Torn Sky (Rebel Wing Trilogy, Book 3) (Rebel Wing Series) (16 page)

The roar of the bullet ricocheted through the room, echoing off the walls. Afterward, the silence was absolute. Dysis stared, wild-eyed, at the flat, straight line on the screen. Ward Balias had killed Alistar. He’d killed the feed.

Maybe he’d killed Aris and Milek, too.

Dysis gulped down her panic, the scene playing through her head on repeat.

Pallas is the spy.

The realization slammed into her with crushing force. It wasn’t possible. Not
Pallas
. She’d checked out. She’d been with them since the beginning. She was a
friend.
Pallas, Pallas couldn’t—

Pallas knew about the plan to rescue Aris. She could be setting them up.

Dysis slammed her hand on the intercom panel. “Dianthe, Commander Nyx, you’re needed immediately in Sector Four. Right away.”

She heaved to her feet so fast her chair fell to the ground. The thud and clatter filled the room. She paced to the door and back to the monitor, staring at the flat line as if somehow she could resurrect it by will alone. She drummed her hands against her thighs. Counting seconds. Counting heartbeats.

At last, the door slid open to reveal Commander Nyx.

Dysis didn’t give her time to ask what had happened. “Specialist Pallas is the spy. Alistar . . . well, Ward Balias figured out he wasn’t Elom. He figured out we were listening. He cut the feed.” She gulped back the horror. Commander Nyx’s thunderous look made it clear Dysis didn’t have to explain
how
the feed was cut. “What do we do? If Pallas tells her contacts about the Aris doubles, or they warn her she’s made . . .”

Nyx’s flinty gaze didn’t waver. “Go get her. Be discreet. Don’t give her reason to guess you know.
But get her.
”

Dysis slipped out of the room and took off at a sprint down the hall. She’d only just been given authorization for a slow jog once a day, but she didn’t hold back. It was just before lunch; maybe Pallas was getting food. Dysis ran for the cafeteria. She skidded to a stop in the doorway. Otto was sitting at their usual table, but he was alone.

“Have you seen Pallas?” she asked, panting.

Otto shook his head, his mouth full. He raised a brow in question.

She waved a hand. No time to explain.

Pallas wasn’t in the rec room either.

Dysis ran for their shared room, embarrassed at the growing weakness in her legs. As she approached, she put one hand on her solagun and used her other hand to swipe her passcard. The door slid open. She held her breath.

The room was empty.

Dysis slumped for a second. Then she hurried inside. A quick rifle through Pallas’s things produced nothing suspicious or obviously designed to send out unapproved comms. For a second, Dysis stood in the middle of the room, at a loss.

Had Pallas already been tipped off that her cover was blown? Because if she was still on point, where was she? There were no formations this morning, no missions to fly. The only other place Pallas could
possibly
be . . .

Dysis ran back into the hall, toward the room where Dianthe had set up her diatous veil equipment. Every second ticked to the stomp of her boots, the beats of her heart. Every second could be one less that Aris lived.

As she rounded the final corner, a short, blond figure emerged from Dianthe’s makeshift lab. Dysis slowed down, tried to look casual. Nyx had told her to be discreet.

“Hey, Pallas!” she called. She tried to smile, but she wasn’t sure she quite managed it. She’d never been good at hiding her anger, and right now, she was blighting
livid
.

Pallas turned, one hand slipping a small rectangle into her uniform pocket, an answering smile beginning to form on her small, angular face. “Hey—” she faltered when she saw Dysis’s expression.

Damn.

In desperation, Dysis opened her mouth to offer some banal greeting, but realization was already spreading across Pallas’s face. She knew.

Dysis’s hand drifted to her solagun. “Come on, Pallas,” she said casually, striving to keep the moment from disintegrating further. “Let’s have a little chat. I need to ask you about something.”

Sadness filled the girl’s sky-blue eyes; she turned and ran.

“Damn. Damn. Damn.” Dysis had been sprinting around all morning on legs that were creaky and out of shape. Her back ached. Pallas had none of those issues to slow her down.

