How? Revna thought. But no one dared to speak when Tamara fell silent.
The Elda went on and on about the gods, but they were here to take the fields and the mines, and to burn the rest. They didn’t care about the sacred places of Rydda and the other Union states. They’d come not for the God Spaces, but for the farmland and the fatherland. They didn’t want to protect; they wanted to demolish.
So the Union had resorted to people like Revna—secondary citizens and women they never thought they’d need. Pavi from Kikuran, Asya from the ice-steppes. All of them called the Union home. This war wasn’t about the Skarov or the men who’d tried to turn her plane against her. It was about more than buying Mama and Lyfa a spot in a real bomb shelter. Revna’s fight belonged in the skies, where she had the chance to make sure that no one else’s family got rejected or torn apart. Even though the Union had torn apart her family and rejected her.
Tamara thought Revna could turn the tide. The Supreme Commander of the entire Union thought Revna could do it. And she had to do it, for that faraway dance of fire that claimed its dancers one by one.
They watched the battle for half an hour. When it was over, Revna was stiff and had all but fallen against Magdalena’s shoulder. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away. It was her second look at war, and this time she wasn’t consumed with how to survive.
Now she wanted to know how to bring down a Dragon.
All the lights on the horizon had gone out. Tamara stood with her hands at her sides, and when she spoke, her voice was clear and strong. “Our Strekozy are more agile than the Dragons,” she said. “And the difference in speed might make it difficult for a Dragon to catch us. That is what is said among the generals and tacticians in Mistelgard. I don’t know if it’s true. But every day we don’t fly, their power grows.”
Her face glistened with tears in the spare light of the moon. “The boys on this base will tell you again that they don’t need you, that they don’t like you. The things they say don’t matter. As long as that is happening”—she pointed beyond the fence—“they need us. They need every fighter they can get.”
The wind tore at her words. It carried the scent of ashes.
She turned away, and her shoulders seemed to slump. “Go to sleep, girls,” she said. “I’ll see you again in the morning. Don’t lose heart.”
They got up the next day without complaining. They did their work not with optimism, but with grim determination. They practiced, and they practiced, and they slept, and they practiced again.
And they got better.
7
COOPERATION IS INFORMATION; INFORMATION IS VICTORY
Linné woke every morning in a state of despair. She got up in despair; she ate breakfast in despair; she trained in despair. Before she got caught, she’d been too tired, too stressed, too intent on passing as a man or surviving a battle to let her emotions rule her. But now the endless loop of training, battle, and recovery had been traded for training, training, and training. And basic training at that. Zima had officially named her a supervisor and, if anything, it made her life worse.
Midautumn arrived with a vengeance, all wind and sleeting rain. The most recent crop of male recruits was being sent out today and replaced with another. The men shipped in from the front for Weave and spark training before shipping out again. Until Hesovec’s planes arrived, his regiment was rotated. And every time new recruits arrived, a new kind of trouble arrived with them.
Zima had reserved the range for target practice. Linné would have preferred to try General Tcerlin’s spark blade than waste ammunition on scarecrow targets, but she had to set an example. She could work on her cold spark anyway; her spark had always run hot and angry. Hot spark could keep an engine running, hot enough could ignite a fire, but sometimes soldiers wanted to put out fires or cause frostbite.
But her bullet didn’t seem to take to the cold spark, and the other girls hardly helped her concentration. For all that the Night Raiders could shoot, their discipline was abominable. Galina and Nadya were burning spark, threading energy out to steam the rain as it fell around them. Katya and Pavi tried to coax a hissing cat out from a hole in the sandbag wall that separated them from the range. Revna sat on a crate, swinging those metal legs of hers back and forth.
Magdalena was the worst. She leaned next to Revna and squinted down the barrel of a rifle. “What do you think of making some sort of gas bullet?”
Revna started to reply but seemed to lose her nerve when Linné sloshed over to them.
“Don’t tell me that’s loaded,” Linné said. The last thing she needed on her watch was Magdalena blowing off her face. Zima wouldn’t take excuses, and the girls would be far too happy to blame Linné.
Magdalena looked up coolly. “It’s not cocked.”
Which meant that it was loaded. Couldn’t Zima have screened for common sense? Linné ripped the rifle away, making sure that the barrel pointed toward the target straw men on the range. “Didn’t either of you take shooting lessons?” She checked the rifle and presented it to Magdalena, butt first. “Go up to the wall and try it properly.”
Magdalena squeezed Revna’s hand. “No.”
Honestly, they acted as if this were some sort of holiday. Without thinking, Linné leaned forward until her nose was an inch from Magdalena’s. “I’m your supervisor. Do it before I report you.”
Wrong thing to say. Magdalena took up the challenge with flashing eyes. “So report me. I’ll tell Tamara we’d rather be supervised by someone else.”
Linné nearly choked. “That’s not how the army works.” She’d said it so many times recently it came out without thinking.
“I’ll do it,” Revna said, sliding off the crate. Her prosthetics squelched in the mud. Whoever made them had been a real craftsman. The toes even splayed fractionally to support her. Though how Revna could afford them as a factory girl was another mystery.
