For a few seconds, everything is still. The Valkyrie crouches above us like a curious deity, observing our shock.
Then, the right iris bursts apart, and a moment later, Lucindo’s body follows. He lands gracelessly but upright, hand extending to catch himself on a wrist bolt.
“She’s still there,” he croaks. The boyish impression I first had of him dissolves as he drags a knuckle over his left eye, attempting to remove his blood from the crevices. A humorless chuckle trickles from cracked lips, dark and brittle. “The Gearbreaker. My leg … I think…”
By now I have reached the base of the Valkyrie’s hand, so when he drops I am there to catch him, Jole and Rose at my side. My fingers skim against his neck, feeling his pulse, and his eyes flicker open again.
“Hurts like a bitch…,” he murmurs, then shakes his head. “No … it did hurt. Not now.” He nods toward the half-blind mecha above us. “Ghost hurt—remember what I told you, Sona?”
“Of course, sir,” I say immediately, although my head is spinning. What could do this? Who could possibly do this?
I snap my gaze away from Lucindo’s bloodied face toward someone who has emerged from a split in the Valkyrie’s ankle, hopping over the jagged edge and onto the calf. Dark eyes sweep across the room, over the dozens of freshly made mechas that stand like statues around the hangar, and the crowd of Pilots glaring at her with glowing eyes.
The girl straightens, the gleam of the fluorescent lights glazing over her short-cropped hair.
“Ah,” she says. “Shit.”
And then she takes off up the Valkyrie.
It is ridiculous.
I cannot look away.
I watch as a handful of Pilots leap onto the leg to pursue her, and I watch the corner of her lips tuck into a smirk.
And something strange happens—her hands twine with light, palms flaring with the delicate design of electricity, and then the light unspools, screaming away from her, clawing across the air and vanishing into the meat of a Pilot’s shoulder. He lets out a startled cry, staggers backward until his foot hits open air and he falls to the ground—where his arm shatters into a million irregular pieces.
I cock my head to the side, pulling my sight away from the shrieking Pilot and onto the girl again. I close my left eye.
Raven floods into her hair, and an even darker color into her eyes, lithe and lovely and ignited now, an incredibly steady fury in her expression—I have never seen a scowl quite like hers in my life. It ripples from her brow and pulls her lips back from her teeth, cascading past her face to seal her hands into fists and envelop her shoulders in a rigid but proud stance.
And when I meet her gaze, the one that somehow seems to simmer more viciously than the artificial light forced into mine, I forget myself and draw a breath.
I am not sure if it is just the fact that she had the ability to obliterate a Valkyrie singlehandedly, or the audacity to attack a Pilot in front of twenty of his comrades with a smile pricking her lips, or that she is the first Gearbreaker I have ever laid eyes on and therefore represents every particle of destruction that I wish to embody—but she is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.
Everyone in the Windup hangar has converged on the area at the sound of the commotion. Guards have appeared with rifles already cocked in their hands, aimed at the girl with ferocity stitched tight across her features. She raises her palms again, but this time, nothing sparks from her fingers except a pair of obscene gestures.
“Yeah? Fuck all of you!” she shouts. “Come get me!”
Next to me, Jole shakes his head. “She must know she can’t get away.”
Rose shrugs, smoothing a hand over Lucindo’s hair, peeling strands out of the dried blood. “Gearbreakers. Think they can take on the world.”
“Did you see what she did to me?” Lucindo coughs, jutting his chin upward. “All by herself. The distress call came in from a Phoenix, and by the time I got there, the mecha was already dead. Pilot, too. And there she was, waving at her crew to drive off, screaming up at me to try to get her. I thought she must be out of her mind, but then—”
The girl lets out a mangled shriek as one of the Pilots tackles her, landing a jab to her rib cage as they both go down. He manages to pin her wrist to the Valkyrie’s calf, his hand rising to land another blow. She brings her knee to his stomach, unblinking in the spittle that hacks across her face, and rams her forehead against the bridge of his nose.
