The Diatous Wars 1: Rebel Wing (4 page)

The darkness spun,
endless shadows twisting through a featureless night. A whispered word and a murmured command cut through the haze like strands of silver woven in black velvet. Galena Vadim didn’t recognize the voices, couldn’t understand the words.

No . . . cover her . . . in here . . .

When she blinked, the world transmuted from gray to brilliant white. Too bright. She closed her eyes, opened them a slit until they could adjust. The ceiling above her glowed.

She blinked again, catching whispers of black and brown at the corners of her eyes.

Where am I?

For a moment she thought she might still be at the World Council, crumpled on the cold floor, but her body had already begun to register the cushion of a mattress beneath it.

The brown shadows gradually resolved themselves into a huge, hulking man leaning over her, his shaved head gleaming mahogany in the harsh light. Startled by his presence, she tried to draw back, but the bone-white sheets tucked tight to her collarbone restrained her.

She opened her mouth to scream.

“There’s no need for that,” the man said. He loomed closer and placed something cold and metallic against her neck.

“What happened? Where am I?” Galena asked, and in so doing realized she had very little voice with which to scream.

“You are ill, Ward. You shouldn’t speak. And don’t try to move.”

Ill? As her eyes adjusted to the light, Galena saw that the man wore a sleek white mender’s tunic, a tight undersheath, and white pants. An official ID was clearly visible on a chain around his neck. She relaxed slightly. She must be in a clinic.

“Where is Dima?” Even if Galena were still in Atalanta, her personal mender would have come to supervise her care. As Ruslana’s premier mender, Dima was responsible for the health of the dominion’s highest officials. Galena squinted at the man’s ID. “Elom?”

“Dima isn’t here,” he replied, moving the cold thing to a place just above her collarbone, against her skin. “Take a deep breath, please.”

She did as he asked. In the quiet of the room, a machine beeped softly, in time with her heartbeat. Gradually, the beeping slowed.

“Why isn’t Dima here? Where am I?” The words scratched her throat as she voiced them, as if clawing their way out.

“See for yourself.” He stepped away long enough to retrieve a small digitablet, which he propped up on her lap. When he tapped the monitor on the wall beside her, the top half of the bed slid smoothly upward, until she was sitting. She was still trapped by the sheets, even her arms held immobile.

“Can you free my arms?” Galena’s vision remained a little hazy; small black dots huddled in her periphery, the darkness waiting for its chance to claim her again.

Elom settled a large hand on her shoulder. “It’s best if you don’t move, Ward. Please relax.” He pressed a button on the digitablet. The screen shimmered to life and showed a news report, dated four days after her last memory. She couldn’t tell if the footage was live.

A woman in a sleek gray dress gazed into the camera. “There is still no word on Ward Vadim’s condition. The newly elected Ward of Ruslana fell ill during last week’s World Council, after announcing that Ruslana had imposed sanctions on Safara. A vote on whether the other dominions would follow suit was abandoned when Vadim lost consciousness. She was rushed to a local Atalantan clinic, where she’s been ever since.” The woman gestured to a graceful, glass-walled building behind her. “We’re awaiting confirmation that Vadim has regained consciousness and will make a recovery; her menders have not spoken with the press since shortly after she was admitted.”

Elom tapped the digitablet screen, cutting off the reporter’s voice. The room was silent, save for the faint beeping that echoed her heartbeat. The tall man stared down at her; his dark eyes held all the condescension of royalty, but his broken, pugnacious nose spoke a rougher language.

“My husband?”

“No visitors yet.” Elom turned away.

Galena cleared her throat, and the world tilted, the black specks swirling up to blur her view of Elom’s broad shoulders. She waited until her vision steadied, horrified at her own weakness. “So I am in an Atalantan clinic? And you are my mender?”

Elom nodded.

“Tell me then, Elom,” she croaked. “What illness do I have? What is wrong with me?”

Elom didn’t answer. When he returned to her side, she flinched without meaning to.

“You said no visitors. Why?” she asked. “Am I contagious?”

Elom didn’t respond.

Beneath the restraining sheets, she squeezed her hands into fists. She still felt weak, fuzzy-headed, but not particularly ill. She cast her thoughts back . . . had she been feeling poorly the day of the Council?

She’d been nervous, yes. The night before the first meeting she’d paced more than she’d slept, gone over her argument for sanctions, and reread the reports her spies in Safara had provided her. That morning, she’d been tired when she’d brushed her hair back into a sleek knot and drawn on her heavy, ice-blue robes. But by the time the meeting had begun, the fire of anger at the other Wards’ ignorance had fueled her.

She’d heard of diseases that struck quickly, painlessly . . . death sentences for which there were no cures. Was that the reason Elom didn’t reply? Was he trying to spare her the knowledge a little longer?