Revna took the rifle and made a clumsy shot that missed the man she was aiming for and struck another in the shoulder. She sagged in disappointment and sent Linné a furtive glance, as if she expected a rebuke.
Linné gave her the chance to try again, approaching Katya instead. “You keep tipping the barrel too far up. Your bullets are going everywhere.”
“Straw man wins,” Katya said, rolling her eyes as she aimed. “It’s not like we’re going to have space for rifles in the plane.”
Linné gritted her teeth and tried to remember why she should keep her temper. “One day you might need to shoot, and how are you going to hit something if you don’t keep up your practice? I’m only trying—”
“To make us look foolish,” Katya said. “I know.”
“You don’t need help for that,” Linné replied.
Katya’s soft, pretty hands clenched around the gun. The embroidery she’d stitched into her military sleeves glinted like fire in the weak light of the cloudy day. Linné could taste the fight on the air. But Katya never got her chance.
Someone at the edge of the range cleared his throat loudly. They all turned to see a small knot of boys standing next to the sandbags. Linné wasn’t sure how long they’d been there. The one at the front—a dark-haired, tan-skinned man with a trim beard—gave them an indulgent smile. No one returned it.
The paler man next to him seemed more disdainful. “Argue somewhere else, if you don’t mind. We have practice.”
“If you don’t mind, we’ve got practice of our own,” Katya said, letting some of her ire flow out onto this new foe. After the stunt with the Strekozy covers, there was no question of who their worst enemies were. “Clear out—we’re working.”
“Doesn’t look like it to me,” someone said. Snickers erupted from the back of the group.
Linné’s hands burned, but she forced her face into a smooth mask. “Haven’t you been assigned your own shooting range?”
“Overcrowded,” the dark-haired soldier said. His easy smile widened as he took her in. “Long way from the steppe, sweetheart.”
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Linné’s jaw clenched. Her mother might be Ungurin, but that didn’t mean she had anything in common with this bastard. She picked up her rifle and made a show of loading it, as if she didn’t care. But spark danced at her fingertips, betraying her. “I’m from Mistelgard. I’ve never seen the steppe. And don’t call me sweetheart.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Dolosh, dolosh.”
Linné had never mustered the courage to ask for Ungurin lessons from her father, so she had no idea what that meant. She sneered at him to cover her bases. “Our superior gave us orders to be here.”
“Tell that to Colonel Hesovec,” said the light-haired one. “I’m sure he’ll set everything straight.” He wore the classic good looks of Rydda well: a sharp profile, blue eyes, thick honey-colored hair. His was the kind of face that got sketched on the bulletins that were tossed from palanquins, paired with words like FOR OUR HEROES or MAKE ME PROUD. But Linné was forming a different opinion of him, mostly determined by what came out of his mouth.
Katya leaned her gun on the sandbags and folded her arms. “We’ve earned our right to be here.”
The good-looking ass smiled like his four-year-old sister had done something amusing. “Men are needed at the front; men get priority. We don’t have time to sit around and show you how to use your guns.”
“We can use them,” Revna said, though her voice faltered as their heads swiveled around. Their collective gaze slid to her legs, looking for some crease in her trousers that might show where her flesh ended and the metal began. She flushed but didn’t back down. “We’ve been training here for two months.”
Good-Looking Ass snorted. “Sounds like a waste of resources, then.”
Linné felt the familiar burn, the anger that was never far away. It dared her to do something stupid. She flipped the safety off her rifle and fired. Most of the men jumped. Two of them swore. On the edge of the range, the farthest straw man rocked as her bullet pierced his shoulder.
For a moment no one did anything. Then Olya began to applaud. The rest joined in, eager to emphasize the achievement. Hypocrites, she thought, but all the same she had to clamp down on a smile.
“All this practice and the best you can do is moderately wound one stuffed doll? Looks like dumb luck. You couldn’t do it again,” said Good-Looking Ass.
The dark-haired soldier elbowed him. “How would you know, Krupin? You couldn’t hit a Dragon if it were parked right in front of you.”
Laughter rumbled around the group. Someone near the back shouted, “It’s true!”
Linné didn’t laugh with them. She looked between the Day and the Night Raiders, twirling another bullet between her fingers to imbue it with heat. Rain started to collect under her collar. If the boys hadn’t shown up, the Night Raiders would be talking about how much they wished they were inside. She also knew the boys wouldn’t walk away and leave her to her victory. They wanted to win, and they’d use humiliation, trickery, or excuses if they had to.
The dark-haired soldier stepped forward, primed his rifle, and took a shot. His cold-sparked bullet punched the torso of a straw man midfield, frosting blue over the hole. His friends clapped for him. It was a good killing blow. But she could do better.
He held out his rifle. “No tricks. Same gun.” Linné nodded. His fingers brushed over hers as they traded. “Match that, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said again. As she loaded the rifle, she checked to make sure he hadn’t blocked the barrel while she wasn’t looking, or disengaged the hammer, or let some of the rain in. When she was satisfied, she took aim and blew the straw man’s nose off his straw face. His head smoked as a puff of flame fought against the rain.
