Storm Fall

by Tracy Banghart

  Dysis didn’t say anything. Let him believe what he wanted.

  Calix straightened, and she realized how close they were standing. So close she could see tiny golden flecks in his green eyes and the shadow of stubble along his jaw. She took a step back.

  He continued. “Aris should know I’m proud of her, because I am. Even if I couldn’t say it before.”

  Before Dysis could think of a reply, Daakon yelled.

  Dysis took off at a sprint toward the flash of blue uniform far ahead, half-hidden by a copse of trees. Her boots slipped before finding purchase on the rocky ground.

  “What is it? Did you find her?” Dysis slid down a slight incline, dislodging a cascade of gravel. When she reached him, Daakon pointed to a black lump on the ground.

  Aris’s empty wingjet seat. It would have ejected with her. That meant this was where she’d landed. Dysis scanned the surroundings, frantically searching for some sign of her friend. Calix ran up beside her and sank to his knees. He ran his hand over the chair, either in reverence or relief.

  “I don’t see her,” Dysis panted, moving to examine more of the small clearing. She stood and shouted into the trees, “Aris!”

  Daakon made his way over and put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off automatically. “Look,” he said. “This is a good thing. We have a starting point. But we can’t just wander through the woods yelling her name.”

  “She’s got to be close.” Dysis stepped farther into the trees, ignoring the branches that reached toward her face.

  “There’s blood.” Calix’s voice cut through her concentration like a knife.

  Dysis rushed back to him. His face was pressed up close to the seat as he examined it. With Dysis and Daakon looming over him, he pointed to several rusty streaks along the gray material. “See?” he said. “She’s hurt.”

  Dysis leaned closer and noticed a splatter of dried blood on the ground, too. She swept a hand toward the stain. “Is that a lot of blood? Is she badly injured?”

  Calix rocked back on his haunches and glanced around the clearing. She was surprised he was so calm. “It’s not a lot, no. Certainly not enough to suggest a mortal wound.” He stood and made his way slowly toward the trees, his gaze firmly fixed to the ground. “And it might actually help us. See? There’s a blood trail.”

  Dysis followed him, noting the brown splotches that marked the dusty yellow dirt. Calix shot a grim smile back at Daakon. “We have our starting point.”

  “Let’s make sure no one else does.” Daakon kicked dirt over the splashes of blood, smoothing the ground with his foot so the trail disappeared.

  They hiked until midday, while the sun beat down on them with merciless intensity. Eventually the blood trail faded and then disappeared completely. By that point, it took little guesswork to assume Aris had been heading for the crashed wingjet.

  “She was trying to make it to the retrieval team,” Dysis said. She sat in the shade of a small tree. Here the land was torn open by deep ravines and winding riverbeds, all dry. They had crossed a single dirt road, the only sign of civilization.

  “She was injured, so she would have been moving more slowly than we are. She probably arrived too late.” Daakon handed her a ready-to-eat meal in a silver pouch and a chrome flask of water.

  “Or she changed course,” Calix said, taking the food Daakon offered him. “Maybe she saw the Safaran troops that engaged the S and R team.”

  Dysis snatched Daakon’s digitablet from the ground beside him so she could study the map. They were close to the crash site, less than a mile. “Maybe she’s hiding out by the wingjet, waiting for another rescue attempt.”

  “We can only hope.” Daakon tried to catch her eye, but she concentrated on the too-salty, acidic flavor of the food pouch. It was meant to be citrus beef. Not her favorite. But the water helped with the heat.

  They rested until the sun began its downward slant. Not long afterward, they climbed a narrow ridge that would take them directly to the broken wingjet, if their map was correct.

  They never made it.

  A high-pitched whine broke through the silence. Dysis glanced at Calix, who looked just as confused. Daakon led them closer, clinging to the shadows. It turned out the wingjet wasn’t on the ridge but below it, in a tree-swathed ravine that still smoked and sent the bitter smell of burning metal into the air.