The moment the Pilot recoils, her palm presses flat beneath his chin, and his enraged shout winds down to a single note before disappearing altogether. Even from here, I can see the point where his eye flickers out, and an almost sweeter tone takes the girl’s growl as she reaches the same conclusion. But before she can shove him away and leap to her feet, the butt of a guard’s rifle falls against her temple, sending the dark eyes spinning back as she crumples. Her hand drops from the dead Pilot, coming to rest limply over the edge of the Windup.
Even in unconsciousness, the snarl stays pinned to her features.
“Who is she?” I whisper.
“A real pain in Godolia’s ass, that’s who,” Lucindo murmurs, watching as the guard scoops the girl over his shoulder. “Took command of her own crew at fourteen years old but had been in the game for years before that. Supposedly she found a rare pair of cryo gloves, modified them so that they even have enough energy to sap the heat out of a Phoenix. The bounty on her head is staggering, but apparently fitting.”
I shake my head, hiding the fact that my heart is in my throat.
“Yes, but what is her name?”
“Not sure. But they call her the Frostbringer,” he says, and suddenly he is grinning. We all look down at him, bewildered. He slaps Rose’s attentive hand away, craning his neck to steal a last glimpse of the girl before she and the guard disappear into the stunned crowd. “We’ve got one, Valkyries. A Gearbreaker—and she’s going to tell us everything.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ERIS
Wait, what—
I try to open my eyes. Oh Gods. Too bright. Blurry figures shiver around me. These stupid kids. I fell asleep on the couch again. Nova pokes at my ribs with a sharp fingernail; Arsen pinches my cheek viciously. I try to wave them away, but I don’t think my hands move. Not feeling very good. Not even freaking close. Instinctively, I work my tongue against my teeth, counting to make sure each bone-dry tooth is in place. I can’t remember how many I had in the first place.
Wait—
I blink in the sudden light, the situation dropping over me with excruciating clarity, and then get to work mulling over whether or not I’m ready to die. The answer, as always, is not really, which is not really helpful, so I do something that is helpful, instead—reach into the left socket of the person closest to me and rip their eye out.
A sharp, clean pop sounds. Its trailing wires are bloody—ugly, too, so I twist the cords around my fingers and pull. The strands snap, a single spark threading through the air from the broken copper. The pupil flickers out in my palm.
My limbs are forced back to the table. The one-eyed Pilot hovering above stares back, unimpressed, a fingertip reaching up to brush away the stream of blood trickling from the empty socket. Her other eye is green as the Hollows forest in midsummer. I should’ve taken that one, too.
“Imbecilic Gearbreaker,” the Pilot mutters, only slightly inconvenienced. She nods to her comrades, two other Pilots who hold my arms fast against the table. “I have to go get a new eye. Make sure she gets what she deserves.”
“Of course,” the boy to my right chirps briskly, even though the doors have already slid shut behind her. The Pilot on my left snickers.
“Of course,” she mocks. His pasty cheeks flush pink. It’s a strange sight; I didn’t know that Bots could blush.
“What’s the problem with that?” he snaps.
The girl snorts. “Come on, Linel. You might as well call her Queen Victoria and confess your undying love.”
His brow furrows, chee
ks coloring deeper. “Wendy, do all of us a favor and for once shut the hells up.”
I take in as much of the room as I can while they bicker above me. The wall with the door is the only one not made of mirrors, most likely one-way. The only light source is a single fluorescent bulb that pulsates heat down on me, reflecting against the metal of the tabletop. A sheen of sweat breaks across my forehead, and there’s coal dust in my mouth, I realize, from the train job. It seems like mere minutes ago.
“Give me my gloves,” I growl, and they both stop their arguing to blink down at me. I’ve never paid this much attention to a Bot’s face before. They look unnervingly human up close.
“What, these?” the boy says smoothly, lifting them up. They’re clutched heedlessly tight in his hands, veins pinching. It feels like his grip is around my throat.
“Give them,” I bark, and Wendy snorts a laugh.
“Or, what, you gonna go for our eyes, too?”
