by Maura Milan
“Miffing hell!” she screamed into the belly of Aphelion’s remains. She beat at her chest, trying to stoke her anger, but only tears came in its place. Why was she crying?
Behind her, she heard rocks shift underneath soft footsteps.
“Ia.” It was Brinn’s voice.
Ia quickly pressed her palms against her eyes to wipe away her tears, but when she turned, she knew it hadn’t helped much.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Ia said.
“But it is.” Brinn’s voice echoed against the torn metal and ragged rocks, filling the empty hollows of space that used to be whole, and vibrant, and alive. “I trusted you, and look what you did.”
Ia took in the destruction around her. When she first came to this place, she had fantasized about flattening it to the ground, until all that was left was ash and debris. But that was before she knew the people who traversed these halls.
There were Aaron, Geoff, Knives, even that girl Angie. And then there was Brinn. This place had been filled with good people, people she would call friends if they weren’t Bugs. She felt the greased fingers of guilt tug at her insides.
All of her decisions came with consequences. She remembered the face of the Tawny Elder after Einn had tortured him. She blinked and she saw the sad eyes of Liam Vyking, transformed the day his father came back broken from the war. With each flutter of her eyelids, the faces shifted to those of Bugs and Fringers and Dead Spacers, all those who had suffered because of her.
She looked at the academy crumbling around her, and she felt her face grow numb. She couldn’t run from this anymore. She already knew what she had to do, but it was only then that she knew why.
Clenching her jaw, Ia charged passed Brinn. “I need to stop by Armaments. Grab some gear. Gotta get going,” Ia muttered as she counted the list off on her fingers.
Brinn called after her. “So you’re leaving again?”
Ia stopped midstep and looked back at her.
“No. I’m going up there to save them.”
CHAPTER 48
BRINN
BRINN STOOD INSIDE a utility closet of the Armaments lab, trying to shake her limbs through the right sleeve of a new suit that Professor Patel had thrust upon her just moments ago. The outer material felt rough against her fingers. It was a prototype and still hadn’t been marked with RSF emblems and identification.
“This suit, like all of our new prototypes, is meant for a range of extreme circumstances, whether it be the vacuum of space or unfamiliar terrain. If you insist on facing the Armada by yourselves, then I’ll at least send you up there armed and equipped,” Professor Patel had told her.
On the slim chance they succeeded in rescuing the cadets, Professor Patel would stay at Aphelion to ready whatever medical equipment they could for the injured. Angie would continue probing their mangled transmission devices for any contact with the RSF, while Aaron was there to provide any protection and physical assistance they would need in the meantime.
So Brinn and Ia were on their own.
Brinn was nowhere near prepared to face off against a whole slaver nation. Then again, she’d thought the same thing when the headmaster had placed her with Ia Cōcha. That was supposed to be an impossible task, but somehow she was still alive.
Brinn zipped the suit up over her gray tank top. The sleeves and legs fell loosely over her limbs. She searched for the buttons at her shoulders and pressed them, triggering the material to shrink and mold against her body.
She ran her hands along the seams, taking in the dark-navy scaling of the fabric. It was a color she had refused all her life, and now she wore it like her very existence depended on it. Life was weird that way, but at least now, after all that happened, she had the courage to face whatever it would fling at her.
Brinn took one last breath before the oncoming storm, then stepped out.
“Nice threads,” Ia said, leaning against the wall.
The suit Ia wore was different from her own, covered in a matte fabric as dark and colorless as the All Black. Instead of taking the suit Professor Patel offered, Ia had chosen one herself, marching straight to a locked cage in the corner of the lab and picking out a metal crate buried underneath a pile of equally heavy and equally mysterious boxes. A word was stenciled on each side of the box. Icarus. Brinn didn’t ask, but she was certain there was a good reason why Ia had chosen the suit.
Angie rushed across the room, her gaze falling from Brinn’s messy hair to the dirt smudged across her cheeks. “You look horrid.”