  A flock of black-clad figures swarmed around the wingjet. The mysterious whine was an electric saw. They were cutting apart the charred remains and loading them into a transjet.

  Dysis shivered, despite the heat. It was like watching them dismember a body.

  “Any sign of Aris?” Calix whispered.

  They crept farther along the ridge, seeking a better vantage point. Dysis scoured the makeshift Safaran camp. There were two large tecons with their fabric flaps pulled back, allowing free access. Not the best place for a prisoner. They might be holding Aris on one of the wingjets. There were three: the transjet and two smaller recons. She strained her ears for the sound of screams over the squeal of the saw.

  “I don’t see anything, but there are only five or six soldiers milling around.” Dysis put a hand on the solagun at her side. “We can take them down and conduct a search.”

  “No,” Daakon said firmly.

  “We can’t miss this chance,” she said. “Stop being—”

  “I’m being practical,” he interrupted. “We don’t have the manpower or weapons to take on those soldiers.” His eyes flicked to the bustle down below. “And I counted at least eight.”

  Dysis restrained herself from slapping him across the face, even though it was very, very tempting.

  “But we’re not going to let this chance go either,” he said. “Get comfortable. We’re staying here until dawn tomorrow. We’ll take shifts watching those soldiers. If there’s even a hint of Aris down there, we’ll hit our beacons immediately. Got it?”

  Dysis nodded grudgingly. “Fine. I’ll take first watch.”

  Chapter 21

  Aris woke up screaming.

  Her nightmare had come to life. She was in a white room, restrained in a med-bed with bone-white sheets. Elom bent over her with a medigun, his dark eyes boring into her soul. And she knew, with every frantic breath she took, that he was about to kill her.

  She thrashed, straining as far from him as she could get, still screaming. She refused to look him in the face; she didn’t want to see his joy in this moment. His satisfaction.

  “I could do without the noise.” He pressed a button on the side of the bed and the back rose. She heaved herself forward, trying to leap off the bed, but her arms were tied down and her legs tangled in the sheets. Elom pushed a hand against her collarbone to hold her still as he pressed the medigun tight to her skin. “This should help.”

  A sharp, quick pain pricked her arm. Aris fought against his grip, lashing out like a wild animal. With a frustrated grimace, he let go. But it didn’t matter; she was still restrained. And whatever he’d injected still ran in her veins. How long would it take to kill her?

  “What did you do to me?” she howled. Her vision was blurry, everything lined with a smoky edge. Was that the drug taking effect?

  Elom just crossed his arms. Waiting.

  Aris braced for paralysis to sneak through her limbs. She shouted obscenities at him as she waited for the oblivion to come.

  But it didn’t. In fact, nothing happened at all.

  “What was that?” she asked more calmly, though she still strained against her bonds.

  “Something to help reduce the inflammation in your wrist.”

  “My wrist?” Why did he care about her wrist? The realization took longer to process. Her arm. It didn’t hurt. She looked down. The gash was neatly bandaged, her wrist constrained in a splint.

  “It was broken in two places. I set the bone. The cut was infected, too. You wouldn’t have survived much longer on your own,” Elom said.

  For the first time, Aris found the courage to look him in
the eye. Only, now that she was calmer, the haze fading, she could see . . . it wasn’t Elom.

  She stared hard at the man, her heart ricocheting in the cage of her ribs like a wild bird trying to break free. The likeness was eerie. In height and build, the two men could be twins. But this man’s nose was different: thinner, straight, where Elom’s was battered, a fighter’s nose. The stranger’s face was also thinner, almost gaunt. And he was younger, maybe thirty, where Elom was probably in his forties.

  “Who are you?” Aris asked, not particularly comforted. She was still at a stranger’s mercy, still tied to a bed.

  “Don’t tell her anything,” a female voice pierced the silence.

  Aris turned toward the sound. A woman stood by a strip of cloth hanging over a doorway. Beyond her, the golden-plum haze of twilight. Had she slept through an entire day?

