Linné unfastened her harness and used Revna’s chair to push herself up. “I’m sorry.” And she sounded as though she meant it. “I didn’t join for this.”
When Revna pulled herself from the cockpit, Linné was there with Magdalena to grab an arm, and they limped away together.
“I can’t believe…” Magdalena didn’t seem to know how to finish.
“We had to,” Revna said. The words twisted her heart like a knife.
Linné opened her mouth, then closed it. Opened it again. “You flew well tonight,” she said.
“Yes,” Revna mumbled. She had flown well. The Union required it of her, after all. And what the Union demanded, she gave.
15
FAITH AND LOYALTY
Linné pulled off her gloves and rubbed her frozen nose as she headed toward the men’s bar. She didn’t care what stupid rules they had. She didn’t feel like pretending tonight. Part of her had burned away under that relentless barrage of fire. And she couldn’t feel most of her face.
It was near dawn and the bar was largely empty. A couple of aviators sat in the corner with warm cups. They raised their brows when she came in but turned away when she glared.
The soldier behind the bar was less sympathetic. “You’ve been in here before,” he said, pulling out a glass and pouring himself a finger of dark sugar beet rum. “You know the rules.”
“I’ll pay you extra,” she said.
“That’s not the point.”
“What’ll they do, send you to the iron mines? Make you bomb your own side?” Her throat closed up as she spat out the words. Not here. No more crying, and not here of all places. She bit her tongue until the burn in her eyes subsided. “Give me something.”
Maybe he gave her something out of respect or understanding. Maybe he gave her something out of pity. She watched him pour a measure of amber rum into a cup, then top it off with tea. When she handed him a ten-crown note, he passed it back. “Just tea, all right?” he said, and winked.
He was definitely feeling pity. “Take it,” Linné said. “Make a tab.”
The kindness in his eyes dimmed and his mouth twitched down. “Your father know you drink this much?”
What would her father have said about destroying their own? He must know. If he hadn’t approved the strategy himself, he’d have heard about it by radio. She wondered if it weighed on him, or if it was a normal night. After all, he made decisions about the war every day.
She collapsed at a table by the corner. Her nose stung as feeling began to return to it. The radio played softly, a crooning love tune for the early hours of the morning. She wanted to kick it across the room.
A figure sat down across from her. “Go away,” she said.
“Hard night,” said Tannov. She hadn’t seen him come in, but he’d gotten a drink, sugar beet rum without the tea. “I listened to the radio dispatches.”
“Was that before or after you interrogated Pavi and Galina?”
Tannov raised his hands in defense. “Pavi and Galina are recovering in a fine hospital. I’m sure they’ll be rejoining you in no time.”
“Right.”
“Don’t punish me for Union law, Linné. Those girls were gone for five hours. Would you have let them go if you were in my position?”
Linné would never have been in his position. “What do you want?”
“You look like you’ve had it rough.” His wide eyes seemed so innocent, so honest. Maybe this was how he got people to spill their secrets. How he kept getting her to take walks with him. “You look like you need a drink, which you’ve managed, and you look like you need a friend, which you haven’t.”
“Asshole,” Linné said.
“What, are all the girls waiting outside to talk to you? Because they weren’t when I came in a minute ago,” he said, and now there was an edge to his tone.
Linné sipped her tea. By the time she lowered her glass, he was back to the no-cares expression he always wore.
“Sit with me awhile,” he said. “It’s not going to kill you.”
She didn’t know how to reply to that, so she didn’t. She drained her glass and pushed it toward him. “I made a tab.”
“Bad habit to get into, trust me.” He carried her glass up to the bar all the same, and his own as well. The barman leaned around him to look at her, but if he had any serious objections, he didn’t bring them up with the infamous Information Unit.
When Tannov returned, she took the cup he offered and held it between her hands, leaning in so that the steam hit her face. The throbbing in her nose lessened. Was she imagining things, or did Tannov’s typical smile seem forced around the edges?
“Would you have done it?” she said. “Bombed Tammin?”