It was just like Angie to say something like that at the most inappropriate time, but Brinn was used to it by now. Angie circled around and started to wipe the ash off Brinn’s face with the edge of her sleeve, but Brinn stepped away.
Angie’s expression fell, and Brinn realized why she had fussed so much in the first place. She dressed it up with her usual cattiness, but Brinn could tell that Angie, the girl who used to taunt her throughout primaries, was genuinely concerned.
“It’s not like you to worry,” Brinn said.
“I’m not worried at all.” Angie smiled so big her eyes nearly crinkled closed, but Brinn could see the sheen of tears wicking at the edges.
“I’ll see you when I get back,” Brinn said.
Angie nodded. “You better.”
Somehow that gave Brinn courage. Now there was a promise she had to keep.
Glimpsing Ia in her periphery, Brinn turned. Ia held up a pistol for Brinn to take. “You’ll need a weapon.”
Brinn’s gaze went from the pistol in Ia’s hands to a familiar object on a nearby table. She picked up the smooth grip of one of the tasers lying in a pile on the countertop. “I’ll take this.”
Ia raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
Brinn nodded, remembering their teamwork test, when Ia had knocked them all out. “I know how much it hurts.”
Ia flashed her trademark smirk. “The Armada won’t know what hit them.” She turned for Brinn to follow. “Shall we?”
“Wait,” Brinn called out, stopping her. “There’s one more thing I need to do before we go.”
Brinn set off through the halls, stepping delicately around the piles of wrecked metal and cement. She heard the tap of Ia’s boots behind her. No words were exchanged between them.
The footsteps stopped at their dorm room. The door was still stuck at the halfway point. Ia gripped onto the edge and pulled it open enough for Brinn to step through.
Brinn made her way to the closet, her hands digging through the warped metal. Her fingers looped onto a handle, and she pulled out her duffel bag. Throwing it onto the floor, she unzipped it and fished through the boxes of hair dye.
“I don’t think the slavers will care if they see your roots,” Ia said as she peered over her roommate’s shoulder.
“I want them to,” Brinn said as she pulled out the pair of hair clippers.
Ia’s eyes widened, realizing what she meant. The plan was to go up there as Ia’s second-in-command, so Brinn had to look the part. She was still angry at Ia, but she had to put that aside if she wanted to save Liam and the rest of the cadets.
Brinn walked to the bathroom. She laid her hands on the sink’s edge and leaned forward. The light above flickered from the damage done by the attack, but it stayed on long enough for her to meet her own eyes in the mirror.
She glanced over at Ia leaning upon the doorframe. It reminded Brinn of a day long ago, when Ia stared her down while she looked for stray blue hairs hidden in her brown tresses. She should be prouder, Ia had said, but now she remained quiet and watched.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes,” Brinn said, and she grabbed a handful of her ordinary brown hair.
CHAPTER 49
IA
WALKING SIDE BY SIDE to the flight deck, Ia glanced over at Brinn, her hair now shorn to her navy-blue roots.
Brinn snapped her head, eyes narrowed. “Stop staring.”
“I just like it.” Ia
grinned. “Now you really could pass as someone from my crew.”
Brinn responded with silence. There was still a distance between them. It threw Ia’s head off balance, sank her thoughts like rocks.
“Before I left,” she started. “I know what I said.”
“We don’t need to talk about this,” Brinn said.
“Then don’t talk. Just listen.” Ia took a deep breath. She wasn’t good at stuff like this. “I don’t pity you, Brinn.”
“Then why’d you say it?” Her question echoed through the metal archways.
“I guess I was pushing you away. I do that.” Ia was good at many things. Flying. Scheming. Fighting. Arguing. Not all of them were honorable skills to have.
“It hurt.” Brinn’s voice was quiet.
“Yeah.” Ia scratched at her arm. “I suck.”
“You do.”
