Straying From the Path

by Carrie Vaughn

  Evie and I being at Harlingen to ferry that plane probably hadn’t been a coincidence. Avery must have pulled strings to get us there. Of the WASP, we had the most hours in the B-26. Whatever else Cook and Avery thought about women pilots, they must have thought we at least had the experience to successfully ferry their precious experiment.

  “How do you know anything about women pilots? You said yourself, you haven’t bothered studying them.” My hands clenched in my lap. I said softly, “Evie was every bit as good as your best. You weren’t expecting that, were you?”

  He looked away, digging into the earth with a boot heel. “What I don’t understand about this flight is why you didn’t form a connection with the plane. You’re a good pilot. I didn’t think anyone could get us out of that fix, but you did.”

  “I didn’t do anything. It was all Evie.”

  I’d heard the voices and ignored them. I fought the plane instead of being a part of it, and every good pilot knew you couldn’t fight something that much bigger than you, you had to coax it on its own terms. Evie knew that. She tried to tell me.

  Maybe I’d remember, if I ever managed to climb inside a cockpit again. I wanted to laugh—if I’d been a great pilot, I wouldn’t be questioning whether or not I’d ever fly again.

  The thing hunkered in the field like a dying beast of legend. The fuel lines had to be leaking after a crash like that. If the electrics started sparking, if there was a fire—I waited for the fire and the explosion, but it didn’t come.

  “Cook, do you have a match?”

  He patted down his pockets and came up with a box of matches. He looked at me questioningly when he handed it over. Carefully, I laid Evie on the ground. I went to the bomber.

  “What are you . . . ?” Cook started. I kept walking.

  The wings had ripped during the crash. They hadn’t come off, but the metal was scraped and twisted, the propellers bent and curled like tin daisies. Part of the engine casing on the left wing had torn off, exposing the motor and fuel lines.

  I climbed up on the wing and waited. I half expected the metal to gape open and swallow me, but it didn’t. Didn’t want me before, why should it take me now? I reached into the machine and pulled. I tore at electrical cables, ripped fuel lines. I made sure the liquid ran over the wing, made a path that led to the fuel line, which would carry the poison to the tank. This late in the flight, the tank would be filled with fumes. Very volatile.

  I struck a match, dropped it.

  “No!” Cook scrambled to his feet and raced toward me, then changed his mind mid-stride and backpeddled.

  The liquid caught, flaring to blue and orange life—a more natural, more comprehensible light than the other—and I ran.

  “You’d better duck,” I called.

  Cook collapsed face down and wrapped his arms around his head. I covered Evie’s body with my own as the thing exploded. Debris rained. The air smelled of fuel and scorched metal. The flames were orange.

  Cook sat up, gasping like a fish. “Why? Why did you—that was priceless—irreplaceable—”

  “Must have been a hysterical response due to stress.”

  A convoy from Wright Field picked us up less than an hour later.

  The Heroic Death of

  Lieutenant Michkov

  In the cavernous reception hall, the sorting of paper rustled like bats’ wings.

  Dispatches and more dispatches. Every morning, Lieutenants Michkov and Romey sorted through dispatches sent from across the Empire, from generals at the front lines, ministers in the Capital and wardens in the gulags. The two undersecretaries arranged the dispatches in order of importance, condensed the content, and organized the features into easily digestible reports for the Emperor.

  Troop movements, supply schedules, projected deployments, morale reports. Dissatisfaction, unrest, starvation, defeat. Every day, the story of the Empire told by the dispatches grew more dismal.

  “I wish—” Michkov said, then sighed. The shuffle of paper at the other desk stopped, and Romey—a small, thick, badger-like man—glared at him from under a creased brow.

  Long used to Romey’s expressions, Michkov hardly noticed. “It’s the same every day,” he continued. “The line at Kajin has fallen back again. Casualties mount. A plague has decimated the Fifth Regiment. I wish there were better news. A victory. Or at the very least some tale of courage. We need more heroes. I can’t think of the last time His Majesty awarded a Meritorious Service Medal for field duty.” Chin propped on hand, elbow propped on desk, his eyes gazed unfocused at the mass of papers spread over his desktop. “We need more heroes. I wish—I wish I could be there. At the lines.”

  Romey snorted. “You’d be the first one in the pits they dig for graves there.”

  Michkov didn’t feel like arguing the point that morning. Just because he hadn’t proven himself in battle didn’t mean he couldn’t. He’d most likely never get the chance. He discovered recently that his father, a Sub-minister of the Interior, in return for some arcane favors had convinced the Dispatch Office to refuse all Michkov’s requests for a transfer to the front. The elder Michkov had secured this undersecretary post for him instead—a very fine post, with great opportunity for advancement in the government, as well as money and favor. Far better than being forgotten on the war-torn frontier, eh?

  It was much spoken of in the family that Michkov did not quite resemble his father.

