We Rule the Night

by Claire Eliza Bartlett

  Wind wound in cold ribbons about their wrists and jerked at the Strekozy covers. Gray clouds soared in from the mountains. But Tamara didn’t seem to notice any of this. Her cheeks blazed with something more than the cold, and her brown eyes were bright.

  “Pilots!” she shouted. “Remain with me. The rest of you, to your usual stations.”

  The navigators and engineers left in a flurry of whispers. Magdalena grinned at Revna as she passed. Good luck, she mouthed.

  “We’ll have to fly them one at a time, I’m afraid.” The girls fell silent at once. “Colonel Hesovec has… other arrangements,” Tamara continued, in a voice that clearly indicated her disdain, “and you can’t go up on your own. We’ll be using today to apply what you’ve learned to a larger world. Why don’t we start with you?” She beckoned Katya, who barely controlled a squeal.

  Three pilots wrestled the cover off Katya’s flame-painted Strekoza, and Katya and Tamara clambered up on the wing and into the cockpit. A few moments later its landing claws pushed it into the air. It wobbled and stabilized as spark blasted through the engine at the back of the plane, flashing yellow and orange before redistributing along Weave lines. Revna was surprised by its silence; the Dragons that flew over Tammin had thrummed and roared like beasts. The Strekozy were no louder than the palanquins that shuttled men to and from the front.

  The Strekoza wound like a lazy bird around the field. It was even slower than Revna would have guessed from Tamara’s descriptions.

  Katya didn’t care. “It’s incredible,” she gushed after she’d landed and disembarked. “You’ll be terrified at first. But don’t worry.”

  One by one they went out, and at last it was Revna’s turn.

  Tamara scratched her leg as she frowned at Revna. “We’ll have to boost you into the cockpit,” she said.

  “Sorry?”

  “You can’t climb up the wings like the others. You’ll need a boost.”

  Something hot stabbed at her belly. It took her a moment to realize it was anger. When she’d left Mrs. Rodoya and Tammin, Revna thought she was done with all the superiors who assumed they knew more about her legs than she did. “I think I’ll manage.”

  “Are you sure?” Tamara said.

  Revna planted one hand on the wing of the plane and grabbed for the Weave. She pulled herself up and tumbled gracelessly into the cockpit, banging her prosthetics against the dashboard and making her residual limbs sing in pain. It was worth it, though, for the way Tamara hopped up behind her without another word.

  “Shall we?” Tamara’s voice sounded right next to her ear. A speaking tube allowed pilot and navigator to communicate, and Revna didn’t even have to turn her head to say, “Ready,” with more confidence than she felt.

  Maybe I wasn’t meant for this. But she thought of the battle they’d seen from the ground, and when her heart faltered, she set Mama and Lyfa firmly in her mind.

  “Tell me what you know about living metal,” Tamara said.

  Revna had hated being called on in school. She’d always second-guessed herself, as if she were being asked a trick question. “It knows I’m here. It can sense me.” She felt a bit foolish, as though she were talking to thin air.

  “And?” the thin air replied.

  “It’s alive because of the Weave.”

  “And?”

  “It’s heavier than normal steel, and more durable. It’s susceptible to the mood around it. It knows when it’s being worked, and it can help or hinder the smith. It likes physical contact.” As long as it liked the person it was in contact with, anyway.

  “Good. All good. Each of these planes was modeled off an Elda prototype, and we don’t have a lot to spare. If you crash it, you’d better have a good reason for doing so.”

  Revna could hear the grin in her voice, and she opened her mouth to respond but stopped, unsure of what to say. The air prickled all around her.

  “Sorry,” Tamara said, and the prickling faded to a grumbling undercurrent. “A bit of war humor. We won’t be doing anything fancy on this flight. You need to acquaint yourself with your plane, get it used to your style. The engineers of Mistelgard have made a couple of adjustments that mean you’ll also be able to see a few things from the plane’s perspective, too.”

