Storm Fall

by Tracy Banghart

  Ward Vadim added, “I’d also like to invite you to attend a ceremony in Ruslana. To honor all you’ve done for the war effort, and for me.”

  A ceremony? The conversation was turning surreal. Three months ago, she’d been threatened with prison time if she talked, and now they wanted to throw her a party?

  Aris was from a small village, with small dreams. She wanted more now—or something different, anyway—but that didn’t mean she’d suddenly developed a taste for life in the public eye. She cringed at the thought of standing in front of all those people at the ceremony, cameras flashing.

  Aris tried to focus. “Will, um, reporters want to interview me?”

  “Spiro is still in a war zone.” Commander Nyx stood. “That means no reporters. Our gates are closed to anyone who doesn’t have authorization. I will not let this disrupt our training or search and rescue missions. But they may approach your parents. You should make them aware of the possibility.”

  Her mother might not mind, but her father would be horrified.

  Still, this wasn’t about them. It was about her. And if Ward Vadim thought it was important, how could she refuse? With a steadying breath, Aris said, “If this is what you think Atalanta needs, I’m in.”

  Chapter 4

  Milek was pacing the hall when Aris emerged from Commander Nyx’s office.

  “All set?” he asked, pausing before her.

  Aris nodded, still a little shell-shocked.

  “I’ll show you the Officer’s Lounge first, while we’re over here.” Milek said. “And then we’ll go to your room. You’ll be sharing with Specialist Pallas.”

  Aris wasn’t entirely surprised Pallas was a woman. Another flyer, Specialist Pallas had struggled with target practice even more than Aris had. “What about her sectormate?”

  “Specialist Rozam is no longer here.” Milek shot a quick glance at her. “When the ban was lifted, Pallas decided to continue on without her disguise. Rozam wasn’t of the same mind. She chose to leave the Military.” He turned down a corridor and stopped before a frosted door with “OL” etched into the glass. “Normally we wouldn’t put an officer with a specialist, but I think you both will need the support.”

  “Aren’t there any other women here at Spiro?”

  Milek pressed a pad on the wall, and the door slid open. “No. Just Specialist Pallas, Commander Nyx, and you.”

  Aris glanced around as he ushered her into the Officer’s Lounge. Like every other room on point, it had no windows, just blank white walls and a glowing ceiling. But a plush red rug covered the floor, and several comfortable, thick-cushioned chairs and sofas were arranged around a low table. Along the back wall, a long counter sported a jar of tea, a teapot, and a frother, along with a small foodsaver.

  “It’ll be different now,” Aris said, thinking of the loud rec room with stained, sagging chairs where she, Dysis, Galec, and Otto had played splots and sent comms to their families. “But I think this kind of different will be good. Hard maybe, while we wait for you men to adjust. But good.”

  “I’ve adjusted,” Milek said mildly.

  She leaned against the arm of a chair, considering him. “You didn’t adjust, though. It never bothered you. Even at the beginning, right after my veil broke. Why is that, do you think?”

  He shrugged and took a seat. “I don’t know. Honestly, if it had happened a different way, maybe it would have.”

  “What do you mean?” She sank into the chair, comfortable in this room—with him—in a way she hadn’t been with her friends at home in Lux, who knew nothing of her life as a soldier.

  After a moment, Milek replied, “If someone had told me women were going to join Military and that was all I had to go on, I might have asked the same questions other men are asking now. ‘Can they really do it?’ and ‘Why would they want to?’”

  “But?” She found herself admiring his broad shoulders and the hard line of his jaw. Silly girl.

  He stood abruptly and walked to the counter. “But I was lucky enough to see you in action. You’re an incredible flyer. And you worked harder than most of the other soldiers under my command. So many young men are chosen for Military and have no desire to fight. And here you were, fighting for this.”

  A blush swarmed up her cheeks. “Thank you, sir. I hope . . . I hope I don’t let you down.”

  She’d made progress in the past month, but flying wasn’t the easy-as-breathing activity it had been for her back then.

  “You’ll do fine.” Milek busied himself with the teapot. A quiet hiss filled the room as he placed it beneath the frother. “But I understand that it might be difficult at first. We’ll work through it.”

