Torn Sky (Rebel Wing Trilogy, Book 3) (Rebel Wing Series) (13 page)

But then Balias spoke. “Take a team to Qassar prison. I’m having the
package
transferred there. I need you to run operations as we prepare for the detonation.” He paused. “You’ll find the bitch there, too.”

Dysis’s jaw dropped. She immediately commed Commander Nyx’s office, her heart pulsing wildly in her throat. The Commander needed to hear this.

Right now
.

After they took Milek, Aris paced. Every bruise flared painfully at the movement, but she couldn’t stand still. The cage was small and empty except for a sleeping mat barely softer than the floor, and a tiny alcove with a toilet only partially hidden from the rest of the room.

“He’s been gone too long,” a gravelly voice said. “That means they killed him.”

In the cell to her left, an old man sat in the corner, leaning against the bars. His white hair clung in matted clumps to his skull, and the eyes that stared at her were rheumy and framed by a detailed latticework of wrinkles.

“What do you mean?” she could barely bring herself to ask.

With an effort, the old man shrugged a shoulder. The cream-colored tunic and pants he wore enveloped him. They’d either belonged to a larger man originally, or he’d withered during his time in prison. “If you don’t come back in an hour, you don’t come back at all.”

Aris shook her head. Her hands twisted themselves into knots at her waist. “I don’t believe you. You’re trying to get into my head.”

The man rolled his eyes and shifted his body until he was facing the narrow walkway running down the center of the room. He didn’t look at her or try to engage her in conversation again.

Somehow, that made his words even more terrifying.

Milek isn’t dead.
Aris wanted to scream, like that would make it true.

Hours passed. She had no concept of whether it was day or night. The light here never changed. At one point, a soldier slid trays into each of the cells containing a shallow dish of brown slop and a hard chunk of bread.

“Where is Milek?” Aris asked.

The man ignored her.

Aris pushed the tray away, not trusting the food. She resumed pacing. She couldn’t just wait for them to come and kill her, too. She had to
do
something. Even if all she could do was die, she had to at least die fighting. But what could she fight with? She had nothing but her uniform. Her solagun and utility knife had been confiscated. Her sythin, the thin cylinder that could knock a grown man unconscious, had been taken, too. Her belt. Her boots. Everything but her jacket, her socks, her pants, and shirt. Her underthings. She had nothing but—

Aris took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the band encircling her chest.

She scrambled into the toilet alcove. Hurriedly, she pulled her arms through her sleeves, so they were naked against her stomach. With shaking fingers, she detached her bandeau. She shoved her arms back through her sleeves and inspected the piece of clothing in the sickly glow of the lights. The fabric was elastic, not good for much, but two sturdy underwires were sown in. Using her teeth, she ripped the seams and removed the wires. Each curved in a half-moon with pointed ends. They were flexible, which wouldn’t help, but with enough force . . .

She ripped the bandeau again and wrapped an end of each wire in a scrap of fabric before concealing the makeshift weapons in her clenched hands.

The door scraped open again, and another soldier walked in. There was no sign of Milek.

Her heart shivered into ice.
He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay
.

But she knew he wasn’t. He couldn’t be, or they would have brought him back, just as her neighbor had said.

The guard stopped in front of her cell. He was young, handsome even, with smooth brown skin and long-lashed eyes. He looked at her in an openly appraising way. Her hands tightened on the wires hidden in her fists.

“Where’s Milek?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, instead grabbing her arm and wrenching her out of the cell.

“Where’s Milek?” she asked again.

The soldier responded by cuffing her across the cheek. Her head snapped back and she sagged, her feet losing traction. The coppery flavor of blood filled her mouth, and she swallowed back a gag.

He hauled her up and yanked her forward, not waiting for her to steady herself. They left the room and entered a dim hallway. Aris fought her panic and tried to ignore the pain in her jaw and bruised legs. Instead, she focused on the dirty, water-stained walls, the number of doors, anything that might help her.

The hallway was darker than those of the prison where Ward Vadim had been kept, and the air smelled different: less antiseptic. More like wet earth, burning metal, spoiled food. It was a dirty, diseased smell. Above her, a line of exposed piping ran next to rods of old-fashioned lighting. She wondered if they were underground.

Her captor paused before a door a hundred feet from the end of the corridor, his grip on her arm loosening slightly as his other hand searched for something—maybe a key. Four doors ahead, she saw a lift.

