“What of the Ruslanan soldiers killed in battle?” Galena asked, obviously grasping at straws. “Surely that constitutes a threat to both dominions?”
Hal shook his head, his slicked hair retaining its precise wave. “Those soldiers have been deployed to a war zone; they are not being attacked on their own soil.”
“And the people in Castalia and Meridia?” Pyralis clutched the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands to keep himself from punching the ass. “Do you mean to tell me your people care nothing for the plight of Atalanta? Are they happy to watch us fall?”
Sera leaned forward. “Ward Nekos, you must understand. Castalia’s economy has lost ground in recent years, and Military sector doesn’t have the resources to provide troops. If I were to back out of our trade agreements with Safara, my own people’s livelihoods would be at stake.” Pyralis caught a hint of genuine sorrow in her eyes. “I do understand the desperate nature of your situation, but there’s nothing I can do.”
Hal, on the other hand, offered no such sympathy. “Ward Nekos, you have the support of Ruslana, the wealthiest and most powerful of the Five Dominions. There’s no damn reason you shouldn’t be able to withstand Ward Balias’s invasion. Meridia cannot be expected to offer you more handholding when you’re not adequately using the resources you already have. And this ridiculous female Military-integration business? Come on.”
Pyralis opened his mouth to protest, but the odious man wasn’t done. He stood from the table, his crimson robes standing out like blood against the white walls of the featureless room. “Unless you can provide some proof that Safara is a threat to more than one dominion, you’ll receive no help from me. I’ve spoken with you on this matter several times now. I will not make the trip again. Good day.”
With that, the Ward of Meridia swept from the room, his entourage of burgundy-uniformed bodyguards following him.
Sera stood, too. “I truly am sorry.” She glanced at Galena, and then quickly away. “But I cannot sanction what would amount to a world war without more proof. You are protecting your dominions. I must protect mine.”
As soon as the door shut behind the other Ward, Galena pounded her fist on the table. “Gods, the nerve of that man. How Meridia can keep electing him—I don’t care if he’s the most brilliant Commerce mind in their entire dominion, he’s—”
“Hal’s right,” Pyralis said, to his own shock. He hated agreeing with that man, but in this case, he had a point.
She sputtered in protest. “How can you—”
“I mean, obviously, he’s an ass,” Pyralis said, shooting her a little smile. “But he is right that we can’t force the other dominions to help us. And he’s right, too, that Atalanta shouldn’t be relying so much on outside aid. It’s a defensive position, and it won’t win us this war.”
Galena sighed as she dropped into her seat again. “So what do we do?”
“We need to do what Ward Balias did,” he replied, thoughts and plans beginning to swirl in his mind.
“What do you mean?” Galena asked. The brightness of the room pressed unforgivingly against her face, revealing her exhaustion.
A new energy coursed through him. “With your capture, Balias found a way to hurt us beyond the fight on the ground. We need to do the same in return.” Pyralis drummed his hand against the table as he looked at her ravaged, beautiful face. “We need to bring down Safara from within.”
Chapter 6
Aris took her place with the other officers at morning formation, standing before the soldiers instead of among them. In the front row, Specialist Pallas stared straight ahead, eyes blank.
Beside Aris, the new retrieving expert, Lieutenant Cruz, mumbled something under his breath. With ruddy cheeks, heavy black eyebrows, and a nose that hitched markedly to the right, he had the air of a schoolyard bully. Aris already knew he vehemently opposed women in the Military; he’d told her so, point blank and with insufferable arrogance, during the briefing the night before.
As soon as the unit was in position, Milek addressed the assembled soldiers. “Good morning! Today, as you can see, we are joined by Lieutenant Haan, whom some of you may remember as Aristos.”
A few murmurs wove through the crowd. Aris searched for familiar faces, landing on a transport flyer, Specialist Evander, she hadn’t seen since she’d been back. Brightly colored tattoos curled out from the edges of his uniform and along his face. When she met his eyes, he didn’t crack a smile, but he didn’t look disgusted either, like some of the other men. Maybe Evander remembered what she could do with a wingjet. It’d be nice if some of them did. The other flyers, at least, had once been impressed by her skills.