The smile flattened. “Of course,” he said. “An order is an order.” That was the Skarov answer. The old Tannov wouldn’t have been so quick to judge. But she saw uncertainty in the way he stared into his glass, sloshing the rum around inside. His amber eyes were wide and serious, and utterly impossible to read.
“Maybe it was a trick,” she pressed. “Maybe we failed again.”
Tannov shook his head, and the sad smile was back. He stretched out a hand to take one of hers. Linné pulled away. He didn’t seem to notice. “The Elda already have a strong advantage with the Skyhorses and Dragons. If they captured our working factories, they could establish a supply line far too close to the front. The war would be over for us. It was the right thing to do.”
It didn’t feel like the right thing to do. But saying so might be treason, so Linné kept her opinion to herself.
“Nobody blames you for hesitating,” Tannov said.
Did he mean it? Were his outstretched hand and earnest gaze all fake? “Commander Kurcik does,” Linné said.
“Maybe,” he conceded.
“And Zima.”
“She would have hesitated, too. That’s why she was so hard on you for it.”
“And maybe Revna.” She said this to herself, almost quietly enough to be masked by the croon of the radio. Almost.
Tannov brought his glass to his lips. “Is she still your pilot?”
“Who else would be?” She downed her cup. The tea was getting cold anyway. The alcohol buzzed in her, making her waspish. “What’s it to you?”
“I told you once.” He rose to get another round.
Revna should blame her. It was Linné who had refused to read the semaphore signal and gotten them in trouble. She’d never imagined an order like that. She thought of the scorched fields and torched houses her ground unit had seen as they marched from battle to battle. She’d assumed the Elda had destroyed her Union land. But what if the razing had been planned by the generals? By her father?
The Union always had reasons, she reminded herself. Kurcik hadn’t gotten command of the Ryddan steppe by being a fool. FAITH AND LOYALTY UNTO DEATH, as the posters said. It wasn’t her place to question.
Tannov slid back into the seat across from her with two glasses of amber rum. “Let’s toast,” he said abruptly. His mouth twisted in a bitter imitation of a smile.
“To what?”
“To a future Hero of the Union. You do what you have to do.”
She resisted the urge to make a rude gesture. They clinked glasses and drank. The rum burned like lit lamp oil all the way down. Linné massaged her throat and concentrated on Tannov, waiting for the dizziness to stop.
“I do what I have to do,” she said, but she wasn’t so sure.
“You know I believe in you, don’t you?” The bitter smile remained. His eyes shone with something like a fever. “Once, we said we’d be Heroes of the Union together. You can still do it.”
Linné pressed a thumbprint onto her empty glass. “Of course I can.” She barely stopped herself from saying, Can you? “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Careful.” He tapped the table. “Being the general’s daughter only gets you so far.”
“I seem to recall a cocky Information Officer telling me that all
I needed to do was convince the colonel to let us fly.” And look how well that had turned out.
“And you need to remain in good standing,” he added.
“I am in good standing.”
“As long as your pilot doesn’t get in the way.”
Tannov swam in and out of focus. Did she need one more rum, or one less? “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She disobeyed orders. She talked back to your commander.”
“How do you know what my pilot says?”
“I know everything, Linné.” Tannov leaned in. “It’s not a good start to a military career. Do you want to go down with her?”
Faith and loyalty, Linné thought. “She lived there. What would you have done?”
“I would kill my own mother before I let the Elda capture her. Why wouldn’t Roshena do the same?” He leaned forward. “Think about it. Her father’s a political prisoner. She joined your unit because she was offered an incentive that would erase her family’s criminal past. She could denounce her father a thousand times and I wouldn’t believe her. It’s us she hates. The Union. Maybe she wants revenge, or maybe she wants the Elda to succeed. Either way, she’s not on our side.”
“She did bomb her own reaching,” Linné pointed out.
“On threat of disciplinary action.”