This was it. She wouldn’t get another chance. She flung her arm down and brought her other arm up with as much force as she could, stabbing the end of the underwire into the side of the man’s throat. The wire was flimsy, but it was strong enough to pierce the skin.

He reeled back, his arms going slack for an instant. Before he could reach for her, she thrust the other wire in deep. He sputtered and coughed. She didn’t wait to see if it would kill him.

Letting go, she shoved him hard. His head snapped back against the wall. He fell, and she ran.

She tried the doors on the way to the lift, but they were all locked, some by passcard panels, some with old-fashioned doorknobs. Halfway down the other wall, a door led to a stairwell, but it was locked, too. She tried to elbow out the small window of glass, but it didn’t so much as crack.

Damn.
She should have taken the guard’s passcard.

Arm aching, she turned around. He was still on the ground where she’d attacked him, but he wasn’t dead. At least not yet. His breath stuttered and stopped, stuttered and stopped. Aris crept back down the hall, then dropped to her knees beside him and reached for his pockets.

Passcard, passcard.

His breathing hitched. Without thinking, Aris glanced at his face. The soldier’s eyes bulged. Blood coated his chin, and a strange gurgling came from his throat when he tried to speak. One of the wires still stuck out of his skin. Just as her hand closed over the hard rectangle of his passcard, his hand clamped down on her arm. She bit back a scream and yanked herself away. With a grunt, his eyes rolled back in his skull.

Aris scrambled to her feet, passcard in hand, and ran for the lift.

It hissed as she reached it, already moving downward. Down to her floor.

Someone was coming.

Panic exploded in her chest. She sprinted for the stairwell.

It had no passcard panel, just an ancient, half-rusted lock.
Of course.
She whirled, looking for another way out, a place to hide. Anything. The locked doors stared back, an illusion of freedom. Did she dare open one of them with the card? What if they were cells? There’d be no escape.

The flickering lights drew her attention upward. Almost entirely hidden by the rusted, dripping pipes that ran along the ceiling, she caught a glimpse of an iron air vent.

The lift was slowing. She was almost out of time.

A few yards ahead, the piping dipped a little to accommodate a ceiling joist. She ran for the spot. The ceiling was low, the pipe not far out of reach. She jumped, bruised muscles screaming, and caught the pipe in her hands. She got her legs up and hauled herself into the tiny space between pipe and ceiling.

She shimmied toward the vent. As soon as she could reach it, she threaded her fingers through the slats and yanked. With a clang, the grate hinged open against the pipe. The opening was maybe a foot and a half.

The lift beeped.

Aris’s heart ricocheted. Sucking in her stomach, she wormed herself into the ductwork, hands pressed to her mouth to muffle her panting breath.

Shouts and thudding footsteps echoed below.

“Over there! Look, it’s Solim,” someone called.

“Where’s the girl?” another man asked, his voice viciously calm.

From the syncopated footsteps, it sounded like they were fanning out. Doors beeped and slid open. Aris held her breath. If she moved even a centimeter, the metal around her might clank or bulge, giving away her position.

All she could do was close her eyes and pray they didn’t find her.

Dysis slumped in her chair as Commander Nyx played back Alistar’s conversation with Ward Balias yet again, this time for Ward Nekos over secure comms. She’d heard it so many times over the past few hours that the words blurred together, meaningless. She desperately wanted to sleep, but there was no way she was leaving now, with so much in the balance.

Nyx sat at the desk with all of the sound equipment, while Dianthe paced the room, trailing her fingers along the wall. The monitor on the second workstation was lit with Ward Neko’s weary face.

“Why would Ward Balias move the weapon to Qassar?” Dianthe asked.

“The prison is a good distance south of Kayo,” Nyx mused. “Probably one of the most secure compounds in the entire dominion. From a strategic standpoint, it’s not particularly surprising.”

“But it
is
surprising that he would move the weapon to the same location as two high-profile Atalantan officers,” Dianthe replied.

That was what made it so strange. Ward Balias had told Alistar that Aris and Major Vadim were in Safara’s largest and most impenetrable prison . . . and that he was having the flaming scorpion transported to the same location. It didn’t make a bit of sense to Dysis. Balias should want to divide his assets, not put them all in one place for Atalantan forces to attack.

Dianthe paused at the commander’s shoulder and leaned close to the screen. “He either feels very secure in his belief that we don’t know where Vadim and Haan are . . .”

“Or it’s another trap,” Nyx finished. She glanced up at the taller woman as a silent understanding seemed to pass between them.