“I would like to invite that reporter to my room,” she tried again, “so I can provide a statement now that I’m awake. Surely something can be arranged?”

Elom ignored her, touching her forehead with something shockingly cold and slick; in a short time he had placed small discs all over her body.

He turned to the monitor beside her bed. “Don’t move.”

She tried to watch him from the corner of her eye, but the strain made her head ache. In quick succession, she felt a little
fizz
under her skin where each electrode touched her.

The strangeness of the procedure made her notice other oddities: the lack of windows in her room, the silence outside the door. Where were her advisors? Assistant menders? If only for the sake of appearances, her husband would visit her, wouldn’t he? But . . . Elom had said no visitors.

Was she
dying
?

Had anyone told her son?

A shiver of panic skittered down Galena’s spine. “Please, Elom,” she whispered, “tell me the truth.
What is wrong with me?
”

Elom clicked his tongue as he watched the monitor. Why didn’t he answer her? He had to have heard . . .

The lack of movement, the sense of confinement . . . she could stand it no longer. She struggled, working her hands up along her belly and bent her knees, a little at a time, in an effort to loosen the tight fabric. If she could just get
free
. . . .

Finally, she fought against the sheets until both arms protruded above the fabric. Without thinking, she peeled off an electrode and held it toward him.

“What are these for?”

He turned to her. “You mustn’t touch those, Ward.” He took the small metal disk from her hand, affixing it to the hollow place just above her collarbone. He said nothing more, blank eyes passing over her as if examining a specimen of some sort, not a person. Not as if he was her mender, concerned for her health and comfort.

The panic shifted, intensified.

She was Ward of her dominion. She should
not
be alone in this room with a stranger.

Her heart pounded faster within her chest, as if it, too, were anxious to escape. She could hear the faint beeping of the machine speed up, frightening her even more. Close to hyperventilating, she forced words out around the tightness in her chest. “I must insist that you tell me immediately what is going on. I want to speak,” she panted, “. . . to . . . my personal . . . mender. And I want you
out
of here.” She tore another electrode from her arm and threw it at him but missed; it clanked against the white carbonate floor. She tried to catch her breath, rising in panic as she fought to sit up. “Tell me what is going on!”

Too late she noticed the medigun in the large man’s hands. Too late she felt the sting and cool fire slide into her veins. Through a green-tinged haze, she watched her fingers flap helplessly toward Elom’s impassive face. And then, with a strangled gasp she’d intended as a scream . . . nothing.

Aris’s mother hugged
her tightly, as if she might refuse to let Aris abandon the small stone courtyard and smooth white walls of their home. Aris had no doubt her mother
would
refuse to let her leave, if she knew where she was actually going.

“It’s all happening so
quickly
,” Krissa said, heaving a sigh that blew wisps of faded auburn hair away from her cheeks. The scents of basilis and browned butter wafted from the folds of her work apron, the memory of well-prepared food the only perfume she had ever worn. Krissa sighed again, as if her heart were breaking.

Aris pulled free from the embrace but held onto her mother’s hands, their warmth contrasting with the icy chill of her own.

“This is what you want, isn’t it? Your daughter, working in Panthea?” She focused her gaze on the slate floor to keep the lie from spilling into her eyes.

“I always wished I could have worked in Panthea. Such a vibrant city—” Krissa said.

Aris’s father grunted. Krissa glanced to him and back. She added, “But, uh, if this is about Calix, doll, maybe you should give it a little more thought?”

“It
is
about Calix,” Aris replied, because that, at least, was the truth. “Without him, I can’t stay here.” Her throat burned with sudden, unshed tears. “That chaise, where Father’s sitting. That’s where Calix first told me he loved me, after Phae’s selection party. And here, where we’re standing, this is where he told me we couldn’t Promise because he was being sent to
war
. He
was
Lux to me, and now, without him here, I—”

Her father stood up and raised a hand, cutting her off. “You belong here, dusting the groves as we planned. It’s your job.”

A few tears escaped despite her best efforts. “I can’t! Don’t you get that?”

He shook his head, anger lighting his eyes. “You want us to say it isn’t fair? Well, you’re right. It isn’t fair. We shouldn’t be in this war. Calix should never have been drafted. But that doesn’t make it okay to abandon your responsibilities.”

“And just saying there shouldn’t be a war doesn’t make it go away or bring Calix back, does it? It doesn’t fix Rakk’s face,” Aris said, voice rising. “There’s a whole world outside of Lux that doesn’t care about me or you or your stupid groves.” She stepped back and tripped over the spindly leg of the table, catching herself on the back of a chair.

Her father reached a hand out to steady her. “Those ‘stupid’ groves put food on your table.” He dropped her arm. “Look at you. You’re not strong enough to be on your own.”