“Oh, I’m planning on it.”
Another laugh from Wendy, but something darker is stitched around the edges, and she throws the boy a steady look. Then her hand shifts, and a metal clamp is clinking shut around my wrist. Before I can react, Linel does the same on the opposite side. I try to move, only to feel blood swelling in my fingertips, and the skin blushes purple from the pressure.
“Look at her, thrashing,” the boy murmurs. He suddenly doesn’t seem childish or embarrassed at all, the red flush gone from his cheeks. Now he’s grinning, the expression sickly. “How the hells did she almost take down Lucindo?”
“Almost,” I snort. “Tell that to the Valkyrie I left limp on your hangar floor.”
“Uh-uh,” Wendy tuts, when I try to slam my brow against her jaw. She puts her forearm across my neck and shoves my head into place, so when I gasp, I choke, and there’s no air, just the feel of my lungs heaving, spasming. The eyeball slips from my fingers and leaves my palm slick, and I think to myself, with a rabid kind of desperation, I do not want to die here.
Wendy pulls back. While I sputter for air, Linel pinches my hand between his fingers.
“What does it say here?” he asks merrily, squinting at the smudged ink. “If Found: Bury.”
“That’s from Starbreach, you assholes,” I snarl, though Jenny would revel in the fact that I was using her alias as a threat. “And she’s going to fuck up this whole place if you lay a finger on me.”
“Doesn’t look like it,” says Wendy, long, dark hair slipping against my shoulder as her head tilts to read my hand, a thin smile sharpening her mouth. “And where would Starbreach be arrivin’ from, exactly?”
I gather my spit and launch it at her cheek.
Across her face, the grin splits and deepens. My panic roots deeper. I want them both to look away, for those hideous eyes to burst in their skulls.
Wendy takes something out of her pocket—two small knives, set with glossy wooden handles, like they’re part of a dining set. She hands one to Linel.
“Your people like gears, huh?” Wendy whispers, cocking her head. “How ’bout a couple more?”
My breath shudders in my chest, and for a fleeting moment of weakness and selfishness, I wish that the others were with me. Then the room would feel less cold, and I wouldn’t be alone, soaking in the horror stories they tell all the little Gearbreakers about Godolia’s vicious ways.
Linel takes my wrist. “You shouldn’t have messed with the Valkyries, Frostbringer.”
The blade’s edge presses, slips beneath.
Stories no longer.
My scream scrapes up my throat; I choke it back, try to suffocate it in my chest, but once Wendy starts on her side, I can’t keep it in.
Be brave, I beg myself, tears stinging my eyes, drowning out the room and the sight of the blades gliding, devouring, please, for the love of Gods, be brave and get through this.
“Something to say, Frostbringer?” Wendy coos, her voice far away.
Wirefuckers, I screech, but nothing comes out, nothing but another incomprehensible scream.
Shallow, superficial cuts, that’s what I tell myself after they’re done. But the fear is still rooted. This is only the beginning. This is what the rest of my life will be like, however short it may be.
Am I dead yet?
Blood trickles from my forearms, dripping to the ground in uneven intervals. My hands feel cold; it reminds me of the flush of my gloves, the sound of splintering metal.
No, you’re not, so stop being dramatic.
The voice in my head sounds like Jenny.
I count the drops lost. I make mental notes. I attach a dark promise to each one.
I won’t die from this.
I won’t die from this, and that means I can make them pay for it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SONA
“We are here to celebrate,” Lucindo announces from the head of the table. The Spiders have reduced the cuts on his face to nothing but a few superficial pale marks, and stories below our feet, his Valkyrie is being plated with shiny new chrome, iron, and glass. All the Frostbringer’s work, covered up as if it were nothing. “Yesterday’s capture of a Gearbreaker, yes, but more importantly—”
Rose scoops a dollop of whipped cream from her plate, leans across me, and smears it against his forehead. The dining room bursts with riotous laughter from the Valkyries.
Lucindo brings a napkin to his face. “I am removing you from the unit, Rose.”