Dysis found it fascinating to watch the two women work. They’d been like this for the past few hours, playing ideas off each other, their words skidding together and apart, like a dance. She couldn’t help but wonder at their history.

On the monitor at the second workstation, Ward Nekos cleared his throat. “Could he be lying to Alistar?” he asked. “Feeding false intel?” The dark circles under his eyes looked like black holes on the vid screen.

Commander Nyx sighed. “He could be, but we have to hope he’s not. That would mean Ward Balias knows Alistar’s not the man he appears to be. We’ve had no indication that’s the case.”

Dianthe shot her a look. “But we don’t
know
. We’d be acting on faith.”

“Regardless, we need to make all attempts to confiscate that weapon,” Ward Nekos added, frowning. “That must be our priority. Even if it’s a risk.”

The whole thing seemed suspicious to Dysis. As much as she wanted to rush in and save Aris, guns blazing, common sense told her something more was going on here.

A loud knock cut through the brief silence. Dysis straightened quickly, as Dianthe punched in the appropriate code to open the door.

As soon as Dysis saw the tall, olive-skinned man enter, she leapt from her chair.

“Jax!” She threw her arms around her brother, relief bubbling through her. “You made it out of Safara.”

“In my usual
cutting it close
style.” Jax grinned ruefully and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you, sis.” Then he focused his attention on Commander Nyx. “What did Alistar get? Did the gamble work?”

Nyx played back the conversation one more time, then turned on the live feed. Alistar was silent, in a wingjet on his way to the prison.

“Tell me, Commander, what do you need to get this done?” Ward Nekos asked.

Nyx drummed her hands on the table. “If the weapon is indeed being transported to the same location as Haan and Vadim, we’ll need a large team, split into two groups. One to retrieve the weapon, one to rescue Haan and Vadim. We don’t have that kind of manpower here at Mekia.”

“I’ll transfer two flying units from the nearest combat stationpoint,” Nekos said. “What else?”

“It’s not just about force, sir,” Jax interjected. “We need a way to throw them off-balance to give us time to search the building. Prisons have many gates, many safeguards.”

“What do you suggest?” the ward asked.

Pride filled Dysis. The Ward of Atalanta wanted to know her brother’s opinion.

Jax didn’t say anything for a moment, but Dysis knew the instant inspiration struck. His eyes widened a hair, and he bit his lip. It was the exact expression he’d gotten when he came up with the plan to build a fort with ziplines behind their house when he was twelve. He didn’t speak immediately, and she knew he was teasing the threads of his idea, pulling and testing, until he was sure it was worthy.

Then he looked around the room, his eyes lit with excitement. “I know exactly what we need.”

As Galena watched the countryside roll beneath the wingjet, it occurred to her that she’d seen very little of Atalanta aside from Panthea’s needle-thin skycrapers and city streets. Out here, blankets of green were interspersed with white-roofed villages and heavily shadowed valleys. In the distance, the Fex River glistened.

The vista was beautiful, but it was hard to fully enjoy it. Along the western horizon, smoke muddied the blue sky, and the flight routes were nearly empty. There’d been cases of enemy flyers zipping outside of the war zone to attack nonmilitary wingjets, and few wanted to risk that kind of danger.

Soon, straight, dusky green lines of olive groves and a sliver of blue ocean came into view, above which the seemingly precarious buildings of Lux clung to the cliffs.

Galena’s flyer brought them down lightly on the wide public landing pad at the edge of the village. The long luxury jet illicited a few stares. Galena herself thought the wingjet was too much, but Pyralis had insisted that it was safer and would make the trip to Castalia faster. The comfortably upholstered seats and wide windows were admittedly nice features, especially after traveling in Military wingjets for the better part of a year.

As Galena disembarked, a woman in a brilliant red-and-gold dress strode toward her. Her brown skin gleamed in the bright sun like polished cypress, and thick brown hair framed her face.

“Welcome, Ward Vadim. I’m Phae Larkin,” she said with a polite smile. “I work for Lux’s council as the liaison with the Safaran refugees. I’ll take you to the Haan house. That’s where Samira is staying. Our head councilman will be over shortly to welcome you himself.”

“Thank you,” Galena said, nodding. The gusty cliff winds teased strands of hair from her bun and whipped them around her face. Phae seemed wholly unbothered by Galena’s scars; perhaps, with all the statements the ward had been giving lately, people were becoming desensitized.