  Between the courtyard and the military detachment offices ran a long corridor lined with cracked and darkened portraits of old Emperors, fathers of fathers of the one who currently reigned. The corridor ended at a double doorway, made from slabs of oak cut from a single immense tree and carved by northern craftsmen with depictions of battles from old epic songs. The door opened into a round chamber where petitioners of the regional director gathered. Another, much smaller door led to the reception hall—with walls and floor of polished rose granite, tall windows covered with dusty curtains, a ceiling with faded allegorical paintings, and numerous glowing lamps—where Michkov worked with Lieutenant Romey.

  Every day at noon, the Emperor and his entourage marched down this corridor, passed through the round chamber and a crowd of bowing petitioners, through the smaller door, to the reception hall where the Emperor received oral summaries of the daily reports. His Majesty always asked his young undersecretaries about the state of affairs, a personal attention amidst the cold stone bureaucracy. A young lieutenant in this position could easily gain the notice of the Emperor and advance to a stunning position, if he were worthy and able. If he could fashion his reports to gain the Emperor’s notice.

  Michkov and Romey heard the great double doors open on their ancient hinges, giving them time to stand at attention before the entourage crossed the round chamber and entered the reception hall.

  The Emperor, stiff as though propped up by the gold braid and medals on his uniform, stood between the desks, looking at them each in turn. “Report, lieutenants.”

  Romey stared suggestively, so Michkov cleared his throat to speak first. The most urgent dispatch related a defeat of Battalion Nineteen at the eastern frontier. The troops had fought to nearly the last man, and Michkov endeavored to paint a veneer of heroism on the tragedy, which cost the Empire a valley’s worth of villages. With so much sadness, Michkov longed for some spark of hope.

  His enthusiasm carried him, despite the weakness of his argument. “I am sorry, your Majesty, to report the loss of a portion of territory. But you will be pleased to hear of the bravery and loyalty of the men who fought and died in your name. I have a list of commendations from General Tanov, who speaks highly of—”

  The Emperor drew a tired sounding breath. “How many men died, Lieutenant Michkov?”

  Too many. That was always the answer on Michkov’s tongue. But he had numbers. He could give the Emperor numbers, when his enthusiasm failed him, as it always did when he saw the Emperor’s weary face. “Battalion Nineteen, your Majesty.”

  “The entire
battalion?” Michkov nodded, and the Emperor’s gaze fell, like a farmer who learned that yet another crop was blighted and was unable to raise his ire against the hand of a God who allowed such hardship. He turned to Romey. “Lieutenant Romey?”

  Where Michkov longed to see the heroic, and perhaps crafted his reports to reflect his longing, Romey saw insecurity and conspiracy.

  “The Empire is beset, I fear I must report. Revolts have been uncovered at these villages.” He listed. “These garrisons inform they are undersupplied and cut off.” He listed. “Because of thieves, the roads are nearly impassable at these junctions.” Again, he listed, until the Emperor raised his hand, commanding him to stop.

  “Enough. I will read the reports.”

  At this stage, Michkov and Romey handed their neatly written reports to the Emperor’s aide.

  Today, breaking the routine, the Emperor paused before continuing with his entourage to his study beyond the reception hall. He said, in a voice soft with defeat, “When I was a boy, there were heroes to carry the day. Great men. What have we now? Dispatches.”

  All the portraits in the long corridor had stories to accompany them, great men who built the Empire from scraps of feuding lands. With them served great men, subjects of a hundred tales of generals fighting off barbarian hordes, discovering new lands to farm and mine, falling in love and rescuing fair ladies from evil marriages.

  As a child, Michkov loved the stories of heroes—of a single man changing the world for the better, wielding a saber at the front lines of the eastern frontier, inspiring his whole division to push on, to rally for the Emperor—

  As a child, Michkov had such dreams for himself.

  After the entourage left, closing the door behind it, Romey said, reprimanding, “You’d do well to remember that His Majesty wants facts, not stories.”

  Flushing, Michkov muttered as he returned to his seat, “Stories never hurt anything.”

  . . . the Hero ducked bullets, flares, cannonballs, all pouring over the battlefield in an unearthly hail. A young lieutenant, he was leading his first patrol into battle. Against battle. He’d been ordered to flank the enemy’s position, disable the spur of artillery that had pinned the division in this bottleneck of a valley. He had twenty men who could not move without the threat of being shot. Impossible odds, a fool’s mission. So be it.

  “What now?” his sergeant asked as he slid into the turf beside him. “We’ll run out of ammunition before they do.”

  Staring down the rocky hillside, the Hero considered. A ravine, where snowmelt ran off in the spring, cut a narrow gash along the edge of the hill. Only large enough for a single man, the enemy had neglected to cover that position, rightly assuming the Imperial forces would not even consider sending forward troops numbering less than a patrol, at least. The Empire’s strength had always lain in numbers and persistence. Neither had saved them on this treacherous frontier, with its windswept mountains so unlike the ancient forests and meadows of home.

  But the ravine led directly to the first row of cannon currently slaughtering his countrymen. One man with a pistol might inflict damage.

  “What do we do?” the sergeant repeated, as if the Hero had not heard him over the noise of the shelling.

  Before beginning the trek down the hill, the Hero reloaded his pistol. “We crawl on our bellies like worms, Sergeant.”

