The Diatous Wars 1: Rebel Wing (12 page)

Today would be
different. Galena knew this because Elom’s routine changed. He did not immediately connect her to electrodes. And he didn’t unchain her either. He entered the room silently, his dark skin glowing under the bright lights. A digitablet and medigun held in his large, oddly delicate hands, he stood beside her bed and stared at her for a long time.

She was certain this would be the day he killed her.

She’d racked her brain for reasons why someone would want to kidnap her, and then do nothing but hold her captive. There were no ransom demands, no death threats, no torturing her for information. Whatever they’d needed her for, it seemed obvious her purpose had expired.

“Prepare yourself,” Elom said. The first words he’d spoken in days.

In that moment, Pyralis’s face flashed in her mind. No, she would not let him have her last thought. Instead, Galena held her son, her beautiful son, close to her in the darkness as she closed her eyes.

There was no sting from a medigun needle. No pillow pressed against her face, or merciless fingers snaking around her throat. After a moment, she opened her eyes. Elom didn’t touch her, didn’t speak. He just placed the digitablet on her lap and turned it on.

Confused, Galena wanted to ask,
prepare myself for what?

She didn’t have time.

“It is with a heavy heart,” the reporter announced, standing before a house Galena instantly recognized as her own, “that I announce the passing of Josef Vadim . . .”

Galena opened her mouth, gasping like a dying fish, as the reporter’s voice babbled on.

With the last hiss of air remaining in her lungs, she whispered, “It’s a lie.”

This should have been it. The moment when he explained what was going on, explained his terms. But Elom didn’t respond.

“You doctored the vid. You want something from me, and you’re using him as collateral,” she guessed. Prayed. Josef couldn’t be . . .

Still Elom said nothing, just stared at her patiently. Waiting for it to sink in.

Her husband was really dead.

The panic she hadn’t shown when she thought Elom was about to kill her surfaced now.

“Let me go!” she screamed and fought against her restraints, cutting her arms on the cool metal. She strained desperately against the sheets that kept her legs immobile. “Stop this! Whatever you’re doing!
I know you killed my husband
!
Let me go.
” The words spewed out of her with all the abhorrence she’d built for him, the flames of anger blazing forth.

She and her husband had had little to do with each other in recent years. But he was not some
pawn
in whatever psychotic game she was being forced to play. And he’d never had a problem with his heart in his life.

“Who do you work for? Ward Balias?
What did you do
?” She kept up her rage-filled tirade until all that came out was a breathless scream.

Elom didn’t try to stop her; he waited until the blood from her wounded arms had stained the brilliant white sheets crimson and she’d flopped back against the hard mattress, exhausted.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice level, pleasant even, as if he were remarking on the weather, “Where is your son?”

“He is beyond your reach. You will never find him,” she hissed, rage burning through her exhaustion.

“You don’t think he’ll visit you, knowing that you are soon to be released from quarantine? You don’t think he will come to pay his respects at his father’s burning?” Elom’s mild tone didn’t change.

“No. He won’t come.” Let Elom think her son hated his father. Let him think what he wanted; she would
not
give him this.

Elom smiled without showing his teeth. “I see.”

The simple response sent a shiver of fear along her spine. Struggling to keep her voice steady, she said, “Is that why I’m alive? So you can destroy my family? Why am I here, Elom?” When he didn’t respond, she screamed, “Why don’t you just kill me, too?”

“Oh, I have no intention of killing you. For now.” He patted her head as if she were a small child. “There is too much of value in here.”

He was too close, looming over the bed, and she couldn’t breathe; he was sucking the air from her lungs just standing there. “I need to use the washroom,” she said.

He removed the digitablet from her lap and released her restraints. She thought about launching herself at him, but by the time she found the energy to sit up, he’d backed away. He leaned against the wall, watching her, ready if she tried something.

For once, he didn’t give her a time limit. Galena stood against the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. The light was as bright in here as it was in her cell, and every wrinkle, every rice-paper patch of skin was visible. She stared into her own haunted eyes and saw, for the first time, how much she’d aged in the time she’d been a captive. Her hair, which was normally pulled into a flattering knot, was tangled and greasy. The blonde had dulled, leeching the little color she had left in her cheeks. She looked like a wraith.

She leaned over the old-fashioned chrome sink. Tears broke through the iron wall she’d built in her heart. She hadn’t let herself cry, not once, since she’d woken and seen Elom standing over her. She hadn’t let herself think much about her circumstances, her future.

But now. Now. Her husband was dead. The father of her child. They hadn’t spoken with more than awkward civility, if that, in years, but she had loved him once. After Pyralis left, Josef had saved her—from a nowhere job and a broken heart. He’d found her a better placement, in his own Technology company. He’d set her on her journey to success. She was Ward in large part because of him, whether she’d been willing to admit it in recent years or not.

