‘Yes, perhaps that is a kind of religion to you, giving blind obedience to the hub of collected information you call Aura. How much happier you’d be if you let us convert you all to the light.’
‘Conversion? Is that what you’re calling your invasion? Five more towns were bombed in West Rodina yesterday – thousands of casualties. Stray missiles landed on Sorrowdale. How can you live with all these deaths on your conscience, Crux?’
There are rumours, just whispers here and there when Scrutiners aren’t listening, that Crux are sacrificing babies on god-altars. That they blind all captured soldiers and civilians. That we may not even win Victory before Long Night.
Steen’s angry now and about to spout off some self-righteous lies about the war being started because of Rodina’s persecution of religious believers. I’ve heard it all before, during our tutorials in the sim. Thankfully Reef gives him a shove in the back and says, ‘Time to get to work.’
Steen rises to his feet in one fluid movement, like a dancer, but more dangerous. I shudder as he passes me, certain I hear him say, ‘You live in lies and shadow. You should set yourself free . . .’
‘I don’t like this setup,’ Fenlon growls from somewhere under the fuselage of the Storm. ‘How do we know we can trust this Crux in a plane? What’s to stop him going straight over the border back to his own kind?’
Reef’s eyes narrow. ‘There are a hundred captured Crux soldiers being kept hostage who’ll be shot if Steen fails to collaborate. Aura’s ac-reqs are clear – Rain Aranoza flies under his instruction, end of story.’
Furey agrees. ‘There’s too much at stake to argue. If Aura’s calculated the Storms are necessary for Victory then we have to have them in combat soon. What is it now, Fenlon?’
Fenlon crawls out from under the plane, holding something in a fuel-stained hand. ‘Found this tied to one of the landing struts. Anything to do with you, Aranoza?’
He thrusts a strange twist of coloured threads at me, all knotted in intricate patterns. I step back from it quickly and shake my head.
‘Looks Lim-ish,’ says Furey. ‘Folk in Sorrowdale used to pin them on trees sometimes – can’t remember why. Actually, it’s like that braided belt the canteen cook wears, that Lim girl, Haze. Is it some sort of Old Nation good-luck charm, maybe?’
Good luck? More like a bad-luck charm. Just looking at it makes me feel uneasy, like I’m trapped inside too-tight skin. It can’t be coincidence that Haze has a job here on the airbase, can it? I haven’t seen her face to face yet. Everyone says she’s the best cook ever, but the first time we ate in the canteen Zoya shovelled her soup in while I had to push my bowl away, because it tasted funny.
‘Tastes fine to me,’ Zoya said. ‘Everybody else likes it. Don’t you want yours?’
I let her gulp it down. It was only bioveg and herbs – but the herbs were horribly bitter. I actually felt sick just from the smell. My canteen tea was the same. Mossie asked are you OK, you look pale? Petra said I should go to the medic. I just gripped the edge of the table and said I was fine, absolutely fine. When I finally let go of the table it looked as if I’d dented the bioweave, which is impossible, of course. Once bioweave is set it won’t change shape until regeneration. Since then I’ve taken to making my own tea in the crew-room and living off vending-machine snacks.
Now, seeing the knotted charm, I finally remember the second of Pedla’s rules for staying safe in the forest – Be very careful what you eat.
All three rules run through my head.
Be very careful who you meet, be very careful what you eat and don’t step off the path . . .
No matter how intense training has been, with marching, sports, tests and sim exercises, the Morass is never far from my thoughts. In the dorm, listening to Ang’s hefty snores and the little whimpers Zoya makes as she dreams, I also imagine I hear the sounds of corvils calling and, once, beyond the frost-flowers scratched on each pane of the dorm window, I thought I saw a flash of silver as a wolf ran past.
Out on the airstrip Fenlon shakes his head. ‘We can’t have civilians tampering with the plane. Here – this is Scrutiner business.’
‘Let me see.’ Reef’s right at my side. I feel him come close without even needing to see him there. He smells nice. Clean. Warm. He examines the braid then tucks it securely in a pocket. No one dares ask what he thinks of it.
Furey turns to me. ‘Ready to go, Aranoza?’
‘Mm.’