They walked in silence for a few more steps, and Ia watched her, willing to give away all of her wealth—everything she had collected and plundered—just to erase the awkwardness between them.
“You’re staring again,” Brinn said, and she walked up ahead. But before she was out of earshot, she turned. “Thank you. For saying all that.”
Her words dissolved the weight on Ia’s shoulders, but not entirely because there was the still the fight ahead. Ia made her way to the tarmac and stopped at the edge of the runway. She remembered the first time she had peered over this ledge, desperate to escape. That day when she jumped, she was looking down into that same icy chasm. Trying to calculate whether she would live or die.
Things were different then. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place, and after she had achieved it, here she was, back again. Trying to save the miffing day.
She gazed at the world that lay beyond. Outside the clouds had parted, and the sky was clear. Now she could focus on the fight ahead.
“The jet’s ready,” Aaron announced.
She turned to where the jet stood. It boasted a new coat of matte-black paint, erasing all the RSF markings it had once had. In addition to the black paint, Ia had told Aaron to add a few minor details to the wings and hull. Something people would notice.
“Not too shabby,” Ia said as she walked around the jet’s body to admire the detailing.
“I already hacked into their system. Found their blueprints,” Brinn called from the top of the ramp. She stood tall and fierce, like all second-in-commands should.
“Good work,” Ia said as she boarded the jet.
As she settled into the pilot’s chair, Ia tapped a button below her neck, and a sleek black helmet, stripped of all RSF markings, came up over her head. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the pilot’s window. She wasn’t Nema. She didn’t know how to be a hero, so she was going to do it the only way the most-wanted criminal in the Commonwealth knew how.
Before takeoff, Ia sat for a moment, remembering the darkness inside her, all the rage and the violence of her life before this. The Armada had better prepare themselves.
When a Blood Wolf has its teeth out, it doesn’t take much to make it snap.
CHAPTER 50
KNIVES
AG-12’S GOLDEN TERRAIN blurred outside Knives’s window. Once he passed this planet, he would be upon the Armada’s transport ship, parked a perilous distance from this system’s sun.
Knives turned on his cloaking system, but it was no use. At this distance, the sun would illuminate everything coming their way like a spotlight. But if he came the other way, he would be blinded, his eyes unable to pick apart anything with this system’s bright star as its backdrop.
He hovered on the edge of AG-12’s orbit, trying to get a better look at their ship, but all he could see was a stain, a hulking shadow. And there was no activity, no movement whatsoever.
Maybe this was going to be easier than he thought.
Knives was flying closer when a row of blue lights flared from the transport ship like sharp and pointed teeth.
Oh mif.
Knives grabbed on to the controls, trying to reverse his thrusters.
But he was too late. A wave of blue light rippled past him. The lights on his console cut to black and his monitors flickered off. His ship’s life systems were down. The pressure dropped to zero, and the oxygen cut out.
Thank Deus he was wearing his helmet and grav suit. Without them, his blood would have bubbled, stretching him out like a balloon.
Knives flipped at the switches, trying to reinitiate the electrical line.
Nothing.
The Kaiken was offline.
Knives grabbed a gel rod from underneath his chair and snapped it. He tossed it up into the air where it floated, illuminating the cockpit with a warm orange luminescence.
His gaze fell to the Armada ship in the distance. Silhouettes of shapes darted out from its center. Their starjets were coming after him.
His fingers felt underneath the console and popped open an emergency compartment. A wave of plastic packages flew out into the open cabin. His eyes searched through the sea of mess.
With a steady hand, he plucked out a dark-gray cylinder.
His cannons were depowered, but a grenade would work.
Two black starjets swooped toward him, their particle-beam cannons already charged and ready to fire.
He held the grenade close to his chest, his finger looped on the safety pin. Once they got close enough, he would pull it. At least he’d take a few of them down with him.
His fingers tensed.
They were almost at him.
Almost there.
Then overhead, a cannon shot pulsed past him. The blast clipped the enemy jet’s wing, leaving it spiraling backward into the starjet behind it.