And now he was dead.

Murdered.

She was sure he had been silenced so her life could be stolen.

Dropping her head to her hands, she closed her eyes, desperately searching for a happy memory, some moment that would abate her helplessness. At first, all that rose in her mind was panic.

Happy memories, she thought. Happy.

The memory that came wasn’t so much happy as . . . complicated.

The Ruslanan Council Building, at her welcome gala. A year ago, the day after she’d been elected Ward.

The high-ceilinged room had rung with voices, the clink of glasses. Dignitaries in endless colors flowed through the marble-floored hall, glittering like rainbow prisms within fractured glass. It was the beginning of the evening, before the meal and official speeches. She’d barely had time for a sip of her drink, no time for its heat to run along her veins and soothe her nerves.

“Ward Vadim,” Pyralis had said, moving smoothly to her side. Kissing her hand. She’d been braced for this moment; she thought she’d been prepared.

But that first sight of him, handsome in his flowing emerald green tunic and gold pants, that first touch in twenty-five years . . . There, in front of everyone, she’d almost crumbled.

“Pyralis,” she’d whispered, realizing too late that she hadn’t addressed him properly.

His face had been pleasantly blank, his grip on her hand distant, appropriate for one Ward greeting another for the first time. But when she said his name . . . in that instant, something in his eyes broke, and his lips paused against her skin. The moment lengthened. Too long. Do
something
, she thought, caught in his gaze. He wasn’t moving. She couldn’t.
Oh holy, my hand’s on fire. . . .

“Love?” The woman’s voice was a shade louder than necessary, even in the crowd. Pyralis dropped Galena’s hand as if scorched.

The woman slid her arm through his, staring at Galena. She wore a long carmine dress streaked with orange and blue, like a sunset. Ropes of gold hung from her neck, gleaming against the caramel warmth of her skin. Pyralis cleared his throat. “Ward Vadim, I’d like to present my wife, Bett Nekos.”

Bett tilted her head gracefully, her feather-accented black hair twisted into a tall updo.

Galena nodded in response. “Ward Nekos, Bett. It is a pleasure. I thank you for being here this evening.” She couldn’t help staring. This was the woman. She, the Promised he’d returned to so long ago.

Galena fought back the instinctive hatred. She was a grown woman. She was better than the bitterness of that time, those dark months after Pyralis abandoned her. And the flicker of longing? There was no place for that here. Or ever again.

Bett’s brownish-golden eyes flashed at Galena, and the red of her perfectly sculpted lips drew into a thoughtful frown.

“Ward Vadim, forgive my impertinence, but I sense you’ve met my husband before?”

This was the moment Galena had most wanted to avoid. She didn’t want anyone to know of their history, least of all this woman. She opened her mouth to respond, eyes drawn to Pyralis’s. What could she say? What had he told Bett about the time he’d spent in Ruslana?

“It was the Tech benefit last year, wasn’t it?” Josef’s words slid into the awkwardness of the moment, jovial and relaxed. Galena leaned into him as he moved to her side, her knees suddenly weak.

“Yes,” Pyralis replied quickly, glancing from his wife to Josef. “Hello, Josef. Nice to see you again.” He held out a hand.

“I don’t remember—” Bett began, her knowing look fading into confusion.

“For the Meridian refugees,” Pyralis continued. “You were ill that day, my love.” He nodded to Galena, his eyes blankly polite once more. “On behalf of Atalanta, I welcome you to your new role as Ward and look forward to working with you.”

He drew Bett away. Galena smiled back stiffly, long after the crowd swallowed them.

“You alright?” Josef asked. He stood, stocky and comfortable in his dark pants and fitted jacket, his eyes filled with concern. He knew the truth, and still he asked if she was okay. Still he looked at her with sympathy.

It was enough to make her squirm with shame. “Yes. Thank you,” she’d said, looking away.

Her feelings for Pyralis . . . they were buried but not forgotten. But
Josef
had been the one who’d stood by her. The one who’d died because of her.

Now, under the harsh lights of her cell, she braced her hands on either side of the sink and sobbed. She wept for Josef, yes, but she also wept for herself. And her son. They would seek him out, try to do him harm. Whatever Elom’s agenda, it was not to keep her family safe.

At last, with a deep breath and a stern glare at herself in the mirror, Galena straightened. She dried her face on the one rough towel Elom had provided her.

No matter what Elom did to her, she would keep her secrets. For her husband. And for her son.