I look over at the rest of the squadron. There’s Yeldon, stretching his muscles out; Henke tapping a tune against the side of his leg. Mossie’s still rubbing sleep from her eyes and Petra’s cramming a cap on her sticking-up hair. The two of them stand really close together, fingers brushing when they think no one’s looking. Dee just blinks and tries to keep her fringe straight in the morning breeze. She’s lost her cap and hasn’t yet figured out that Lida threw it up on the hangar roof after a bet with Ang (who said she could throw it twice as far, but actually couldn’t). Ang frowns at me with envy. Zoya waves. Most of the crowd just stare, sceptical that the Storm will even get off the ground.
A lump of anxiety bulges in my throat. Mama always said I should never put myself forward. Papi knows I’m not good at anything. What if I let everyone down today? Why does it have to be me singled out, like that weed that sprouts and needs yanking up?
‘Don’t worry,’ Furey reassures. ‘Our charming Crux instructor here can pilot via the dual controls if you get into difficulties, which I doubt you will. I’ve no idea why he specified you to pilot the test flight, but you’re a natural on the simulator. Stop looking so scared! It’ll be an adventure. If it was me, I’d be up there like a shot.’
‘I’ve made this for you,’ says Zoya just before I leave. ‘It’s a scarf, because you’ll freeze in that open cockpit. Haze in the canteen’s been teaching me how to knit like Lim people do. I’ll ask her to show you too, if you like? Why not? You might be good at it.’
Why not? Because there’s something about the pattern of coloured threads that makes my eyes feel funny, that’s why. I say thank you and take it anyway, but as soon as she’s not looking I pass the yarn scarf to Mossie and ask her to keep it safe for me.
‘Are you coming?’ Steen asks, holding out a hand for me to climb on the wing of the Storm with him.
‘Keep your distance, Crux,’ comes Reef’s warning, dark and low. ‘And keep your mind on what will happen if you try anything abnormal up there.’
Reef offers me a hand up instead. I’m in flying gloves, so no danger of touching his skin and getting a vision, much as I’d like to hold his naked hand. His words to me are neutral – ‘Safe skies, Aranoza’ – but he gives my hand a quick squeeze before letting go.
Steen drops into the back seat of the Storm while I scramble into the front. Zoya throws up the pad I need to raise the seat high enough so I can see out of the cockpit. I also have to have blocks on the foot pedals. Embarrassing but true – I’m just too titchy. I test the clumsy controls. Will simulator training be any use at all in this flying coffin, as Fenlon calls it?
‘Good luck, Pip!’ Zoya calls. ‘Everybody says you can do it! If it works we can all fly Storms and win the war!’
No pressure then.
Just like my sessions in the sim I press the top of the control stick to release fuel to the Storm’s engine, which goes from a grumble to a roar. So far so good. Fenlon heaves the propeller into motion. The whole plane starts to shake. I tense at the change in vibration and the following rush-back of air into the open cockpit.
‘Are you ready for this?’ Steen shouts from the seat behind.
I look over to Fenlon. His face is grey, like I’m dead already.
‘Are you?’ I shout back to Steen.
Fenlon scoots to a safe distance. Chocks are pulled away from the wheels and we start to roll forward. We pick up speed . . . lift off the ground . . . wheels bump once, higher now – we’re off . . . We’re actually airborne! This crazy contraption works!
What
an amazing sensation, to be rising up like the morning sun, with light on our faces and lungs full of fresh, cold air! This could not be more different from my last flight – cooped in the noiseless aircon atmosphere of a closed cockpit in the People’s Number Fifty-nine Tutor Plane. I climb higher, aware that Steen has hold of the dual controls, with a corrective touch here and there. I don’t need his interference. Flying this plane isn’t so difficult once I let myself feel how it responds. I like it. I love being open to the sky. Soon my friends are little specks and the sky is a glorious invitation.
‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’ Steen calls. ‘Shall we try a few tricks?’
Performing manoeuvres for real is nothing like the artificial judders and dips of the simulator. It scares the skin off me at first, knowing my actions are responsible for this wooden wonder’s diving, turning, climbing and rolling. Soon, though, I wish I could jettison the plane and fly like the sun-sleek corvils suddenly streaming alongside our wings.