  “Do you think everyone has demons?” It was the closest she let herself come to acknowledging her own.

  “I think we’re all fighting something.” He didn’t look up. To her surprise he continued, his voice gruff. “Sometimes I wake up in a panic, convinced my mother is still captive. Or I dream that I’m too late, and Elom has killed her. It’s almost worse when I wake up thinking my father is still alive.”

  “I’m sorry.” Aris stared at the back of his head as he bent over the teapot, wishing she could comfort him somehow. She gulped down a breath and confessed, “I dream about Elom, too, and the men I killed. It’s like they’re waiting, just at the edges of my mind, ready to take their revenge.”

  Milek turned, leaned back against the counter, and met her gaze. “The men I’ve killed haunt me, too.”

  “How do you make peace with it?” she asked. “What do you do to remind yourself that they deserved it?”

  “That’s the thing about war,” he said after a pause. He handed her a teacup full of strong, milky tea. Its spicy scent stung her nose. “No one deserves to be killed. But sometimes it can’t be helped. I find peace in the conviction that Ward Balias cannot be allowed to destroy Atalanta. Most of those we kill are not evil in and of themselves, but they are fighting as part of an evil.”

  Aris stared at the curl of steam rising from her cup, grateful for the warmth that seeped into her cold hands. “Do you think the Safaran soldiers see it that way?”

  “Of course not. To them, we are the evil.” The darkness in Milek’s voice sent a chill along her spine.

  ***

  Specialist Pallas was just leaving when Aris and Milek arrived at the room the two women would share.

  With a brief, inscrutable glance at Aris and a nod to Pallas, Milek retreated.

  “Hey, Aristos,” Pallas said. “I mean . . .” Her voice petered out.

  Like Aris, Pallas had abandoned the head shaving. Her short blond hair waved over thin brows and grayish-blue eyes. Without her veil, the girl was gawky and angular, with sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin.

  “It’s Aris, actually,” Aris clarified, shifting her bag hand to hand.

  “Right. My first name’s Tia, but I prefer Pallas anyway.” She cocked her head. “Nice scar.”

  Aris wasn’t sure if a thank-you was appropriate.

  “I’m heading to the mess for some food,” Pallas said. “Want to join?”

  Aris hadn’t eaten anything since a small bowl of starberry-oat mash with Dianthe that morning, so she nodded, though the knots in her stomach grumbled uneasily at the thought of food. She dropped her bag in the room and followed Pallas down the hall.

  The noise of clinking silverware and the low rumble of voices spilled out of the cafeteria before they arrived at the doorway. Pallas paused for a split second before entering, as if bracing herself.

  When Aris crossed the threshold, faces snapped in her direction, like flags all caught by the same strong gust of wind. Her eyes automatically alighted on the long table just inside, where she’d always sat with Dysis, Galec, and Otto.

  Otto was in his usual spot, his potbelly pressing against the edge of the table. Beside him sat an empty chair with a black ribbon strung along its back.

  Galec’s chair.

  A lump rose in her throat. She could almost see
him sitting there still, his close-cropped red hair standing at attention, mirth sparkling in his eyes. He’d be making fun of Otto’s impressive belly, or giving them all an update on his daughter. Aris swallowed hard.

  Across from Otto, facing away from the door, sat a muscular man with a shaved head. A tattoo of two skeletal hands reached up the back of his neck on either side of his Military brand, as if they meant to crush his skull.

  “Who’s that?” Aris asked, cocking her head toward the stranger.

  “My gunner, Baksen,” Pallas replied. “He’s alright.”

  Aris nodded to Otto as they passed the table. His eyes widened, and then he smiled, looking genuinely pleased to see her.

  The line for food was short; they’d missed the initial rush. As Aris grabbed a tray, a dish of pea-and-piggin pie, and a glass of water, a man came up behind her and reached for a bowl of fruit, his arm rubbing hard against the side of her breast.

  “Watch it,” Aris growled, moving out of reach. She sent a glare in his direction. It was the ginger-haired kid from the transjet.