Milek continued. “After risking her life—and imprisonment—to save Ward Vadim’s life, the Lieutenant was asked to rejoin the sector, here at Spiro, as our flying expert. I understand a few of you are still uncomfortable at the thought of fighting alongside female soldiers. Well, you better get over that fast. Because now you’ll be trained by one.”
The grumbles increased in volume. A single clear voice broke through the noise. “Personally, I enjoy a woman in charge!”
Laughter exploded across the field. Aris kept her face still.
“Silence!” Milek stared the men down, eyes hard. He flicked his head toward Lieutenant Daakon, who pulled the soldier who’d spoken from the line. It was the ginger-haired kid.
“Specialist Kyros, I’ll be training with you today,” Milek said, venom in his voice. “But first, give me three laps around the training grounds.”
Kyros sighed, shoulders slumping, and jogged to the edge of the field. Milek turned his attention back to the unit. “I will not tolerate any disrespect to Lieutenant Haan, or to any other woman on this stationpoint. Your female comrades are risking their lives right along with you, just as they did before the ban was lifted. You will treat them with the courtesy they deserve. Is that understood?”
The collective “yes, sir” was not quite as decisive as it could have been, but Milek looked satisfied. To a point.
“Please remember that Lieutenant Haan now has authorization to discipline you,” he added. “I don’t imagine she’ll shy from her duty.”
He turned and nodded at Lieutenant Daakon, who stepped forward, saying, “Soldiers, pair off. Grab a mat. Time for combat training.”
The pairs of fighters moved out of Milek’s way quickly as he wove through them. Aris suspected their speed had more to do with the murderous look in his eyes than his rank.
Thuds and grunts soon filled the air. Aris hated hand-to-hand training—mostly because she was wretched at it—but the sight of soldiers circling one another had a strange effect on her. Remembering Dysis’s swift kicks and graceful pivots when they sparred, the way the dust puffed up under their feet as they parried and jabbed, that single instance when Aris had caught Dysis in the shoulder and sent her tumbling to the ground . . . it all gave her a sense of fond nostalgia. And it made her miss Dysis even more.
A little island of stillness in the moving sea of bodies caught Aris’s eye. In the corner of the training field Specialist Pallas stood by herself. Three men fought one another while she looked on, her lips pinched into a frown.
Lieutenants Daakon and Cruz were already mingling among the soldiers, offering pointers as necessary.
Aris made her way to Pallas’s side. “What’s going on?”
Pallas gestured to the whirlwind of the three fighting men: Baksen, Specialiast Mann, a thick-necked, muscular transport flyer, and a soldier Aris didn’t recognize. “They won’t fight me. Not even Baksen. They say they can’t hit a girl.”
Aris shook her head. “That’s ridiciulous. We had to go through the same training, collect the same bruises.”
“But we trained with other women, our sectormates. We never really fought with the men, did we?” Pallas had a point. But the girl’s expression didn’t reflect her words. Dark shadows sat beneath her eyes, and her hands clenched in rhythm with Baksen’s jabs and thrusts. She was ob
viously unhappy, trapped in a way the diatous veil had never confined her.
Aris took a deep breath and pulled against her elbows, stretching her back. It’d been months since she’d fought hand to hand, and she’d never been good. The men would watch and judge. But it didn’t matter, even if it undermined her tenuous authority. Pallas deserved the chance to hone skills that might someday save her life.
“Alright, Specialist.” Aris squared off with Pallas, who stared at her with wide eyes. “I’ve just given myself authorization to spar with you. Let’s go.”
Pallas shook her head but threw a halfhearted jab. Aris dodged, spinning to deliver a kick to the woman’s lower back. “Come on,” Aris urged as she lunged. “Don’t go easy on me.”