If Pallas made it to an invisible wingjet, they would lose her.

As Dysis passed the cafeteria, someone yelled out to her, but she kept going, lungs burning.

When she burst through the main doors to the landing pad, Pallas was already two hundred yards ahead, close to the wingjets.

“Stop!” Dysis yelled. She lurched to a halt and raised her solagun. She could make the shot. Pallas glanced over her shoulder but kept running. Dysis fired a warning shot just over her head. This time, Pallas froze.

Slowly, she turned, raising her hands.

Dysis stalked forward, trying to control her breathing. Her back was on fire. “Don’t move,” she ordered. Pallas was too close to the nearest recon for her liking.

“Please let me go,” Pallas begged.

They were the last words Dysis expected. She almost laughed. “Let you go?
Let you go?
Why in the
hell
would I let you go?”

Pallas’s face crumbled. “They have my family. They tortured them. They told me—” Her voice broke.

Shock radiated down Dysis’s spine. How did no one
know
this? How could the Safarans possibly have taken Pallas’s family? It had to be a lie. She hardened her face. “Walk slowly toward me. Keep your hands up.”

Tears skated down Pallas’s cheeks. The bright sun bleached her pale skin and caught against her huge blue eyes, full of desperation and sorrow. “I can’t do that, Dysis. I can’t let my family die.”

With that, she spun and scrabbled onto the wing of the nearest wingjet.

Dysis lined up her shot, her hands steady.

Her finger twitched once, and then—

“Dysis! What are you doing?” The shout broke her concentration. Her shot went wide. Pallas ducked, but she made it into the cabin. The glass slid closed before Dysis could get off another shot.

She spun to see Calix running across the tarmac. “I saw you run past. You’re not supposed to be
running
, Dysis. What is going on?”

Dysis let out a scream of frustration and sprinted toward the row of wingjets. Pallas was speeding through her warm-up sequence; they had maybe thirty seconds before she took off.

Calix yanked her to a stop. “You’re going to hurt yourself. Tell me what’s going on. I can help.”

“I don’t have time! I have to stop her.” She pulled against his grip, but he held firm. “Let me
go,
Calix. She’s a spy!”

“We’ll inform Commander Nyx.” Calix let go of her arm, his face reddening. With anger or frustration, she couldn’t tell. “They’ll shoot her down, then.”

A hum filled the air. The wingjet rose, and with a flicker, disappeared.

It was too late.

Dysis sagged. “No, they won’t.”

Calix blinked twice, staring into the empty sky. “What just happened? I don’t . . . that isn’t . . .”

Her legs unsteady, she leaned hard against him. Misery threatened to choke her. “Commander Nyx told me to stop her. And I . . .” her voice faded.

And I let her get away.

Tia’s hands shook on the wingjet controls, and black spots danced before her eyes.

They knew.
Dysis
knew.

Shame roiled in her stomach. The wingjet wobbled. She needed to concentrate. Her family . . .

Gods, her family.

Pallas waited until she was a few miles from Mekia, certain no one was following, before she opened the secret emergency frequency her Safaran handlers gave her to use in the event she was exposed. She’d already double-checked that the tracking tech wasn’t turned on; she couldn’t risk any Atalantans following her.

“Operation Serpent has been compromised. I repeat, Operation Serpent has been compromised.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but even to her ears she sounded like a scared little girl.

Silence met her, and then a burst of static. “Message received. Proceed to the following coordinates . . .”

Pallas entered the location in the nav panel. “Is that where my family is?” she asked, the words spilling out.

No answer.

Of course they wouldn’t tell her.

But she was bringing them an invisible wingjet. They’d been asking her about the technology for weeks. Maybe her means of escape could be her salvation, too. Surely an invisible wingjet would be enough to buy her family’s freedom?
Her
freedom?

By the Gods, hadn’t she done enough?

***

Hours later, when the blue glitter of the ocean rose along the horizon and a large, flat-roofed compound came into view, the nav beeped and Tia descended. The structure was built into the steep cliff over the ocean, its landing pad perched precariously above the water.