Applause circled around. Her opponent waggled his eyebrows. “Perhaps this competition is too simple for you.”
“It’s not a competition,” Linné replied. If it were, she’d wipe the floor with him. Heat flushed her. “Go away.”
“You’re giving up?” His eyes widened in mock disappointment. “You can’t let me win so easily, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“There.” He pointed beyond the shooting range to a postage stamp–sized cabbage field, all that remained of Intelgard’s original purpose for the Union. A cart was parked in the middle of the field, piled with cabbages. “I bet that I can shoot a cabbage off that cart and you can’t.”
“How much?” Linné said.
He pulled a cigarette case from his pocket and opened it. “Half the week’s rations.”
Temptation tugged at her. The girls got a smaller ration than the boys, and she’d never been good at saving hers. She could almost taste the sour rascidine on her tongue.
She primed and aimed. Rain lashed her cheeks. The world stood still for a moment, and in that moment she was certain. This was a setup. He would trip her, or jerk the gun, or call her sweetheart, or even slap her ass. Anything to put her off her game and make her miss.
She waited for it. And waited. And then she took her shot.
The cabbage at the front left of the cart exploded and toppled from its perch. A few other cabbages wobbled from the force, rolling off the cart into the mud. The girls cheered and the boys clapped. Linné’s opponent smiled. “Nicely done,” he admitted.
“Hand them over.” She tucked his rifle under her arm and pulled out her cigarette case, a bright silver monogrammed beauty she’d swiped from her father’s desk the day she’d run off.
His hand lingered on his case. “One more time.”
“That wasn’t our agreement.”
“Krupin could be right—it could be a fluke,” he reasoned.
“Tell me which one to shoot,” Linné said. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.” She loaded his rifle a second time.
He came around to stand right behind her, leaning in. “That one,” he murmured, pointing to a cabbage near the top.
“Front right corner,” she confirmed. “Two from the top, three from the side. Step back—you’re impeding my movement.”
“Sorry.” His breath tickled her ear before he moved away.
She rubbed at the side of her head and focused.
She didn’t hit the second from the top, third from the side. The bullet tore into the cabbage next to it. Someone at the edge of the field, presumably the farmer, screeched a curse as precariously placed cabbages began to tumble, knocking their neighbors down with them. Damn it.
“One more time,” she said.
“What are you doing?”
Everyone turned. Three figures strode toward them through the rain. The one in the front had a red face and a colonel’s stripe.
She needed to come up with an excuse, and fast. She snapped to attention and saluted. Rainwater washed down her back. “Ah,” she said.
“Answer me,” Hesovec snarled, spit flying from his mouth.
Linné couldn’t answer him. She couldn’t think of anything except the two men behind him. Two men in silver coats that buttoned up to their chins, their blue stars proudly pinned where everyone could see. Skarov.
Hesovec noticed her paralysis and turned to look. “Ah, yes. Ladies, allow me to introduce the representatives of the Extraordinary Wartime Information Unit. They’ll be keeping the capital apprised of our progress. They weigh in on our deliberations regarding who is ready for combat, and they ensure the base is secure. With that in mind, I’m sure you can tell me: What were you doing?”
They couldn’t be. They couldn’t be Skarov. Not those two. Her legs began to tremble. She couldn’t let it show.
She recognized them. She recognized them more than she’d ever have wished.
Dostorov stood on the left, as gloomy as always, dripping in the rain. Dostorov, who’d signed her up for Koslen’s regiment. Dostorov, who smoked too many cigarettes and never spoke if he could get away with shrugging instead. His dark hair flopped into his eyes. She could tell that it irritated him, but he wasn’t going to fidget with it. He seemed so out of place in his long gray coat.
Next to him stood Tannov, light-haired and light-eyed, cheerful as always. Tannov, who’d always made the worst jokes. Tannov, who’d caught her and reported her. Now she’d never be able to give him the kicking he deserved. Her father had once said that becoming a Skarov stripped all the smiles out of a man, but Tannov’s smile was as free as it always had been. His eyes flicked around the cluster of girls. They rested on her briefly—a little longer than on everyone else, maybe? She clenched her hands around the rifle behind her back, cold spark skittering down her fingers. Don’t blush. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her.
“Answer me,” Hesovec hissed.
Revna, of all people, tried to save her. “They pushed her to do it, sir—”
“To do what?” He rounded on her like a feral bull.
She stared at her feet. “They said we were wasting time and we couldn’t shoot, and Linné wanted to show them.”
Don’t say my name, Linné thought furiously, swallowing a lump of panic. Had her old regiment learned what she was called?
“So you were showing off.” Hesovec pointed to the cabbage cart and the distraught farmer rushing toward it. “That is army property. Showing off is no excuse for damaging army property!”
“They—they interrupted us,” Revna sputtered.
“Do you think I care about petty arguments?” he roared.
Flecks of saliva speckled her coat. Revna flinched, and even the Skarov behind him raised their eyebrows. She took a deep breath. “But they challenged her—”
“Do you?”
The range was silent for a moment. “No,” Revna said at last, barely above a whisper.
We Rule the Night Page 9