  Michkov had been daydreaming again. He remembered running in the streets of the capital with his brothers and their friends, playing soldier, pretending they were brave officers fighting for glory on the front. His daydreams had changed over time, as he completed his schooling, graduated with his commission, and learned that military service had more to do with standing at attention than showing bravery. Now, if he could have one wish, it would be to make his daydreams for the Empire come true, somehow.

  Another battle had taken place on the eastern front, and wondrously, this had not ended in so sound a defeat. So the report was not quite as dire as it had been the day before. Perhaps, perhaps . . . .

  He gave this report to the Emperor: “The battle in the east continues. Again, I regret to report that the losses are great, your Majesty. But there is a small story of wonder. A young lieutenant showed great bravery when he crawled behind enemy lines armed only with a pistol. With stunning marksmanship, he shot down a whole line of cannoneers. Against all odds, this man returned to camp, ragged, bruised, but whole and inquiring about the safety of the men under his command. The crippling of the enemy artillery saved the lives of countless soldiers who otherwise would not have reached camp safely.”

  Michkov’s voice, normally only just greater than a whisper, grew vibrant with the telling. He felt as though he had seen his Hero’s actions with his own eyes and wanted to shout the deed to the world. When he finished, Michkov became aware of his voice echoing in the granite hall. Suddenly self-conscious, he lowered his gaze, afraid he had overstepped his bounds before the Emperor.

  After a pause that lasted long enough to be awkward, he looked and saw an amazing thing. For the first time in memory, the Emperor smiled. His eyes shone with an emotion that was not exhaustion but—pride. For a moment, the Emperor seemed to hold up his uniform, instead of being held by it.

  “How . . . heroic,” the Emperor said.

  Then the Emperor shocked them by not asking for Romey’s report at all.

  “Lieutenant Michkov. Write to General Tanov. I would hear more of this young officer of his.” And he led his entourage away, his stride a bit longer than usual.

  Michkov had done it, made the Emperor smile. Such an easy thing, when he put his mind to it.

  Romey crossed the space between their desks and rummaged through the piles of dispatches. Michkov, wearing a pleased and almost giddy smile, was still watching after the Emperor and almost didn’t notice. When he did, it was with a sense of curiosity rather than anger.

  “What are you doing, Romey?”

  “Looking—ah, here it is.” He retrieved a document and read it quickly, eyes darting. Scowling so that his jaw trembled, he glared at Michkov with bullet-dark eyes. “That lieutenant didn’t crawl into enemy range. This says he was trapped there while looting bodies and was forced to shoot his way free.”

  Michkov blushed. “Yes, well—the end result was the same. He did disable the entire line of artillery. And—did you see him?” Michkov gestured at the closed door where the Emperor had gone. “Did you see how pleased he looked?”

  Romey slapped the dispatch against the desk. “No more of your stories, Michkov. I’m warning you.”

  Michkov, declining to be intimidated by Romey’s theatrics, raised a brow. “We’ll go on as we always have, I expect. You continue to tell your stories, Romey. I will continue to tell mine.”

  From then on, the Hero performed only the most daring of exploits. He assassinated enemy generals, rallied his men in the face of defeat and led them to stunning victories. He raided a den of highwaymen, making safe once more a road that was essential to the resupply of the army. He refused promotions, preferring instead to remain with the infantry, fighting in the dirt, smoke, and blood with the rest, where he felt he could do the most good.

  The medals which he was awarded remained in a box, kept by a provincial gentleman’s beautiful daughter, to whom the Hero was betrothed.

  “Well, Michkov—do you have any new reports of our young lieutenant?” the Emperor asked his undersecretary with startling familiarity.

  Over the course of several months, Michkov produced everything the Emperor had hoped for in his great army, everything Michkov had dreamed, a respite from the dirge of dispatches they faced each morning, simply by painting the young lieutenant—his Hero—into his reports.

  “Ah—he has a young lady he wishes to marry when the war ends, your Majesty.”

  “Of course, of course. But the end is near, I think. I’m pleased I promoted General Yurivno. The new blood may turn the tide yet. Dear General Tanov was long due for retirement. Then again, those ne
w supply lines may make all the difference.”

  Michkov’s stories had done more than cheer the Emperor. They had revitalized him. No more a tired old man resigned to the wounds fate dealt him and his Empire, he reassessed his army and his frontier war, found them lacking, and went about repairing them. His inspired enthusiasm traveled down the chain of command. A battle won here, a new road there, made a difference.

  “Perhaps—Lieutenant Michkov, do you think I should award our hero a medal? A Meritorious Service Medal.” His eyes lit with the thought. “I could summon him to the capital. We could have a ceremony.”

  A little too quickly Michkov said, “Your Majesty—I am sure he is needed on the front, he may not be able to leave his duties—”

  “Ah, yes, you’re right of course. Well. When the war ends, yes?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Michkov said, sighing as he bowed.

  When the door closed and the undersecretaries were alone in the reception hall, Romey trained his ferret gaze on Michkov.

  “I don’t believe your reports. I don’t believe your dispatches hold anything but catastrophe. There are no heroes.”

  In a bright mood, Michkov laughed. “A sad life you must lead, Romey. Can’t you consider for one moment that some good might exist?”