  “My apologies,” he said, smirking. The guy standing behind him snickered.

  Ahead of her, a tall, muscular soldier leaned over Pallas’s shoulder. The girl’s ears flushed bright red. “. . . wouldn’t want you to ruin your figure. I have plans for that fine—”

  Enough. Aris grabbed two sugar pastries and dropped them onto Pallas’s tray, nudging her forward and away from whatever the feral-eyed soldier was about to suggest. Aris’s sharp elbow found its way into his side as she pushed around him, but she didn’t turn to gauge his reaction.

  They wove back through the tables, whispers following them. Aris didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, but she could feel the weight of their stares. By the time she reached Otto’s table, her chest was tight and anger pounded in her head.

  “Mind if I join you?” Aris directed the question at Otto, the first words she’d said to him since before the mission that had killed his sectormate. Galec’s memory hung between them, along with an unacknowledged grief.

  “Of course, Lieutenant.” Otto grinned at her, but his face was tinged with sadness. “Back for more, I see?”

  She wanted to tell him she was sorry. That she missed Galec, too. Instead, as she sat beside him in Dysis’s old seat, she cocked her head at Baksen and Pallas, who’d taken the seat opposite her. “Have you got them playing splots yet?” Aris asked.

  Otto’s smile widened. “I have, and they’re absolute rubbish.”

  “I wouldn’t underestimate our skills,” Pallas said with forced cheerfulness. She still looked a little shaken by the food line incident. Baksen was watching the muscled soldier who’d harassed her; he’d found a seat two tables over.

  “Lieutenant Haan, please report to the landing pad,” a tech voice announced over the intercom.

  Milek had told Aris there’d be a briefing to explain her new duties as Lieutenant, but that wasn’t for a few more hours. She shrugged apologetically to her dining companions, scooped two hurried bites of pie into her mouth, and dropped her tray onto the conveyor that shuttled the dirty dishes into the kitchen.

  When Aris reached the landing pad, it was deserted save for the shining rows of wingjets along its edges. In the distance, a towering bank of cloud promised afternoon thunderstorms, and the air was sticky with humidity. She leaned against the warm, curved side of the building and waited, not sure who or what exactly she was waiting for. Her stomach rumbled, protesting the abbreviated meal.

  A faint sound caught her attention. The whistle of a stiff breeze. She straightened. The forest that pressed along the edges of the dusty plain remained serene.

  Out of nowhere, a spark of silver zipped along her peripheral vision.

  What the—

  The buzzing grew louder. In the middle of the empty landing pad, a tiny wingjet appeared, dropping gently from a hover to the ground.

  Aris stared, open mouthed. Before she had time to process, the wingjet’s shield slid back, revealing Milek. He hopped to the tarmac, an uncharacteristically large smile on his face.

  “Where—where did you come from?” Aris stuttered. “I was watching—”

  “That’s the beautiful thing about an invisible wingjet.” Excitement hummed in his voice. “You don’t see it coming.”

  She couldn’t seem to stop staring. “Pardon me?”

  “The tech’s like the diatous veil,” he explained. “But instead of changing how the jet looks, it just makes it disappear. Ruslanan techies have been working on it for years.”

  Aris’s mind raced. She placed a tentative hand on the silver side of the wingjet, as she might on an unruly horse. An invisible wingjet.

  “With it, we’ll be able to scout over enemy lines and ferret out Elom without his spies catching on. We’ll have the advantage.” His face lit with an expression she’d never seen on it before. Like a child with a sparkly new toy.

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?” she asked. As in, immediately after I landed?

  He laughed. “It’s still classified. I had to get permission from Commander Nyx first. She’s authorized us to take it on a test flight. Are you up for it?”

  “Absolutely.” Energy sang through Aris’s every nerve ending as she scrambled onto the wing. Inside, one narrow leather seat with thick black straps was wedged behind the curving nav panel. She glanced back at Milek. “There’s only room for one person.”

  “I’ll follow you in a recon,” he said. “We’ll be in touch via comms. If anything feels off, let me know. I’ll watch to be sure the veiling tech works.”

