currents and endless possibility.

The air is warm, a comfortable temperature that one would expect, say, on Ryall, during middle to late spring. Logan, having grown up here, or a few miles north of here, is very aware that this is about as far from normal for Ijask as you can get. Even for mid August. There should be that wonderful chill in the air that tells you, yeah, you’re as far north as the Islands go, as land goes, and its beautiful isn’t it? But no, instead, Sam’s wandering around in a t-shirt.

It’s enough to make him nauseous.

Lawrence had gotten back to them the day before, just as they crested the Yaltic. The Weather Center, for all their barely suppressed rage once they knew what the commander had wanted from them, had reported only three weathers on any board, all exactly where they were supposed to be. Sam had then sulked for a while as his ‘brilliant’ idea had been trashed. Lawrence had gone on to inform them of even more random occurrences, ranging from a snowstorm over Garba, to the extremely premature freeze of the Lattice Harbor at Banse. Hawthorne had allowed Cavalle to continue her investigation, although reluctantly and with frequent reminders of how much Flight 7 owed him.

Crow dips heavily right, and Logan makes a frantic grab for the wheel, nearly going head over heels.

“Sorry!” Sam yells over the rush of wind, and slowly, slowly, Crow rights himself, although about a hundred meters lower.

And then things are normal. There’s a bite to the air, and breathing hurts, just a bit. And Sam’s turning blue, because all of a sudden a t-shirt just isn’t enough. “How’d you do that?”

“It was fairly simple, really. All I had to do was reverse the rotation of—”

“Never mind.” Logan says quickly.

“It’s cold,” Sam whines, rubbing his arms. “I can’t even just make a pocket of warm air; pattern’s too volatile.”

Logan rolls his eyes, gesturing the captain forward. Sam narrows his eyes suspiciously, and stops barely within reach. Again rolling his eyes, Logan brushes his hand against Sam’s arm, warming his blood to improve circulation temporarily. “Go put on a jacket.”

Sam pouts, further cementing his image as a four year old girl. “Or you could share.”

After a short tussle, which ends in Logan’s jacket nearly being sacrificed to the snow gods, Logan huddles for warmth pressed up against the inside of a sleeve he’s managed to keep for himself. “This would work a lot better if you weren’t taller than me.” He mutters to Sam, who’s managed to wrap himself around Logan inside the coat, and successfully yanking it upwards until if the lieutenant isn’t careful, he’s likely to be stabbed to death by his own zipper.

Sam sticks his tongue out and crabwalks them over to the side of the boat so he can lean over the edge; something that almost pulls Logan right off his feet. Poking the captain fiercely, Logan regains his balance. “Why couldn’t you got get your own jacket?”

“Too far away.”

“You’re absolutely pathetic, you know that?”

“And you’re selfish.”

“Selfish would be beating you to death with my jacket and using your carcass as fuel for a campfire.”

“Eeeeeew.”

“Exactly.”

Previous: Scene 5-IV

Scene 5-V

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