Linné searched Tannov’s face for any sign of sympathy. He really was different now. “If you’re so sure, why not arrest her?” He was a blank mask, hard and foreign. “You can’t,” she realized. “Pavi and Galina broke rules, but Revna hasn’t done anything.” And Commander Zima protected her. “It’s all conjecture.”
“Revna hasn’t done anything yet,” Tannov said. “It’s only a matter of time. Don’t get caught in the crossfire. Don’t put your life and career on the line for someone who doesn’t even want to fly with you.”
Faith and loyalty. She could put faith in her pilot or be loyal to her Union. She couldn’t do both.
Revna ought to have been sleeping. Not that many of the girls were. They lay in silence, breathing evenly, pretending together. Shapes swirled in the darkness, of fire, of headless men, of gutted buildings. Her mind supplied the screams, the crackling, the pounding of blood in her ears. She imagined her mother and Lyfa, limbs charring in the spark fire brought by the Dragons and the Strekozy. First her father had been taken away because of her. Now the rest of her family was gone at her hand. And all for the good of the Union.
It’s not true, she told herself. They’re not dead. But if they were—
Maybe she’d get a letter commending their ultimate service. Maybe she’d get nothing.
She began to tremble. She hated the Union and everything it had done to her. The false hope. The promise of something better if she only fell in line. Her father might as well be dead, and nobody cared. Mama and Lyfa might be buried in the rubble of Tammin Reaching, and nobody cared. Nobody cared if she offered her life or her family or her everything.
There had to be something she could do. She rolled to the edge of the bed and fumbled for her prosthetics, pulling on the socks and pins, then the legs themselves. They might be all that was left of her family now. But she couldn’t think like that. Grabbing her writing kit, she made her way out the door as quietly as she could.
It had snowed again after they’d landed and the ground was a fresh white blanket, crusted over with frost. Someone had sprinkled salt on the boards. She’d have to be extra careful cleaning her prosthetics later. They hated salt. She stepped carefully, toes crunching on the snow and chipping at the ice underneath.
The mess was empty, except for a bored cook cleaning a pot. Revna collapsed into the nearest chair. She didn’t realize anyone had followed her until Linné took the seat next to her. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Of course. Of course it had to be her. And she smelled sickly sweet, as if she’d been drinking. Revna mustered her best disdainful glower. “Obviously.”
For a moment the mask slipped and Linné flashed a brief, bitter smile. Her eyes and voice were clear, for all that she smelled like cheap liquor. “You’re thinking about your family.”
“You don’t know what I think.” About the base, about the army, and yes, about her family. Or about you.
“Do you want some tea?” Linné got up without waiting for an answer.
It would be easier in the long run to try to make friends. But as she watched Linné face off against the cook, arms folded, something in Revna seethed and boiled. Linné always demanded her way. She never said thank you, and she never tried to learn from others. Maybe Linné could learn something from being treated the way she treated everyone else.
And Revna didn’t have to talk to Linné. She was busy. She took out her writing kit and set a clean, cream-colored sheet on the table. Her fingers fumbled as she scraped her pocketknife against her pencil.
How did you address a letter to someone who might be dead?
The unwritten letter was a perfect abomination. Any thought she put down would mar its surface. But leaving it blank meant that she’d never send it. And maybe she’d never know if Mama and Lyfa had survived.
She scratched out words in a daze. Linné set a teacup down next to her with a clink. “Sorry,” she muttered, though Revna wasn’t sure what she was sorry for. Revna picked up the cup and took a gulp. Cold tea washed down her throat.
“Cook said he’d make fresh tea with breakfast, and not before,” Linné explained, taking a sip from her own cup. She made a face. Revna pushed her teacup away and looked back at her page.
Dear Mama,
I hope you are well, and Lyfa, too. I am
She balled up the paper and flicked it away. How could she even think of writing soulless garbage like that to her family? They deserved better, and she knew she could do better. She pulled out a fresh sheet and tried again.