Zoya was right. It is really cold, but I like the way the air whips away my worries. Up here the only gaze is the sun’s golden glory. If we just went high enough, far enough, there’d be no more war, no more eyes watching, just us, just me, free . . .
‘Rain!’ Steen sounds alarmed. ‘Not so high.’
War is clearly visible from above. The Lim lands of West Rodina are patterned with puffs of smoke and explosive flashes. Up here my eyes seem sharper than ever before because I swear I spy out the nasty, scrabbling shapes of traptions on the move, and specks of black that could be platoons of soldiers marching. Convoys of military trucks crawl to the border . . . or where the border used to be. Transnation trains rush along their tracks with hospital markings on the carriage roofs.
South-east is the awesome spread of Sea-Ways City, shrunk now to a blur of toy buildings edged by the endless blue-grey of the ocean. South-west the sun skims over the thick mist of the Morass. I’m shocked to see how much of the forest has been scabbed by the brown, Slicked bioground of normalisation.
‘Shall we go closer?’ Steen calls. ‘Legend has it the greatest god-house ever built was near the shores of a lake in the forest. I’d like to see it.’
That makes me think of the stone blocks I saw at the edge of the rift, and the snow-flaked picture of a god or saynt with blazing hair.
I shout, ‘Why waste time looking for god when there’s no proof god even exists?’
‘Faith doesn’t need proof,’ he replies. ‘I know there’s a Light Bringer. People in Rodina will soon know it too, once we’ve converted them.’
‘Or killed them.’
Needles on dials tell me it’s time to descend. It takes a couple of circuits to line up with the runway to land. I panic and throw up the air brakes too hard. We descend quickly and the plane’s wheels hit the ground in an uncontrolled rush. We jolt repeatedly. The Storm shudders a bit then stops. I kill the engine. The propeller slowly spins to a halt. I sit there, motionless, sad there’s now ground beneath our wheels.
‘You did it,’ Steen murmurs softly.
‘Why pick me to fly?’ I ask quickly, while no one is listening. ‘I’m just One of Many.’
He gives a funny laugh. ‘You really have no idea, do you? Let’s just say, I’ve seen what you can do in a storm.’
‘You did it!’ scream the squadron, running up to meet us.
Fenlon trots over, frowning. ‘It worked. It actually flew.’
‘How was it?’ shouts Zoya, climbing up on the wing.
How was it? I take a deep breath. A smile so big it could be sunshine breaks out. I actually laugh out loud, and there are even tears in my eyes. How was it? Forget all that business of sprouting weeds getting yanked out, I can’t keep my enthusiasm hidden.
‘It was brilliant!’
Furey slaps me on the back as I jump down. ‘What did I say? You’re a natural! You made that look easy.’
Did Reef watch how well I did? He’s nowhere to be seen. No, wait – there he is, at the edge of the airstrip. I almost stop breathing when I realise that the man next to him is the Scrutiner who came to my home in Sea-Ways – the white-clad, nail-nibbled Clint Roke. Both just stand there watching.
Clouds cover my smile. Furey turns sombre too as she addresses the whole Storm squadron.
‘Make no mistake, this is only the beginning. Aranoza has shown that Fenlon’s designs are, contrary to all expectation, sound. Now we know it can be done we have to work day and night so it will be done in time for Aura’s deadline. Flying is a wonderful experience, my friends – the best in the world, I’d say – but we are not here for the fun of it. Tens of thousands of Crux soldiers are pushing across the west foodlands. Untold numbers are creeping through the Morass. Our Nation is in terrible danger. Fifteen days, that’s all we have before our first mission. Make every hour count!’
Going up by day is one thing. We all get good practice buzzing about in Storms while the sun’s out, no matter how much the ‘real’ bomber crews point and laugh. But night-flying is a whole new world of worry. We’ve hardly had a handful of starlit sorties before orders come through to muster for the first mission.
It’s just not natural, waking up at twilight and deliberately waiting for the sky to darken. Usually the sight of Umbra above the horizon is our signal to go indoors and tell the lights to go up . . . not to switch them off. The whole of Loren Airbase is under new blackout orders, so all the other personnel are stuck inside where it’s nice and bright.