Pallas feinted and thrust upward, catching Aris’s shoulder with her fist. The blow had enough force to send Aris back several paces.
“Nice.” Aris shifted her feet, regrouping.
Pallas grinned. After that, she attacked without reservation. As Aris struggled to hold her own, it was obvious Pallas was burning off more than a little pent-up frustration. The woman’s kicks and punches increased in intensity the longer they sparred, and Aris flashed back more than once to the beatdowns she’d taken at Dysis’s hands.
As Aris picked herself up from the ground for the third time, a loud voice carried over the training ground. “Fall in!”
Aris nodded to Pallas—they were both panting and sweaty—and took her place in the line of officers.
“We’ve just received a report of a skirmish in southeastern Mittaka,” Milek said. “Our troops are faring ill. Their air support’s been shot down, and they need backup. We’re the closest unit, so we’ll be responding to their distress call. This is a different kind of mission for us, with an active combat scene. We’ll provide fire support to the troops battling on the ground.”
Aris resisted the urge to bounce nervously on the balls of her feet. She’d hoped her first couple of missions would be quick retrievals: easy, routine assignments to get her back into the swing of things.
“Once the threat is neutralized,” Milek continued, “we’ll proceed with our regular parameters, searching for survivors and transporting them to a field-mender clinic. Understood?”
A unified chorus of “yes, sir!”
“Liutenant Haan and I will lead this mission from the air,” Milek announced. “Report to the airfield immediately. We leave in ten.”
The soldiers filed back into the rounded building; they’d pick up their equipment from the armory before heading to the airfield. Lieutenants Daakon and Cruz followed them.
Milek turned to Aris. “Lieutenant, I’d like you to fly with Specialist Contas.”
The name was a punch to the stomach. The last person she wanted to fly with was the jerk who’d taunted her on the transjet. “Sir? Are you sure? I mean—”
“In spite of their unfortunate attitudes, most of these soldiers know what you can do in the air. Contas is new to this point, and deserving of a lesson, I think.” Milek’s eyes gleamed. She’d caught a glimpse of him “sparring” with Specialist Kyros; it appeared he was in a teaching mood today.
Milek studied her closely. “This is your first mission. Do you think you’re ready?”
His voice was official, but something in the way he looked at her suggested he was asking out of genuine concern, too.
Aris didn’t want him to question her readiness for combat. She should be able to handle this. After all, what could Contas do beyond lob a few insults? And as for the flying, she was determined to keep her nerves in check.
You are strong enough for this, Aris. It was always Dianthe’s voice that sprang into her mind when she needed reassurance or a kick into action.
Aris slapped a grin on her face, refusing to give her fear further purchase. “I would be happy to teach Specialist Contas a lesson, sir.”
Milek’s answering smile sent warmth flooding through her. And somehow, despite the danger, her heart soared at the knowledge that she’d soon be in the air.
Chapter 7
Oh holy, I’m going to die. Aris tightened her hands on the wingjet controls until her knuckles went white. Just a little farther. You can do this. She dove closer to the tree line, every nerve twisting.
“This is donkeyshit. I should have been paired with Mann. A girl has no business flying into city traffic, let alone a war zone.” Specialist Contas sucked his teeth again, the disgusting sound filling the tight confines of the cockpit.
Aris focused on his words instead of the shadows eating at the edge of her vision. “Believe me, I would have preferred any other gunner to you.”
He jerked a little, as if her voice had startled him.
“You came back because of that scar, didn’t you?” He asked, poison in his voice. “When you were at home, what happened? Did the little kids laugh and call you a freak? Or maybe, you couldn’t find a man willing to spread your legs?”
She swallowed back her first response, which was to scream and eject him from the wingjet, and instead measured her words carefully. “You will address me as Lieutenant or sir, as befits my rank as your superior,” she stated flatly. “Your behavior since you arrived at Spiro has been a disgrace, and you can be sure there will be consequences.”
Contas snorted.