  The woman was of average height, probably a little taller than Aris, her smooth brown skin a shade darker than the man who stood beside the bed. As she came closer, Aris could make out wide chestnut eyes, wiry arms, and thick black hair that fell in braids down her back. Her expression reminded Aris of that of Commander Nyx. This woman was in charge. And she was not happy.

  “It doesn’t matter who we are,” she said, coming closer. “Who are you?”

  Aris kept her mouth shut.

  The man made an impatient noise. When he turned to look at the woman, Aris caught sight of the black rectangular Military brand on his neck. Her stomach clenched. Safaran Military.

  “You aren’t helping,” he said. “Why would she talk to us now?”

  The woman glared at him. “We’ll make her.”

  “Why fix my arm if you’re just going to torture me?” Aris’s eyes dropped to her own chest. No emergency transponder. She tried to steady her racing heart. If they wanted information, they should have left her in agony. She would have told them anything.

  “You’re from Atalanta.” The man said it as if he knew for certain, but his eyes held a question.

  Aris said nothing, her body tense. “Where’s my body armor?”

  “We removed it when we cleaned your wounds.” The man gestured to a stack of clothing on a chair against the wall. Aris glanced around, taking in her prison for the first time. The room was little more than a shack, with paint peeling from the walls in strips, revealing dirty stone beneath. The light came from an old-fashioned lamp, not solar ceiling tiles.

  “I told you not to answer her questions!” the woman hissed.

  He threw up his hands. “Why? We want her to answer ours!”

  She leaned over Aris, her eyes flashing. “How did you get here? Are there more of you coming?”

  Aris met her gaze squarely and kept her mouth firmly, purposefully shut.

  The man leaned back against the low counter that ran the length of the room. It might have been a casual pose, if his hands hadn’t been clenched at his sides. “We don’t have to trust her, but we do have to tell her. There’s no way she’ll answer our questions otherwise.”

  “What if she’s a spy?” the woman argued. “She could be working for Balias. If we tell—”

  “You think I’m a spy for Balias?” Shock tore down Aris’s spine. Maybe she was still delirious.

  The man studied her closely. “We hope not.”

  “I don’t understand,” Aris said. “Why would Balias even send a spy here?”

  The man’s face went still.

  “Do you have any idea what this war is doing to us?” the woman asked, as if she couldn’t help herself.

  Aris’s mouth dropped open. “My dominion is under siege. This isn’t about what it’s doing to you.”

  The woman’s shoulders bent as if from a heavy, invisible weight. “Haven’t your spies told you the truth yet? The people of Safara are dying. From starvation, but from this war, too. Balias will bury us all.”

  Aris pulled against her restraints. “Is this some strange test of loyalty? Because my loyalty to Atalanta is not nor will it ever be in question.”

  The man bent forward and released her arms. “We’re staking our lives on that.”

  “Alistar.” The warning in the woman’s voice was clear.

  Alistar. Aris filed the name away. She ran a hand over the splint on her broken wrist, wishing she could take it off, if only for a moment. The skin beneath itched.

  Alistar focused on her with a frightening intensity. “Are you trying to get back to Atalanta? Is that why you’re here?”

  Aris eyed him warily. She didn’t even know where here was. “I have no reason to tell you anything.”

  “We’ll help you reach the border alive,” he said, holding up a hand. “If you take us with you into Atalanta.”

  “Why?” Aris shot back.

  Alistar and the woman shared a weighted look. “My sister Samira and I . . . we seek asylum,” he said.

  “You want to defect?” Aris’s mind whirled. There was no way she could trust a thing they said, but perhaps she could leverage this somehow. If they’d let her contact Milek . . .

  Samira straightened, her braids swishing. “We think of it as escaping the regime that is holding this dominion hostage.”

  “How do I know you don’t plan to infiltrate Atalanta as spies? Or worse?” Aris watched the woman closely, looking for any hint of deceit.

  “We mean no harm to Atalanta. Surely that’s obvious by now? We haven’t killed you. We’ve healed your wounds.” Samira gestured to Aris’s hands. “We’ve released you from your bonds. We’ll even feed you while you’re in our care.”