I wonder if this sort of dread is how it’ll be when the Long Night comes. I’m too young to remember the last Eclipse. I was only a baby then and Zoya just a toddler. We know all about it though, thanks to things we hear from older kids, and sometimes our parents, when they don’t know we’re listening. It’s bad – that’s the simple summing up. When I was little I had nightmares about it, about being snatched up by a shrieking wind and tossed around in a storm of black feathers. I told Mama once and she said I was to stop making things up, so I told Pedla Rue instead and she said Long Night is when witches come out to fly.
‘They’re the most repulsive monsters,’ she elaborated, enjoying the absolute horror of the description. ‘The hideous opposite of everything normal. They steal babies and make them slaves or eat them.’
I scan the skies over Loren for flying monsters, and see only clouds and the occasional corvil.
‘You OK, Pip? Nervous?’ Zoya asks. ‘I’m not. Much.’ Her fingers go tap tap tap against the side of her thigh.
‘You should be petrified,’ says Fenlon, slapping her on the shoulder as he walks past. ‘I know I would be if I was young enough and dumb enough to fly a Storm at night. All right, people, gather round. Time for some last-minute advice on light. Light is, perversely, going to be one of your greatest enemies from now on. Once your eyes have adjusted to darkness it’s important they stay that way. Keep the cockpit dim – just bright enough for the navigators to map-read. Navs, you’ve had your training on how to plot a route via stars or ground illumination.’
Zoya has her map all ready, folded into a waterproof, transparent pocket on the knee of her flying suit. It’s made of paper, like the god-book I found near Steen Verdessica.
Fenlon continues. ‘You’ve got a green light on your port wing and a red one to starboard. If you get lost, the trick is to keep flying between them . . .’ Only Rill laughs at the joke. ‘So . . . if the worst happens and your engine fails – despite my brilliant team of technicians – then you’ll have to glide to an emergency landing.’
‘How will we know where it’s safe to land?’ asks Dee.
‘Look out for the floodlights of a sports stadium, or a lit road that’s not too busy. Keep clear of dark patches if you can, unless you’re certain it’s a nice flat field. Chances are, dark spots mean water or trees. In either case, if you land there you’ll be dead and I’ll be short of a Storm, which are harder to replace than crew right now.’
‘And if we have to land somewhere dark, how can we see if it’s safe or not?
’
With a twisted smile Fenlon replies, ‘Put your landing lights on. If you like what you see, marvellous. If you don’t, switch the lights off again.’
It takes a while for Dee to figure out what he means. When she does her face goes pale.
‘One final thing . . .’ Fenlon squints at each of us in turn. ‘You’re all at a funny age. Young enough to see in the dark . . . but your night-sight could go just like that.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘We’ll test you every evening before you fly. First sign of hazy vision, you’re off the squadron – is that clear?’
We all blink, suddenly desperate to prove we can stay airborne.
Fenlon hauls open the hangar doors so we can all see the Storms lined up in rows by the runway, slowly being swallowed by shadows. Planet Umbra is streaked with clouds – not enough to alter plans, Aura assures us. While we wait Henke plays a song on his balika, about the ending of winter and the hope spring brings; about the chill of the Long Night being followed by the warmth of the sun’s reappearance. It makes me imagine flowers in the forest unfolding fat petals, and trees sticky with new sap. My skin tightens and my heart thuds.
Suddenly Rill says, ‘How does a night-blind pilot know when to take off?’
‘I don’t know,’ we all reply. ‘How does a night-blind pilot know when to take off?’
‘He keeps going along the runway until all the passengers start screaming.’
We groan. It doesn’t deter her.
‘How does a night-blind pilot know when to land?’
‘We don’t know, Rill, how does a night-blind pilot know when to land?’
‘When the guide dog’s leash goes slack!’
Henke mimes cracking Rill over the head with his balika then carries on with his tunes.
Yeldon drops to the hangar floor and does a few speedy press-ups, right where Zoya can see and admire him.
‘I’m ready for whatever the night brings,’ he says, back on his feet and punching the air.
‘You don’t have to fly,’ sniffs Zoya. ‘Everybody else is in much more danger.’
Night Witches Page 7