Dear Mother,
I heard about what happened to Tammin. I hope you could stay in the Protectors bunker. I miss you but things are going well and
She stopped again. She’d gone from garbage to outright lies. She imagined her mother clutching the letter with charred fingers, tears cleaning a path down her sooty cheeks, clinging to the hope that her little girl would save the day.
Linné took out a rascidine cigarette. “It’s difficult.” She spoke the words so coolly. As if she wanted to make casual conversation while she smoked. Her eyes rested on Revna’s pencil.
Revna’s hand convulsed around the paper, bunching it up into another ball. “Are you reading my letter?” Her throat closed off around letter, nearly choking her in her own rage.
Their eyes locked. And Revna saw, for the first time, a sort of sorrow, of sympathy. That Linné didn’t understand her but could acknowledge the tragedy.
“Was… is your entire family there?”
“Everyone who’s left,” said Revna. She didn’t feel like elaborating, and Linné didn’t ask.
Linné took the crumpled papers and smoothed them out. “I used to see this a lot in my old regiment,” she said. “If you run out of paper, you’ll have to formally request more, and it could take weeks. Practice writing on these. Then you can get a fresh sheet when you’re ready.”
Revna took them back, pressing on a wrinkled edge. Her head filled with memories of Lyfa pulling the covers over her head each morning as Mama drew the blackout curtains. Mama making rolls in the shape of cat faces. Papa, tall and broad, slim screwdrivers in his hands as he adjusted her prosthetics. Now each of those memories came with the twisting smell of fire and ash, smoke and melting metal.
Her pencil scratched over the paper without permission from her brain. She heard Linné’s desperate voice saying, He’s telling us to bomb the reaching. The squeal of the trigger as it released Magdalena’s creation. She felt the weight of the Union pressing down until she couldn’t breathe, squashing her until she lost the ability to do anything but obey. There was nothing, nothing she could write that would possibly encompass all she needed to say.
She d
idn’t know how long she sat there. Linné sat, too, drinking her tea, looking bedraggled. Other girls came in and ate and left again. Revna ignored them. She ignored the bowl of porridge when it was set beside her, too.
“Eat,” said Linné.
“No.”
“Eat, or I’ll have Zima take you off the evening roster.”
“You wouldn’t.” Revna looked up. “You couldn’t stand to miss a flight yourself.” But now that her concentration was broken, the smell of the porridge made her remember her stomach. Dinner had been worlds ago. Her brain felt heavy, as if each stroke of her pencil had dropped a pebble into her skull. She pulled the bowl toward her.
“Good, isn’t it?” Linné said.
“Needs salt,” Revna grumbled.
Linné’s mouth turned up at the corner.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” Revna said around a mouthful.
“What do you mean?”
“You got me tea. You got me breakfast. You’ve been sitting with me this whole time. Why?”
Linné opened her mouth to reply. Then she stopped. She seemed to rehearse the words in her head before she spoke. “If my home had burned last night, I know what I’d be doing today.”
“What?” Revna said.
“I’d be screaming,” she said. “Inside and out.” Her eyes flicked away, down to the table, as if she were ashamed to be so frank. Then the space between her eyebrows creased.
Revna followed her gaze. Her two sheets of paper were filled to the brim with writing. Big letters, small ones, fluid ones, cramped ones. Creeping down the margins, written over one another, seething on the page. A crawling mass of thought.
One sentence, written over and over and over and over.
Please don’t be dead.
“Please,” Revna said. “I’m—” She couldn’t say fine. She wasn’t fine—even she knew that. Everyone knew that. “I can fly.”
“I know,” said Linné, but she was looking at her oddly.
“I need to do it.” She’d rather see anything burn than Tammin, night after night. She needed revenge. Revenge against the stupid boy with his semaphore signals, against Tamara for screaming at them. Against Commander Kurcik, whoever he was, for making the order in the first place. Against the Union—no. Never against the Union, never again. But against the Elda for choosing Tammin as their next march. Against the Elda for turning the pale blue winter into a winter of soot and ash. “I can do it.”
We Rule the Night Page 21