Knives looked around, trying to pinpoint who had come to his aid. A black jet overtook him, banking left to a stop. By the shape of its frame, he knew it was an academy vessel, but it wasn’t the right color. Another symbol had been stenciled right where the RSF decals should be, the fresh red paint gleaming in the darkness.
The feather on the starjet’s frame was unmistakable.
It was the mark of Ia Cōcha.
Ia hovered her starjet next to his and attached a magnetic anchor to his Kaiken. She flew forward, towing him. Not back to Aphelion, but toward the Armada. What was Ia up to?
White high beams flooded into his vision, and they came to a stop. They had arrived at their destination.
He opened up his cockpit, only to find rows of slavers pointing their guns straight at him. A whole firing squad aching to spill his blood. As he made his way down the ladder, he was glad his helmet was on. They wouldn’t see him sweat.
The crowds parted as Ia stepped through. She was dressed in a webbed, black flight suit, something he had only seen in the Armaments lab. She must have been dying to steal that piece for a while now. This girl was different from the Ia he knew. She stood taller, fiercer, almost growling as she walked past each slaver. And he realized it wasn’t Ia he was looking at it. It was the Blood Wolf of the Skies.
He was surprised to see Brinn Tarver behind her, clothed in a dark-navy suit. Navy was not a RSF color. And her hair was different; it was cut close to her head. The change in length wasn’t what made him blink. Her hair was blue. Tawny blue.
Ia cut into his line of sight and came close to him, her face devoid of any trace of kindness. She grabbed the lip of his visor and ripped his helmet right off.
“Do you have any weapons on you?” she demanded.
Ia looked at him like she was ready to swallow him up. Nothing remained of the girl he’d kissed—who’d kissed him back—just hours before.
“Is this a joke?” he hissed.
Her hand darted forward and gripped his throat. “Answer the question.”
Knives’s stomach clenched, betrayal sinking into his bones. “A grenade,” he coughed. “In my vest pocket.”
Ia’s hands fumbled through the top layer of his suit. Her fingers brushed against his chest. Any other day, he would have savored the hea
t of her hands against him, but now the thought of her so close confused him.
Ia snatched the grenade from his vest pocket and tossed it over to Tarver. His eyes lingered on Cadet Tarver, unsure how Ia had convinced Brinn to join her.
“I see you were able to catch a stray.” A large beast of a man with pockmarked cheeks and a shiny bald head stomped toward them. A frightening tattoo of chains linked one over the other was grafted across his forehead and down his neck. He must be the Armada’s leader.
Ia addressed the man, her arms open like she was serving Knives up on a platter. “It was easy. The Bug didn’t put up much of a fight.”
Anger flared from deep inside Knives’s chest. He kept waiting for her to turn to him, to give him some sort of indiscreet sign that all this was just a ruse. A wink. That recognizable smirk.
But her face was stone.
All hope crumbled from deep within him. If this was the real Ia Cōcha, he was as good as dead.
“My second-in-command will escort the boy,” she told the Armada’s leader. “In case he decides to act out.”
The leader glanced over at Brinn. “How like you, to choose a Tawny as your second. She doesn’t seem as tough as the others though. Must be easy to keep her in line, unlike Vetty.”
Ia smirked. “What can I say? I’ve exchanged brawn for brains.”
She made her way to Knives and grabbed his shoulder. He winced away from her touch. But she snatched his wrist and drew him closer.
“Too bad this one doesn’t have any brains,” Ia told the onlookers. “He actually thought I fancied him.”
Knives’s eyes grew hot with rage.
The slavers’ voices laughed in unison, rising to a cheering crescendo. “Skewer him through the heart! Jettison the bastard!”
Ia turned to them, seeming to feed on their cheers. Like the winds of a storm, she swiveled around, bringing her fist down like a hammer across Knives’s face. He fell to the ground, and she knelt, grabbing his hair to jerk his head up.