Aris wanted to threaten him, demean him the way he had her. But they were getting close to the battlefield, and she needed to concentrate. She’d deal with him properly once they were on the ground, when there weren’t people counting on her.
“Recon One, still on schedule?” Milek’s deep voice crackled over their comms.
Aris glanced at the nav. “ETA four minutes, sir. Stand by for visual confirmation of target.” She didn’t spare her companion another glance. But she couldn’t entirely erase his words from her head.
Here, near the Safaran border, the trees were short and scrubby, a faded yellow rather than the rich green she was used to farther south. The remains of a village came into view, its raised pathways black and broken, still smoking in places. The homes were ravaged by firebombs, their white roofs tumbled to burning coal and gray-tinged ash. Aris’s heat-seeking tech showed hot spots all over the place.
Safaran soldiers clung to the shadows at the edge of the village, but their black uniforms still stood out. From this height they looked like an army of beetles scrabbling along the ground.
“Recon One has visual. Recon Two?” she said.
Over the comms, Specialist Pallas replied, “Recon Two confirmed.”
Without warning, several Safaran wingjets zipped around a copse of larger trees. In a flash, Recon Four was hit. Aris swerved and dodged, instinct guiding her. She couldn’t watch to see if her comrades ejected in time; one of the enemy jets was right on her tail, spraying the air with gunfire. Blasts of fiery red exploded from beneath its wings.
“We’ve got enemy engagement! Return fire!” she shouted. Adrenaline spilled through her in a clarifying wave. She spun underneath the Safaran jets, setting up for a clear shot. Her gunner didn’t fire.
“What the hell are you doing? Take the shot!” But it was too late. She righted them and yanked on the controls, sending them straight into the hazy, smoke-choked sky.
Beside her, Specialist Contas dry heaved. It was his first firefight, but hell if he deserved her sympathy now. “Get it together, Specialist. I will not let you get us killed.”
In the jet beneath her, Pallas was engaging the enemy. Fireballs filled the space between the wingjets as each craft evaded fire. The transports stayed out of the main fray because they didn’t have the maneuverability of the smaller recons Aris and Pallas flew. But their guns were bigger.
Aris dove again and this time Contas managed to get off a shot. A line of trees below the enemy exploded into flame.
Seconds later, one of the Sarafan wingjets flipped, jerked off its flight path by a well-aimed missile from one of the transports. When it crashed to earth, a huge explosion filled the air with oily smoke.
Hopefully it had landed on the enemy encampment, not on the Atalantan troops battling on the ground.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Aris mumbled, as another Atalantan jet burst into flame. Aris dropped one hundred feet with teeth-clenching speed and then spun to give Contas a clear shot of a Safaran wingjet, but he was too busy trying not to vomit.
The enemy jet veered away. “Damn!” Aris flipped and dove again, opening a lane for Specialist Mann to move in and engage. His transport fired off two missiles in quick succession, turning the Safaran wingjet to burning scrap in midair.
She spared a split-second glance at Contas, yelling, “Step the hell up!”
As Aris skated over the enemy foot soldiers’ line, Contas did his job at last, letting loose a barrage of fire that drove the men back from the Atalantan line.
Aris listened more closely to the frenzied chatter over the comms. “Recon One to Transport One, status?” Aris asked, waiting impatiently for the reply. Milek, Daakon, and Otto were flying Transport One. Please please please . . .
“Transport One to Recon One. We’ve got the final wingjet engaged. Stand by,” Milek responded, sounding as cool and in control as ever.
Fire burst crimson and gold along the black wing of the final Safaran wingjet. So much destruction everywhere.
Aris let out a breath.
“Recon One, do a sweep.” Milek ordered.
While the rest of the fleet turned their attention to the battle waging on the ground, Aris circled wide, scanning the skies for other threats. Beside her, Specialist Contas coughed loudly and wetly, as if choking back bile. She couldn’t bring herself to say something reassuring. All she managed was, “Think of water, like the ocean. Should help.”
Storm Fall Page 4