  Aris dropped into the seat and strapped herself in. A control box, presumably for the cloaking tech, was affixed just under the nav panel. It had two switches, one green and one red.

  “Try flipping the red switch,” Milek called.

  She did as he asked and with a low hum, the nose of the wingjet shimmered and then disappeared.

  “Blighting incredible,” she said in awe.

  Milek whistled low in his throat. “Uncanny. It’s as if your head is suspended in air.”

  “This is so crazy.” Aris hit the lever for the dome, enclosing herself in the whirring heart of the wingjet. Below, Milek shook his head, a huge grin on his face, then jogged to the nearest recon.

  Aris began the warm-up sequence. For the moment, her excitement outweighed the nervousness she’d felt on every flight for the past few weeks.

  A minute later, she heard, “Ready to go, Lieutenant?” in her helmet.

  She grinned. “How do you know I haven’t already taken off?”

  “Good point,” he said, an answering smile in his voice. “There should be a small green switch below the cloaking switch. Do you see it?”

  Her finger caught against it. “Yes.”

  “Flip that on. It makes your coordinates, altitude, and speed visible to all other wingjets in the Atalantan network within fifty miles.”

  Aris did as he asked.

  A second later, “There. I see you on the nav.”

  Aris pulled gently on the controls. The tiny wingjet rose, its engine firing with a happy rumble. “What if Safara hacks into the network?”

  “They haven’t breached it yet,” Milek replied. “But the jet can go completely undetectable if necessary.”

  At first it was disconcerting to stare out of the windshield only to see white tarmac below. No pointed wingjet nose, no sloping wings to her left and right. A silver shimmer clung along the edges of the glass, another sign the tech was doing its job.

  Maybe the illusion would have bothered another flyer, but as Aris dipped and spun, her tension eased and her heart rate steadied.

  She had never before felt so close to the wide, blue sky.

  Chapter 5

  Pyralis wasn’t surprised when Galena shook her head at the glass of water an aide offered her. She kept her chin high, but he could see the pain in her eyes as she remembered her last experience in this room.

  It was here in this bom
b-resistant, high-security room below Atalanta’s capitol building that Galena had unknowingly ingested dangerous meds and been spirited away by Safaran operatives disguised as menders. It still galled him that it had happened here, under his watch. He should have known, somehow. He should have made sure it never happened at all.

  Galena sat across from him, beside Sera Rosum, Castalia’s Ward. Sera’s thick gray hair swung in a heavy braid down her back, and the two wings of her Health brand peeked out above her pale-pink dress’s neckline. She drummed long golden fingernails against the smooth, white table.

  “Surely you see the seriousness of this threat,” Galena said, addressing Sera. Pyralis didn’t blame her. There was no point in engaging Hal Wicton, Meridia’s Ward; he’d already made it clear, in this meeting and others, that his dominion had no interest in joining the fight. Even now, his golden eyes wandered to the pretty aide offering refreshments.

  Sera’s hand paused, the clack-clack-clack of her fingernails ceasing. “You’re right, Ward Vadim,” she said. “I can’t deny Safara’s threat. And neither do I deny that you’ve suffered a terrible injustice.” Her gaze drifted beyond Galena’s shoulder. With a frown, Pyralis realized Sera couldn’t bring herself to look at Galena’s scarred face. “But Castalia is still dependent on trade with Safara, and there’s no evidence that your kidnapping wasn’t merely the action of a single extremist. Aided by Ward Nekos’s wife, of course.” At that, she shot him a narrow look.

  “Do you honestly believe Ward Balias had no knowledge of Elom’s plan?” he asked, his voice murderously quiet. They still couldn’t prove that Ward Balias had known about Galena’s capture. Even Bett had only ever spoken with Elom. But as far as Pyralis was concerned, Ward Balias had authorized the scheme. In his mind, there was no question.

  “It doesn’t matter what we believe,” Hal broke in. “The Peace Accords clearly state that no dominion is required to financially or militarily support another unless the threat extends beyond a single dominion. We could choose to provide aid, as Ruslana has, but unless there is absolute proof that the government of Safara has targeted both Atalanta and Ruslana, we are not required to act.”