  The cockpit was cramped and cold. Revna barely had space to shove her feet underneath her chair. The short dashboard held a compass, and the windscreen came up to the top of her head. Revna tugged her leather helmet over her hair and set her goggles. They slipped down her nose. Wind edged around the gap between her helmet and her ear.

  “I have a throttle back here,” Tamara said. “That controls the power. You’ll need to trust your navigator to operate on her own, but don’t hesitate to give instruction. We can prepare to use more spark to accommodate a faster engine, or diminish our output to slow down. I’m going to clip into my harness now.”

  Revna couldn’t find a harness for herself. Her seat was surrounded by long, slim metal rods that resembled nothing so much as the fingers of a giant. They were even jointed, dozens of little metal plates welded together. Two enormous leather gloves, lined with more metal, sat before her. She slid her hands into the gloves, stopping only when she touched the metal tips of their fingers and their cuffs brushed her elbows.

  “Elda planes take advantage of the fact that living metal can interact with the Weave far more effectively than we can,” Tamara said. “The Strekoza is designed to tap into you, and you into it. It should help you manipulate the Weave and should feel like an extension of your body. Your navigator will feed energy into it to keep it going, and the plane, in turn, will feed energy into you, to keep you going.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to fire up now. Are you ready?”

  “What about them?” Revna looked at the silver-coated men standing on the edge of the field. She didn’t really need to ask. Everyone knew the Information Unit was here to report on them, to learn who could use the Weave and put them on some special list so they could all be rounded up after the war. Except Linné. Katya had seen their so-called supervisor talking to the Skarov in a friendly manner, and while Revna knew better than most not to believe everything she heard, she also knew that a last name like Zolonova had a power of its own. A power that would protect Linné even if everyone else in her regiment had to face the firing squad.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Tamara said. “Focus. Are you ready?” Without waiting for Revna’s reply, she activated the plane.

  A burst of energy brought the Strekoza to life. Then the giant hand closed around her, pinning her to her chair.

  She gasped as something slid between her shoulders, piercing the skin of her neck. Tiny jabs, like the needles of a bitter seamstress, bloomed at her chest and midriff. Revna twisted and tried to pull her hands from the gloves. But the metal fingers only bit deeper. They squeezed her until she thought all breath would be pushed out of her. She opened her mouth to scream.

  And then—

  —and then, her heart slowed. The sounds of the world became something new. The biting wind was a tickle; the chill, damp air became soft. When she inhaled, she could smell the sweetness of coming rain, the fresh dirt, the biting smoke from the engineers’ laboratory, gunpowder from the firing range. She felt light, as though the wind could pick her up and take her far over the mountains. Something massive rose in her, breathed with her. She was a great beast awakening from slumber.

  “Open your eyes.” Tamara’s voice came not from behind her, but from someplace inside, someplace she both wasn’t and was.

  She obeyed. Silver strands spread out around her, slim and strong, crisscrossing the air. Some strands were as thick as her arm, pulsing where they intersected and fading as they disappeared into the ground. Some were thinner than a line of spider silk. Under the modified gloves, they were the softest, finest thread she’d ever touched. She plucked one and it undulated, rustling against the threads around it before sliding back into place.

  “I’m going to increase
power,” Tamara said. “You’ll need to hook us on a diagonal cross-thread. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” Revna said. Hopefully.

  “Easy,” Tamara said. “She’s sensitive.”

  Revna felt the gathering excitement of the Strekoza as the engine grumbled. She didn’t pull on the Weave so much as coax the plane to hop away from the earth, light as a bird, and fold its landing claws up into its body. Tamara guided her onto a stronger strand, and they were off.

  They drifted up, resting on the wind and the Weave like the crows and magpies that flitted along Tammin’s roofs. The Strekoza had looked fat and ungainly on the ground, but it was meant to be in the air, meant to be felt from the inside. When Revna flexed her hands, the wings of the Strekoza responded, its simple steel frame adjusting in tiny increments as the flying gloves hooked into the tiniest strands.

  She’d been worried that the plane would still hate her. Now she knew it would never turn on her again.