Dozens of black Safaran wingjets lined the tarmac. She’d hoped they were sending her somewhere smaller, the kind of place they might have been keeping her family, but this was a fortress prepared for war.

As she landed, her heart beat wildly. Whatever she might have done, she was still Atalantan. She hid her fear behind blank eyes. It was the same look she’d paired with her diatous veil back when everything rested on her ability to pass as a man. By now, she was good at hiding who she really was.

She climbed out onto the tarmac, her plastered wrist stiff against her side. Two soldiers met her. The first was older, tall, with light-brown skin and heavy black brows that sat low over his slightly bulging eyes. She recognized him immediately; he was the one who’d barked orders the night her family was taken. The other man was younger but just as hard edged, his mouth pursed into a narrow line.

She immediately wished she could shoot them both.

“You said you were compromised, Specialist,” the older man said. Tiksan, that was his name. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. They just
knew
.” She stood with the wingjet at her back, as if somehow that made her safer. Stronger. “But I’ve brought you something. An
invisible
wingjet. For this, you’ll release my family and leave us the hell alone.” She said the words as forcefully as she could.

The younger soldier’s eyes widened.

Tiksan cocked his head to the side, considering her. “An invisible wingjet. You actually brought us one.”

“Oh, this is
wonderful
,”
a voice interjected. Tia turned and bit back a gasp. It was
Ward Balias
. The man strode across the landing pad, his slim-fitting black tunic and pants accentuating his muscular form. His eyes shone with excitement. “Thank you . . . Specialist Pallas, isn’t it?” He rubbed a hand along the wingjet’s side. “This will do nicely for the mission tonight.”

She raised her chin, clenching her hands together to keep them from shaking. “I want to see my family.”

He smiled, all white teeth and predatory satisfaction. “Of course, Specialist. You’ve certainly done your part. Major Tiksan will take you to them in a moment.”

“They’re here?” The world rocked under her feet. After everything, it almost felt too easy. She realized then that she’d never truly believed she’d see them again.

Balias ignored her question, turning instead to Tiksan. “Get someone in there, disable any emergency safeguards,” he said, gesturing to the wingjet. “We don’t want our little bird to try to escape her destiny.”

“Yes, sir.” Tiksan nodded.

“But don’t disable the invisibility, of course, and get the weapon installed immediately. The in-air escort will no longer be necessary. I want Haan in the air by midnight.”

Aris?

Balias nodded toward Tia. Major Tiksan took the hint, turning to his subordinate. “Please escort Specialist Pallas to her family.”

The soldier nodded. Tia followed him into the building, with one last look toward Balias. What were they planning? And what did Aris have to do with it?

Her concern didn’t last for long, swallowed by a wave of anticipation. She was about to see her family. She’d
done
it.

The soldier said nothing as he led her through long hallway after hallway. They took a large lift four floors down and walked along another hall, this one cool and moist, with an unpleasant aroma. The farther they walked, the more frantic Tia became. Was her father alright? This air wouldn’t be good for his cough. And her brother . . . did he never see sunlight? Down here, underground, the only illumination came from buzzing lights that snaked in lines along the ceiling. Her mother would do her best to take care of Milo and Tia’s father, but who knew how long her rigid determination would last in a place like this.

In their comms, they were never allowed to say their own words, give Tia their own messages. It was all codes and frightened eyes. Tia had no idea how her family
really
was.

You’re here. You’re saving them.

She couldn’t break apart now, not when she was so close.

At last, the soldier stopped in front of a door. Before he let her through, he confiscated her solagun. The door slid open so, so slowly. Tia burst in as soon as she could slip through the widening crack.

The room was the same she’d seen in the comms, small with a low sofa, a single table, and two chrome chairs. On the table sat three glasses of water. And on the couch . . .

Tia ran to her father and collapsed at his knee. He looked so
old
, so frail. He ran a trembling hand over her hair. Next to him sat Milo, with her mother on the other side. She’d done it.
She’d done it.
Tia bent over her father’s knee and wept.