As if her tripping was all the evidence he needed.

“I’m doing this, Father,” Aris said. “You can’t stop me.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You can’t make a decision like this without consulting us.”

She raised her chin. “I can and I have. I’m an adult now. I’m taking this placement, and that’s the end of it.”

“Don’t listen to your father. He’s just sad you’re leaving us. We’re proud of you.” Krissa brushed away a tear and grasped Aris’s shoulders, fingers digging into the muscles. “Be sure to stand up straight. You
know
your limp is more obvious when you slouch. And don’t forget your lovely Commerce smile when you meet your new colleagues.”

“
Mother
.” Aris shrugged away. “I’m not Commerce. No one cares about my smile.”

Krissa clasped her hands together by her heart. “This new placement of yours may as well be a Commerce job. A receptionist for the Central Enviro Office . . . It’s so
glamorous
.”

Aris couldn’t meet her eyes. It stung, how easy it was for her mother to believe she’d give up flying to be a receptionist in Panthea. But she was grateful, too; it meant she’d told the right lie. She didn’t know what Theo—or the Dianthe woman—would do to back up her story. And that was all she had right now—stories. She didn’t even know what she was really signing up for. But she knew what she wanted. And this was her best chance to get it.

“I love you both. I’ll write as often as I can, but I may not able to visit . . . for a while. I’ll miss you.” She wanted to hug her father, let him hold her like a child this one last time, but his eyes were still mutinous. Instead she leaned up and quickly kissed his cheek.

“Next time you write Calix, give him my love.” Krissa squeezed her hand. “You’ll make it through this separation, my doll. You
will
.”

Aris smiled. When Calix left, he’d kissed her and whispered that he loved her. Then he’d walked away without looking back.

She found, as she turned to leave her parents, that she was strong enough to do the same.

•••

The public transjet smelled of sour milk and old sandals. Aris found a seat by a window and tried not to breathe too deeply as the hatch closed. She strapped herself in, wishing desperately she were the one flying the great beast of a wingjet, instead of trapped in its bowels. Next to her, a man in a somber black tunic leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

She turned to the small round window. A green carpet of trees slid past, dotted with clusters of bright white houses. Smaller wingjets, made tiny by distance, zipped beneath them in a chaotic dance of varying flight paths and altitudes. Soon Panthea rose along the horizon, winking silver and sky-reflected blue. From a great distance, the tall buildings and curving archways of the metroline gleamed.

The transjet landed with a jolt at the wingjet port just outside the city. Panthea did not allow air traffic; all residents and visitors had to travel by land, in terrans or by the metroline, a system of sleek solar-powered trams that crisscrossed the city.

Aris grabbed her bag and shuffled forward, penned in on all sides by the heat of bodies. At last, the gentleman in front of her disembarked and she stumbled out onto the landing pad, gulping fresh air. As she headed toward the far end of the port, she concentrated on taking smooth, even steps and standing up straight, her mother’s remonstration still echoing in her ears.

A group of terran drivers clustered before their sleek, low-slung vehicles, calling to the steady flow of people hurrying toward the metroline platform.

As she approached them, their voices clawed at her, loud and raucous. She clutched her bag to her chest, a poor shield against the onslaught. She opened her mouth, glancing toward a female driver. The woman was only slightly less intimidating, with her short, spiky black hair and leather pantsuit. Before Aris could speak, one of the men hustled her to his vehicle, sliding the door closed behind her and asking for her destination, his voice barking the words.

“Five Cleo, the River,” she said. The city was divided into sectors based on proximity to the region’s geographical features—the river, mountains, a watershed plain.

“That’ll be ten crona. You got money, kid?” He glared at her from the front seat. His doughy cheeks drooped to meet heavy jowls, and his unnaturally red lips were pursed, looking more flower-like than he probably intended.

She wanted to ask why he’d been so eager to have her as a passenger if he thought she was a kid with no money, but the words stuck in her throat, so she dug into her bag for her crona-card instead and swiped it across the monitor.

As the terran zipped through the streets of Panthea, she sank into the worn seat, wishing it didn’t smell so strongly of meat pies and bakka smoke. The city always gave her vertigo in a way Lux never could. The endless black and silver buildings needling the sky above her, the constant flow of people and traffic along straight, flat streets, the way the air hung, trapped, so far from the freedom of open sky. The quick, darting movements of the terran didn’t help.

She breathed deeply, trying to imagine Calix sitting beside her. He’d tuck her beneath his arm, safe and protected, and tell her stories to make her laugh, his dimples appearing when he smiled.

Even as a child he’d been like that, gentle and concerned. A mender at heart, like the rest of his family, he’d come with his mother when Aris had gotten the fever, put cool hands on her forehead and smiled sweetly at her as she burned. She’d always remember the way he looked, his brown hair blurring into the darkness behind him, shadows rippling across his face as if he were underwater.