“This morning we’ll
assess your skill within your specialty,” Major Vidar announced at formation. “Gunners, you’ll be training with Lieutenant Daakon, retrievers with Lieutenant Talon. Flyers, you’ll be with Lieutenant Wolfe.”

Aris bounced on the balls of her feet, the nervous energy coursing through her like a live wire. So much rode on how she flew today, and yet all she could think about was how good it would feel to be up there, arcing through the wide, blue sky.

“Dismissed!”

She stepped forward, her knees creaking. Even with Dysis going easy on her, she was bone-sore, bruised and so tired the air felt like mud when she moved. But it didn’t matter. Not today.

“The Mosquito gets his wings,” Dysis threw over her shoulder as she passed.

“And Guns gets to blow things up,” Aris replied. “Much luck to you.”

“And you.” Dysis jogged to catch up with the other gunners. Aris could hear their laughter, see the loose, confident way her sectormate moved across the plain. She was the only one who knew how nervous Dysis really was, how much she’d built up this day in her head. The more she excelled, the more missions she’d go on. The more chances she’d have to find her brother.

Aris couldn’t let herself think about what would happen if
she
didn’t excel. The fear of being sent home had dogged her for days.

She and the five other flyers followed Lieutenant Wolfe to the massive landing pad at the front of the stationpoint. Two rows of wingjets lined the open space.

The Military sector flew two different styles of wingjet for S and R missions. Recons—used for reconnaissance and laying down suppressing fire—were small, with space for up to three people. Transports were much larger; they held a flyer, a gunner, and a retriever, with space in the cabin for four or five additional people. This jet was responsible for carrying out the actual rescue.

“Who has flown transports before?” Lieutenant Wolfe’s tall frame might have been gangly, if he didn’t hold himself with such rigid control. A couple of men stepped forward.

Wolfe scowled at them down his long, narrow nose. “I’ll fly with each of you to assess your skill and experience. Or lack thereof. The rest of you pay attention until it’s your turn.”

Aris swallowed a sigh of impatience.

Lieutenant Wolfe climbed onto the wing of one of the transports and gestured to the nearest flyer, a man covered in colorful tattoos who moved slower than the slugs that plagued Lux’s groves. Evander, she thought his name was. Aris watched him with envy; she’d love to fly one of the bigger wingjets, to be a fanax instead of a mosquito for once.

The other flyers leaned against one of the recons, some sitting on a wing, others on the ground beneath. She lowered herself to the dirt in the shade next to Specialist Pallas, watching out of the corner of her eye to see how the men moved. She tried to sit the way they did, with her legs stretched out, leaning back on her hands. Specialist Mann, a thick-necked, seasoned flyer Aris had never spoken to, scratched his groin, and she fought to keep her expression neutral. She’d walk the way a man does, sit like one, but she would
not
scratch down there.

Beside her, Specialist Pallas leaned back on his hands and stared up at the sky, where Wolfe was taking Evander through his paces. Pallas’s eyes matched the blue above them, and his skin was tan from the endless outdoor training. Nothing in his features or the way he held himself suggested he was in disguise, but Aris had seen the horrified look on his face after their first solagun training session and wondered if he might be a woman. Then again, Dysis was perfectly comfortable handling weapons. Still, there was something about Pallas that Aris couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“Too bad about the Ward of Ruslana’s husband,” Pallas said. The Ward was all anyone had talked about since the news the night before.

Specialist Mann nodded. “Can’t be good for Ruslana, what with everything else going on.”

Pallas kept his gaze on the sky. “At least the sanctions are still intact.”

One of the other flyers, a wiry boy who looked about Aris’s age, dropped from the wing and moved to sit next to Aris. “Fat lot of good they’re doing. We’re still at war, yeah?”

“Commander thinks they’re making a difference,” Mann said.

“You gotta figure it’s better than nothing, right?” Pallas said. “I just wish the other dominions would throw us a branch. Doesn’t seem right that they’re allowing us to get attacked.”

Aris nodded with the others. It
wasn’t
right, but the only person who’d tried to help was Ward Vadim, and she couldn’t do much from a clinic bed.

“How long you all been flying?” Pallas asked, when no one offered new insights on the topic.

Mann shrugged. “Forever, feels like. What about you, Nyal?”

The boy, Nyal, said, “Since I was fourteen, so four years, yeah?”

Aris glanced up at the large wingjet in the sky, made small now by distance. “I’ve been flying since I was twelve. My father taught me, when—” she paused. Probably better not to explain. Instead she asked, “What about you, Pallas?”

“Three years. Grew up in Panthea, so no flying there. But when I was selected for Military they sent me to Cress. That was just before the war. I was meant to be trained as an emergency flyer. Part of the town’s protective detail.”

“And now you’re search and rescue.”