  “Good,” Tamara said. Revna could feel her smile.

  They made a low circle around the base, almost low enough to scrape the top of the fence or drop a coruna on the hospital roof. From above, the world was a patchwork of brown—chicory roofs, dark mud, beige boards stained with soldiers’ footprints. The Weave flashed silver as Tamara’s spark fed into it.

  What would Tammin look like from the air? The city she’d lived in all her life, the city she’d learned to use the Weave in. Would the palanquins and war beetles feel the pull of her as she passed? She imagined flying over the factory that once stifled her, over the cluster of houses that held Mama and Lyfa and their neighbors. And the next time the Dragons came to Tammin, she wouldn’t be a curse, panicking in the dust-choked street. She would meet them head-on, and she would use the Weave with pride.

  Tamara talked her through the landing as they set down lightly and cut the power. Revna felt the last pieces of their shared emotion slip away, until all she had left was fatigue, satisfaction, pride. The Strekoza’s pilot cage loosened around her chest.

  “Is it true?” she said, twisting around to look at Tamara.

  Tamara’s eyes shone, reflecting Revna’s elation. “Is what true?”

  Could it be legal after the war? Revna licked her lips. “Won’t we make tangles when we fly?”

  “Tiny ones,” Tamara said. “Most tangles resolve themselves in twenty-four hours.” Like Pavi had said at dinner after their first practice. “The major tangles, the magic-distorting, monster-making tangles, take more Weave activity than a hundred Strekozy. The excess spark that comes through the engine will return to the Weave as well, making it stronger.” She smiled as though she knew what Revna was trying to say. “If we can prove it now, we can keep flying after the war. I promise.”

  If we can prove it now. They still had work to do. And now Revna was more determined than ever to do it.

  She used the Weave to help pull herself out of the cockpit, fumbling as she came down. She slammed on the ground. Her feet prickled and her residual limbs throbbed.

  “Well done,” Tamara said, shaking her hand. Then she was off to collect Pavi.

  Katya and Elena rushed to her side. “Are you all right?” said Elena, gripping her by the arm as though she might fall over if she tried to take another step.

  “Fine,” Revna said. And though she limped off the field, she was fine. She was better than fine. Her body felt different, as if she were so much bigger and she’d never known it.

  Tamara took them back to her office after practice was over. The pilots crowded into the little room, rubbing their hands together for warmth as she poured tiny cups of tea from her samovar. She topped off each cup with a dollop of fermented mare’s milk.

  “My dears,” she said, and saluted them with her cup. They saluted back and drank up. Revna tried to keep her mouth from twisting at the sour-bitter taste of the milk. Mama had never been much for drink, and Papa had preferred sugar beet rum freshened with mint. Mare’s milk was a farmland liquor, and Tammin was a factory town. But the rite of passage was more important than the drink itself.

  They sat quiet for a few minutes, savoring the warmth of the room and the spiked tea. The others might be suspiciously Good Union Girls, Revna thought as she sipped, but they were all pilots now.

  “I never really thought we’d do it,” Pavi said at last.

  “I always knew,” Katya said. “We can do anything.”

  That was the secret they shared as they held out their cups and got another splash of strong tea and tangy liquor. That was the secret they smiled over when they went to dinner. Not that they could fly, not that they could use the Weave. We can do anything.

  Dinner was full of a giggling flock of pilots. No one told Linné what was going on, and she didn’t ask. Her day had been wretched enough. The navigators had been given whatever spark-powered machines the base had on hand and had practiced running them. Linné could still feel the prick of the mess generator’s long needle as it slid through her skin, the way her life seemed to suck out of her in a thread. She’d never felt sicker in her life. When her old regiment trained with the spark, she’d had power and control, and now she had neither.

  Worse, no one else had complained. The others had chattered away, theorizing about the pilots and their first flight today, without an apparent care for the spark they lost. She’d been too afraid to ask Nadya how she did it, even though the somber girl read a technical manual while she powered machine after machine.