The driver slowed to round a corner just as a woman in a fiery orange dress carrying a basket of fabric emerged from a store. A man selling meat sticks from a dilapidated cart heckled her, his harsh voice penetrating the quiet interior of the terran as they swept past.

Aris swallowed back the lump in her throat and tapped the screen embedded in the glass partition in front of her.

A news vid blinked on. “The Ward of Ruslana is expected to recover, though for now she’s remaining in quarantine.” The male reporter, an older man with a bulbous nose and an overly solicitous expression, added, “The Ward’s husband has been demanding to see her, but Atalantan menders are taking no chances exposing anyone to the dangerous bacterium. Ward Nekos released this statement—”

The terran squealed to a stop and the vid went black. “Five Cleo, the River,” the driver said.

Aris pressed the panel on the door, and it slid open with a screech. Mumbling her thanks, she stumbled out onto the pavement, arms tangled in her bag’s straps.

Trying to catch her breath, she stared up at 5 Cleo, the River. The building was so impossibly tall that its tip was lost within a wisp of cloud. Black and silver panels alternated with huge expanses of glass, reflecting pale blue sky and the shining building across the street. Aris lurched up the obsidian ramp to the entrance, hooking her bag over her shoulder. The imposing chrome door was unlocked but heavy; she had to pull with both hands to open it.

A blast of cool air stung her face. The room she stepped into was round with twisted white columns and lush, wide-leafed trees that grew up from beneath the marble floor. Though small in diameter, the space continued upward, so high she couldn’t see the ceiling. Sunlight filtered down through the well-manicured trees, throwing much of the room into shadow.

A throat clearing to her left made her jump.

Standing behind a curved desk along the rounded wall was a very short, very old man with two white wings of hair that swept from each ear across the shining surface of his head. When she approached the desk, he smiled, displaying a bright set of false teeth. “How may I help you?” he asked in cultured Pantheon tones. His voice echoed in the vaulted room.

“I’m here to see Dianthe,” she said, so softly her words stayed tethered to their small space.

“Who shall I tell her is calling?”

“Aris Haan. From Lux.” She smoothed a hand down her pale blue dress, hoping the back hadn’t wrinkled too much. She should have changed her shoes, she thought suddenly, glimpsing her bulky thick-soled flying boots. Everyone in Lux was used to her stomping around in them, but this was Panthea. Here women wore delicate shoes that floated on needle-thin heels and matched their clothes perfectly. In her boots, Aris looked exactly like the ignorant grove girl she was.

Of course, if she tried to wear Panthea-style shoes she’d fall, which would be even worse.

“Floor two-four-three,” the man said, startling her again. “Room Three.”

“Do you mean floor two
hundred
forty-three?”
Two hundred floors
? Lux might be a village suspended in air, but the buildings themselves were two, maybe three stories at most, even the Council Building.

“Yes, Miss.”

When she didn’t move, he helpfully pointed to the opposite side of the room, where a glass lift waited.

She thanked him and moved slowly to the narrow box. It was embarrassing that she, a flyer, a child of Lux, was so uncomfortable with the Panthean city heights, but she couldn’t keep her hands from shaking. How her mother could ever think
this
was the place for her . . .

With a deep breath, she climbed into the lift and pressed two-four-three on the monitor against the back wall. The doors swished shut and she was hurtled upward, smoothly but so fast her ears popped.

Even with the speed of the lift, it still took a long time to get to the right floor.

When the doors finally opened, she staggered out of the small glass box into a narrow hallway with a muted purple tile floor. The walls were pale and satin-lined, broken at intervals by the dark rectangles of wooden doors. It reminded her uncomfortably of a photo she’d seen once on her digitablet, of the opulent boxes in which Meridians supposedly buried their dead.

She wiped her hands on her dress, hoping she wasn’t leaving wet spots, and walked to the first door on the left, which was labeled with a discreet chrome 1. Farther down the hall, she found Dianthe’s door.

Aris closed her eyes and thought of Calix—his warm green eyes, the soft, shadowy darkness of his hair. She made herself remember his boyish smile, the pain close and brilliant in her chest. She was doing this for him.

She opened her eyes and knocked. The door slid open. In the doorway stood a woman so tall her head grazed the frame, and so thin Aris felt sure she could see the glow of light through her. Her skin was pink as the inside of a shell and her eyes black.

Even as she noticed these details, Aris couldn’t take her eyes from the twisting, blood-red tattoo that encircled the woman’s
shaved head. Along her cheek, just below the key-shaped Tech brand on her temple, the snake’s crimson mouth was wide open, spitting black flame.

Aris’s stomach dropped.

“Dianthe?”