“There, there.” Her mother patted her head awkwardly. “It’s alright, doll. We’re all together now.”

Tia’s breath froze, confusion cutting through her relief. Her mother had never called her “doll” a single day of her life. Eyes still damp, Tia raised her head. She stared into Milo’s eyes. The boy was crying, but his expression was wrong. He didn’t look happy to see her, or even angry. He looked scared.

She glanced over her shoulder at the soldier who’d brought her to this room. He had his back to her, staring out into the hall. She returned her gaze to her family.

“What is going on?” she asked, so only they could hear.

Her mother’s bottom lip trembled, but she didn’t answer.

Then Tia saw it.

The small, heart-shaped birthmark on the woman’s neck, half-hidden by her lank hair.

Tia’s mother didn’t have a birthmark.

Tia swallowed against the bile rising in her throat.
No.
A deep, physical ache began in her gut and traveled slowly to her chest, constricting her lungs.

“Where’s my family?” she whispered.

The old man’s rheumy eyes weren’t even the right color, now that she looked more closely.

The woman’s tears slipped down her face without a sound.

“I was the one who brought them food,” she said, softly enough that the guard wouldn’t hear. “The old man got sick. The air’s poor down in the cells, and his lungs couldn’t handle it. One morning I came with the food trays and he was on the floor, the other two weeping over him.”

Tia’s breath shrank to panicked gasps. Her father . . . her father had died.

“My mother and brother?” The words ground against her throat like broken glass.

The woman shrugged, her face so familiar and yet so painfully
wrong
. “I don’t know. Your brother tried to escape twice after your father died. After the second time, they took me and did some tests, and then they put a disk on my neck and threw me in a cell. The boy was there, and the old man. They looked just like they had, only . . . only . . .”

Tia stared at the boy, hoping against hope . . .

But the eyes looking back held no recognition. Only terror.

“When . . . when was this?” she asked, her voice breaking.

The woman bowed her head. “Months ago, shortly after they arrived. I’m . . . I’m so sorry, doll.”

A great heaving darkness pressed in on all sides. Tia tried to breathe, but the old air wouldn’t leave her lungs to make way for the new.

All this time, everything she’d done . . .

And they’d been dead all along.

Tia slumped forward, her heart cracking open, jagged and raw. Tears burned her cheeks. Her grief scorched everything else until she became a wasteland, an empty desert of broken dreams.

She sobbed into the knee of the stranger who looked like her father and prayed that when she opened her eyes,
somehow
it would be him. That this would all be a nightmare from which she could wake.

But nothing changed. The people were imposters, her family dead.

The Safarans had lied. They’d killed her family, and they’d kept using her. So why reunite her then? Why bring her here, where surely she’d soon figure out the ruse?

The truth settled into the grief, as inexorable as a boulder sinking to the bottom of the sea.

They were going to kill her. Probably the poor people who’d been forced to masquerade as her family, too. If not now, then later tonight or maybe tomorrow. But soon.

A new emotion flowed in to mingle with the despair threatening to choke her.

Fury.

Her good hand tightened into a fist against her chest, catching against the hard corner of something in her jacket pocket. She sat back on her heels, her fingers locked around the small, rectangular disk within. Slowly, the threads of a plan knit themselves into her mind, strung with hate and tightened by the shame that had haunted her for months.

She glanced again at the soldier in the doorway. He should have closed the door. He should have stood guard outside. But it was easy to dismiss the skinny girl who wanted nothing more than a reunion with her family. It was easy to discount her as weak. Stupid.

Pathetic.

Without a word to the people on the couch, who still wore the faces of her dead, Tia slipped the utility knife from the sheath at her calf. Back at Spiro, no one had wanted to fight her in hand-to-hand when they’d realized she was a woman.

But they forgot—everyone forgot—she’d spent nearly a year as a male soldier. Nearly a year learning how to fight.

How to kill.

And no one had ever really appreciated how good she was at her job.