  Linné kept one eye on the door of the mess in case Tannov or Dostorov made an entrance. They never did. Maybe the Skarov ate something better somewhere else. She got through dinner without a word, which she considered a personal victory. Then she went back to her bed and flopped down on the hard board.

  The so-called Night Raiders would never make it into battle. And if they did, the war would break them.

  The door slammed open and Elena trotted in. She stopped when she saw Linné, her face reddening.

  Well, Linné didn’t know what to say, either. If she had, she might have been a more sociable dinner companion. After a moment she heard the creak of Elena’s bed as she sat and kicked off her boots with a sigh of relief.

  Linné tried to ignore her. All she wanted was to lie there in peace. She’d gotten used to sharing her life with the boys of Koslen’s regiment—a little too used to it—but at Intelgard she felt shut up tight.

  Elena rummaged around in her pack. She looked over and caught Linné watching her. “Not going to the mess?”

  “Why should I?” said Linné.

  “Why indeed,” Elena muttered. She found what she’d been looking for, a pair of black heeled shoes and a wool dress. She unbuttoned her uniform and stripped down until she wore nothing but her bra and underwear. Linné rolled over to face the wall. That was another thing. The girls had no shame. She’d spent years slinking around, changing where no one could see, looking over her shoulder whenever she took off her shirt. She’d gotten up an hour early to bathe and slip shaving foam on her razor. She’d washed her menstruation rags in the middle of the night. She couldn’t bring herself to stop binding her breasts, as though quitting would be an admission that she really did belong here. And though it was wrong to blame Zima’s regiment, Elena’s cavalier attitude seemed off. Un-soldier-like.

  Something clunked on the floor, and Linné turned back over. Elena had dropped her shoes. Her sky-blue dress was more suitable for summer than autumn. Her bare legs would freeze outside, but that didn’t seem to concern her. She slipped her feet into the shoes, grabbed her army jacket, and left without another look at Linné.

  Where was she going dressed like that? The first image that sprang to mind was of a boy waiting somewhere with a flower and a smirk. A blaze crept up Linné’s neck. The Thirty-First would have ranked the Night Raiders according to various lewd themes. She wouldn’t put it past any boy here to try to use sex to prove that women didn’t belong in the army.

  Linné slid off her bed and put on her boot
s. She willed spark to pool in her hands. If she got into a fight, the case would go up to Zima and Hesovec, and rumors would wash through the regiment like a flood. But if she let loose with her magic a little, she might only have to frighten the offending boy. She could always blame it on an incompetent mistake.

  She didn’t bother lacing her boots. She grabbed her coat and hurried out.

  Elena was halfway across the yard, moving as fast as she could in her nice shoes. Wind whipped Linné’s hair into her eyes. The sun had dropped behind the mountains, turning the night a deep cobalt. Her sparked hands steamed.

  Elena went to the mess. But instead of sneaking around the side, like Linné expected, she pulled open the door. Linné heard the soft croon of a trumpet before Elena disappeared within.

  Curious now, Linné went up to the mess and opened the door herself. The warm blast of air was a welcome feeling after the numbing wind. Elena, still at the threshold, registered Linné with a raised eyebrow before turning to Katya.

  Tables and chairs had been stacked along the side of one wall to open up a wide swath of floor. The stove burned merrily, casting light and warmth over the room with the help of a few lamps. A crystal radio played music, faint under the chatter and clack of shoes on the floor, but those who danced seemed to pick out its beat. The girls danced alone or with each other. Linné didn’t spot a boy among them.

  Magdalena came up to her with a broad smile. “What do you think?” she said. Her wild hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and grease streaked her face and uniform from the day’s work. “In celebration of our pilots.”

  Linné searched for a suitable answer. It’s nice would sound too fake. No one invited me sounded too whiny. “Does Commander Zima know about this?”

  She wasn’t sure what she’d meant to say, but she definitely hadn’t meant to sound like a pompous ass. Which was exactly how Magdalena took her comment. She rolled her eyes. “Lighten up.” Which meant, Linné reflected as she watched Magdalena stalk away, that Zima probably didn’t know.