“Can I finish my cake first?” she asks.
“No.” And then Lucindo lunges for it; Rose snatches her plate and grabs the dessert whole in her hand, unhinges her jaw to deliver it home.
“So. Godsdamn. Good,” she moans, crumbs clustered at the corners of her mouth.
I take a bite of my cake while they collect themselves, hold it on my tongue as long as I can. In the Academy, the students were hardly ever allowed sugar, except on Heavensday—the end-of-the-year celebration—but my childhood sweet tooth was never truly curbed. I blame my mother, with the kitchen smelling of freshly fried yakgwa whenever a birthday crept up and we had enough honey in the cabinet, the pastries pressed in the shape of small flowers with the bottom of a teacup.
Jole, at Rose’s right, must see my elation, because he brings his plate over to mine and deposits his whipped cream onto my slice.
“As I was trying to say,” Lucindo says, now back in his seat, cheeks flushed, “the true cause of celebration: Sona, our newest Valkyrie, successfully—and flawlessly, I might add—executed her very first mission today!”
He grins at me. I trace my gaze against his mouth, the creases pinching his eyes. The cake is cottony in my throat.
“To many more!” Rose cheers, raising her glass.
Around the dining table, every Pilot mirrors her. Victoria, sitting at the opposite end with Linel and Wendy, even tips her glass in my direction, albeit with a scowl. All eyes are on me, red irises searing, glancing off the silver of the cups.
“To many more!” they shout.
Today, I was a fantastic soldier.
Now, because of it, I want to cry, and just never stop crying. I want to choke on my cake. I have the strange, violent urge to swallow my fork, to feel the metal catch awkwardly in my throat, prongs snagging raw, pillowy flesh; I cannot hurt, but I can give myself something to claw at.
I do not cry. I cradle the heat behind my eyes until it dissipates. There is no quaking breath to fret over, to smooth back, not when there are tiny filters placed in the flesh of my throat to oxygenate my cells, leagues more efficient than my lungs.
The most vulnerable part of any piloted Windup is the Pilot itself. Back in the Springtide War, battles were often strategically set beside bodies of water, so that enemy autonomous mechas could drag Godolia Windups below the surface, cracking their eyes so the deities could only flail as their smaller selves, their Pilots, drowned blindly. In dry battles, Godolia’s enemies would flood the terrain with poisonous gases, sending out their Windups with the sole purpose of grappling with G
odolia mechas and then exploding, allowing for a breach. Pilots breathed, and so they fell. Godolia’s creation of oxygenation tech was said to have turned the tide of war. Without breath, it did not matter if their bodies were thrown like rag dolls underwater, if their forms were shrouded with noxious fumes: As long as the Pilots stayed conscious and connected to their cords, they could fight. And they did. And they won.
And now, without the rise and fall of my chest, there is one less telltale sign of the panic.
“Tell us about it, Sona,” Jole says a while later, when most of the Valkyries are thick with drink, including Rose; she hums as she rocks herself from side to side between us.
“Oh yes!” she exclaims, gripping my arm, eyes unfocused but shining. “Tell!”
“It was only an escort mission,” I respond, resisting the urge to recoil from her touch. “Like all your first runs.”
“Our first runs don’t usually involve a brawl with Starbreach,” says Lucindo, leaning back in his chair, that lazy, permanent smile hung on his lips.
When I speak, my words are soft. “She might still be alive.”
Lucindo chuckles. “No need to be modest, Sona.”
Under the table, my hands tighten around each other.
I am not being modest, because there is nothing to be modest about—there is no pride in what I have done today. Nothing but the lurch of nausea in my gut, twined by guilt.
“I went north.” Rose is leaned up against Jole, Lucindo attentively angled forward on his forearms. The other Valkyries stop chattering to listen in. I want to take a deep breath, but this would be a telltale; this would be pointless. The Mod barbed to my throat strings air across my vocal cords whenever I need to speak. “To a resource village, Franconia, just off the Hana River. I was to escort a hoverbarge of fresh water.”
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