Galena spied a sprawl of blindingly white buildings in the distance and elevated walkways, which were mostly empty. It was so quiet here, so peaceful after the rush of Panthea. She kept her eyes firmly on Phae’s back as she followed her down one of the elevated pathways. She’d never had a particular problem with heights, but the semitransparent nature of the pathway was disconcerting. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Phae stepped off the walkway and through an arch to a small stone courtyard.

In the center of the courtyard, two young children bounced a small ball to each other on the mosaic tiles. A woman stood off to the side, watching them. Black hair hung down her back in a cascade of tiny braids. She kept her arms crossed, her back steel-beam straight.

Samira.

Galena mentally reviewed her plan. From all accounts, this would be a difficult sell.

Phae paused just inside the archway. “Here we are, Ward Vadim. I’ll let you know when our councilman arrives.”

Galena smiled her thanks. “I appreciate your help. Thank you.”

Samira turned her gaze to the women, a frown the only greeting she offered. In a shaded corner nearby, a baby girl sat on a blanket gnawing on a felt toy.

Galena took a few moments to regard Samira before she spoke. There was an alertness to her—in the way her chestnut eyes constantly scanned the children gathered before her, her body poised to come to their aid—that Galena appreciated.

“I have a proposition for you,” Galena said at last, not bothering with introductions or small talk.

Samira flicked a couple of her braids over her shoulder and raised a brow.

“I would like you and some of the children here to accompany me to Castalia to speak with Ward Rosum. Our efforts require more Military support, and the other dominions still aren’t involving themselves. If Ward Rosum is forced to confront the atrocities Ward Balias has wrought upon Safara, I believe she’ll finally make the right choice.”

“You mean you want to exploit these children for Atalanta’s gain,” Samira snapped.

Galena held her gaze. It was the response she’d expected, and she had her answer ready. “No. Not exploit. Because this isn’t just about Atalanta. It’s about Safara, too. Your people.
Your
children. If Ward Rosum doesn’t provide aid, we could lose this war. What do you think that will mean for the Safaran citizens who oppose Ward Balias’s rule? Or the ones too poor or broken to dissent? Will Balias pick them back up and use his new resources to save them, as he’s claimed to do so many times?”

Samira stared at her for a long time. Galena didn’t back down, didn’t blink. She needed this. The whole world needed this.

“I’ll go.” The voice came from the doorway into the house.

Samira glared into the shadows. “Kori, don’t—”

A skinny boy leaning heavily on a crutch hobbled into the sunlight. “I’ll tell that ward whatever she wants to know. I’ll tell her about the weapons training, when they had us use the bodies of dead Atalantan soldiers for target practice. I’ll tell her about the whippings, and the night I was taken from my family. When I begged my mom to hush because she was screaming so loud, I was afraid they’d kill her.”

For a moment, Galena couldn’t speak. The child before her was maybe thirteen, gaunt from the effects of prolonged hunger and scarred by Gods knew what. His shaggy brown hair and simple clothes were clean, but he still held wariness like a shield.

“Where’s your mother now?” Galena asked softly.

His expression hardened. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to do this, Kori. No one has to go,” Samira said. She turned her back on Galena, blocking the boy from view.

“You won’t let me fight,” he replied, loudly enough that Galena could hear every word. “But I won’t let you stop me from doing this.”

With a sigh, Samira muttered, “Fine.” She turned back to Galena. “We’ll go. But we aren’t game pieces to be played. You understand that?”

Galena nodded solemnly. “I do.”

Samira nudged Kori’s shoulder. “Go tell the others. See if anyone else is willing.”

The boy passed Galena and hobbled onto the walkway. The villagers of Lux had taken the Safaran refugees into their homes; the younger children stayed here at Aris’s parents’ house with Samira; the older children and the other adults were divided among other willing families.

“We need to leave soon,” Galena added. “I’d like to get there before dark.”

Samira shot her a look. “Kori will have to hunt down the other children. Some of them are in the groves helping their hosts.”

Galena squelched her impatience. She was lucky Samira had agreed to come at all. Thanks to Kori. Even now, the small glimpse into the boy’s life chilled her.

Just then, Phae cleared her throat. “Ward Vadim, the counselor has arrived. He’d like to give you a tour of Lux.”

Galena nodded to the rosy-cheeked man standing beside Phae, her politician’s smile appearing automatically. “I would be delighted.” She glanced back at Samira. “I won’t be long.”

The woman picked up the little girl, her eyes filled with resigned determination. “When you get back, we’ll be ready.”