“Not much difference, really, except for being away from my family.” He dropped his gaze to his feet. Little puffs of dust sprang up under his boots as he scuffed them along the ground.

“Are you Promised?” Aris watched Evander do a lazy loop and head back toward the landing strip.

Specialist Pallas shook his head. “You?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” Nyal said.

Mann grinned. “Guess I’m the only one. Not Promised, though. Those two years went by in a flash. The wife and I’ve been married four years.”

Evander’s landing was a little rocky; Aris could do better.

“Might as well get this over with.” Mann heaved himself to his feet and moved toward the transport.

“Much luck,” Aris called.

“Flyers!”

She jumped.

Major Vidar was striding toward them. Aris and the others stood quickly, dusted off their uniforms, and straightened their spines.

“Who flies the recon jets?” Vidar asked.

Aris, Pallas, and Nyal stepped forward.

Vidar jerked a finger at Aris, who was standing closest. “Come on.”

She moved toward him, stumbling a little in her excitement. For once, Vidar’s snort of derision at her awkwardness failed to bother her.

When they were strapped into the recon, Major Vidar consulted the roster on a small digitablet. Without looking at her, he said, “Aristos Haan. From Lux.”

“Yes, sir.” Her pulse pounded in her temples as her hands slid around the controls.

“When you’re ready, take it up nice and easy and do a few laps to acclimate yourself. Watch out for the transport.” He sounded bored, and his eyes said he wasn’t expecting much from her. Maybe he’d even talked to Commander Nyx and assumed, like Nyx, that she’d be gone within the week.

The navigation panel was the same as her wingjet at home. Aris tightened her grip on the controls, felt the pedals give as she shifted her feet.

And then she grinned.

This was the moment she’d been waiting for. This was the moment she’d prove she deserved to be here.

This was her ticket to Calix.

Aris pressed down on the pedals and the wingjet slowly rose, hovering perfectly balanced just off the ground. It was one of the hardest moves to learn, taking off and landing without the added propulsion of forward movement. But it was also necessary in Lux, where the landing pads and cliffs were small targets.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Major Vidar raise his head.

For a second she let the wingjet hang there, reveling in the feeling of the controls in her hands, the delicate balance of the pedals under her feet.

And then she began to dance.

First a nearly vertical dash into the wide blue sky, followed by a little spin to give her a sense of the way the wingjet handled. Then she nosed upward, steeper and steeper until they looped into a graceful backward flip. She spun and dipped, varied her speed, paused to hover far from the ground below.

Major Vidar said nothing, so Aris kept on, twisting and flipping and soaring, feeling the air stream against her wings, the sun touch her face like the hands of a long-lost friend. The dusty flat training fields and low buildings looked nothing like Lux, but she skimmed along the roof of the barracks as if it were the edge of her cliffs; she rose high and then dove, spinning toward the ground, imagining she could see the sparkling flash of waves far below. She even tried a new move she’d been working on before she left—a double backflip freeze that she completed perfectly.

The pain and confusion of trying to live within a skin that wasn’t hers, in a world she didn’t understand, fell away. Commander Nyx’s warning lost its power. Even her awareness of Major Vidar faded, until it was only Aris and her wings and the welcoming ocean of sky all around her.

“That’s enough, Aristos.” Major Vidar’s rough voice was a splash of reality she wasn’t quite ready for.

She suppressed a disappointed sigh, then pointed the nose of the wingjet toward the training ground.

“So you’re from Lux . . .” he said, sounding thoughtful.

“Yes, sir.” She slowed to hover above the landing pad, determined to show him how precise she could be.

As soon as she landed, the other flyers surrounded the wingjet. She noticed, belatedly, that the transport had returned, but Wolfe hadn’t taken anyone else up yet. They were all standing around, watching as she emerged from the jet.

Specialist Evander clapped a tattooed hand on Aris’s shoulder and grinned. “So
that’s
why they let you volunteer for Military, Mosquito. We were starting to wonder.”

She laughed a little as the rest of the flyers gathered around her.

“How’d ya learn to do that?” Nyal asked, his eyes wide.

“What angle did you use on that backflip move? Sixty-five or eighty? I couldn’t tell,” Mann said.

As the questions continued, Aris answered what she could, her smile stretching so wide she probably looked half-crazy. She’d never been around so many people who shared her passion before. At home, flying was a way to get from one place to another. No one wanted to talk about pedal angles or jet power levels.

“Specialist Pallas, you’re up,” Major Vidar said eventually, breaking up the group.

Aris moved back to a spot in the shade, and the rest of the flyers followed, still chattering about her flight. As she sank to the dusty ground, her smile faded. She’d done well. She just hoped it was enough.