  “Okay, then. Let me have access to your comm tech,” Aris demanded. “I’ll have my superior retrieve me. You can discuss your petition for asylum with him.”

  Alistar shook his head. “Our comms have been down for months.”

  A weight settled in Aris’s stomach. The small spark of hope that had been fighting its way to the surface died a sudden, ugly death. “What about the old telelines?”

  “Balias has cut off all communications within our own dominion, aside from those used by his Military. Even within the cities.” The man rubbed the back of his neck. “He wishes to isolate us.”

  Her mind whirled. Surely it would be common knowledge in Atalanta if Safara’s local communication network was down. How had she never heard about it? “So what’s your plan to reach Atalanta?”

  Samira glanced toward the door, as if she’d heard a noise. Something in her face changed. The cloth rippled and a small hand crept along the wall. Without a word, Samira disappeared through the doorway, but not before Aris caught a glimpse of a tiny, wide-eyed face as the woman scooped up the child and disappeared into the dusk.

  “You should rest,” Alistar said. “We’ll speak more in the morning.” Before Aris could react, he pushed a medigun into her arm.

  “What was that?” She rubbed the sore spot, swallowing back a new wave of panic.

  “It will help with the pain.” He pressed the button on the side of the bed and it straightened, drawing her flat.

  Almost immediately, a wave of world-blurring calm swept over her. Before she faded completely, she said, “I saw your brand. You were chosen for Military. Why aren’t you part of the fight?”

  “I was.”

  Without elaborating, he left the room, and Aris fell back into darkness.

  Chapter 22

  The large living room of Galena’s home sat cloaked in shadows and neglect. The air smelled of the dusty remains of flowers, a scent she always associated with her grandmother, who’d died years ago.

  Beside her, Pyralis hesitated on the threshold.

  “Thank you for coming today,” Galena said. He’d flown in that morning, for no other reason than that she’d asked him to. “I’ve . . . I’ve been meaning to do this for months, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve been back?” Pyralis asked as he stepped inside.

  “A long time.” Her voice sounded too loud in the hushed house. “When I r
eturned from my . . . ordeal, Josef was dead and Milek living in Atalanta. I couldn’t bring myself to stay.”

  She’d been living in a suite at the capitol ever since.

  “It’s okay if you need more time,” Pyralis murmured.

  With a sigh, Galena said, “No. I refuse to let this place haunt me.”

  Truthfully, it was that and more. At this moment, Milek’s team was searching for Aris Haan, and so much depended on whether they found her: the integration movement, but also Milek’s happiness. It was a day for distractions, for putting ghosts to rest.

  Pyralis’s warm brown eyes blinked into the darkness. “I understand the weight of memories.”

  Galena tapped the light panel and several lamps blinked on. Pale-blue walls led to a dramatically pitched ceiling. The living room’s clean lines were echoed by the simple golden wood furniture. The white tiled floor was streaked with the dust.

  “It’s like a museum,” Galena murmured, running a finger through the thick dust on the back of a chair.

  “One that holds your happiest memories,” Pyralis replied.

  She glanced back at him. “Not all of them.”

  They sifted through her belongings, dividing everything into piles. Those items she wanted to keep, and those she would give away. They did the easy rooms first: the living room, where they stacked most of the furniture on the “donate” side of the room, and the kitchen, where everything but her grandmother’s tea set would go.

  “Milek thinks we were getting close to Elom,” she said, as she stacked plates. “That’s why Lieutenant Haan was shot down.”

  Pyralis continued collecting silverware into a large basket. “I met with Lieutenant Latza yesterday. Among other things, he mentioned that his contacts think the intel on Elom was a setup.”

  “A setup for what?” Galena leaned against the counter, her hands resting on either side of the stack of plates, all to be given away. She couldn’t live with their reminders of the life she’d had with Josef and Milek. The quiet, distant meals, where no one knew what to say to one another.