The Diatous Wars 1: Rebel Wing Read online

  Aris sighed. “You did ask.”

  Dianthe spun on her heel and walked to the panel that controlled the moving floor. “Break’s over. Give me a two-mile run, and I’ll make breakfast. Push yourself and you might just outrun that limp. There’s nothing wrong with your leg. It’s only weakness holding you back.”

  This time, as Aris hauled herself to her feet, she didn’t even try to bite back her agonized groan. Two miles before breakfast? That much exercise before eating would surely kill her.

  At least, then, there’d be no more running. Her lip twitched with the suggestion of a grin. Then the floor started to move and the pain followed.

  You are doing this to be with Calix, she told herself with each step. To make him proud. You will not give up. You cannot go back to Lux.

  And somehow, by the grace of the Gods, she made it exactly two miles before she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  Chapter 11

  “So what’s it to be today, toast or custard?” Galena asked.

  It had taken her less than a week to notice how much Elom hated that he had to feed her. It was the only small triumph she’d found, needling him each morning when he brought her breakfast.

  He dropped the tray on the counter with a rattle.

  “We can always go back to fluids,” he replied, twisting her hand painfully as he disengaged the metal bands holding her arms immobile against the bed railings. She massaged her wrists and wished she could rub away the faint red crimps where the restraints dug into her skin as she slept.

  “It’s dangerous, you know,” she said as she sat up, “tying me to the bed at night. I’m not a young woman. One of these mornings you might have to do worse than bring me breakfast.”

  He grunted. “You have three minutes.” He tapped the monitor, setting up the day’s testing.

  Galena slid off the bed and pursed her lips as her bare feet touched the cold floor. She walked to the small washroom with her spine straight and tried to hold on to the illusion of Elom as her servant, bringing her food, washing her sheets.

  Once inside the washroom door, she slammed it shut and sagged against the wall. She wanted to scream, pound against the door, break through the walls with her bare hands. She wanted to tear Elom apart.

  It hadn’t taken long for her to realize he’d lied about her location; wherever she really was, it wasn’t an Atalantan clinic. There were no other menders attending her, and she’d had no contact with the outside world.

  Galena had come to hate the moment, each morning, when she slid into consciousness. Because each time she finally opened her eyes, what she saw was the same: the restraints on her wrists; the gleam of Elom’s bald head looming above her; the look of condescension marring his features. Because each morning, she woke to the knowledge that he controlled everything—what she ate, what she did, even when she could use the washroom.

  “Two minutes!”

  His voice made her jump. She tightened her hands into fists and stepped slowly away from the wall. As she completed her morning routine, she imagined him standing before the Council in chains, the disdain in his eyes turning to fear.

  She splashed cold water on her face—there was nothing but cold water here, even in the shower—then leaned against the sink. Again, as she did each morning, she dissected the room with her eyes, looking for a weapon, some way to escape. There were no air vents, no towel bars she could rip from the wall. There were no light panels that she could tear down to use as a bludgeon, or exposed wires to start a fire, just a high-tech ceiling that glowed. The small shower had no curtain; she couldn’t even try to hang herself, if she got desperate enough.

  When Elom pounded on the door, she emerged, knowing he would open the door and drag her out if she didn’t.

  “Eat,” he said.

  She took the tray and moved to the one hard chair—bolted to the floor, of course. The dishes and flatware were flimsy, useless as weapons. She took a sip of the metallic-tasting orange juice and shuddered.

  “What is this? Poison?” She knew it didn’t make sense to provoke him, that it would do no good. But it was all she had.

  He didn’t respond, just pressed the cold electrodes against her skin, sliding his hands beneath the flowing white tunic he’d given her to wear. The feel of his hands on her would have frightened her, if his face didn’t always hold so much disgust.

  “Wishing I were twenty years younger?”

  “You know,” he said mildly, straightening, “I could do this just as easily if you were missing a finger. Or two.”

  Galena kept her features still, but her hand shook as it brought the tasteless toast to her mouth. She forced it down, even though the hum of the electrodes made her stomach churn. He wouldn’t feed her again until late in the day. If she didn’t eat, it made no difference to him.

  “Time for the news?” she asked, as she held her tray up to Elom.

  He jerked it from her hand. “Walk first.”

  With a sigh, she stood and walked around the room. Though the space was small, it was her only exercise so she tried to make it count.

  Finally, he told her to stop. When she was seated, he set the digitablet in her hands. Today’s news report showed Pyralis, his wife Bett standing behind him.

  “I wish Ward Vadim all the best as she continues her recovery,” he said, staring earnestly into the camera. The grooves in his face were even deeper than she remembered. For just a second, as she watched Bett reach for him when he’d finished speaking, she felt the pain of losing him all over again.

  The pretty reporter summarized the rest of Pyralis’s speech and reminded the world of Galena’s illness. As Galena watched her point to the Atalantan clinic, she wanted to scream at her, “I’m not sick! I’m not there! Find me! Save me, please!” but of course she never said the words out loud. What good would it do?

  When the vid was over, Elom grabbed the digitablet and fastened her restraints. Then he left, taking every scrap of light with him.

  Chapter 12

  For a split second, as Aris stretched her feet to the edge of the bed and arched her back, she was happy. She’d been dreaming of the beach, of Calix standing in front of their cave, holding a white candle. The sun was setting, swirling the water with gold and crimson. He held the candle out to her, mouth open to say the words—

  Then her legs seized up, her arms screamed, and the truth bloomed in her stomach, red and burning like an exploding firebomb.

  Calix was gone from Lux, and she was in Panthea. Alone.

  Desperate for some connection to him, she pulled her digitablet onto the bed with her, tapping the screen to begin a comm session.

  No messages from Calix. Her heart sank. But there was one from her mother, asking how the new job was going. She dragged her finger across the screen. Instead of responding, she opened a new comm to Calix.

  I’ve been dreaming about you. The last few weeks have been the worst of my life. I miss you so much, I feel like I’m drowning all the time. The new job is a distraction, but I’d still rather be with you. Good luck with your training. I know you’ll get the hang of it. You were always so fast in the races at school. Write me soon. I love you. ~Aris

  Aris had made it nearly a week, but she was scared she might not last much longer. Every muscle in her body screamed, each new exercise or run made her want to beg for mercy. It felt like learning to walk after the fever all over again—the pain, the gasping breath as the effort threatened to topple her, the fear that she’d never learn, that she’d fail and be a shell of herself forever.

  She wanted the freedom of flight so much she had dreams of stealing a wingjet and leaving, flying forever over rolling green blankets of forest, the sparkle of an ocean horizon just out of reach.

  But she wanted Calix more.

  She dragged herself out of bed, put on her exercise uniform, and went to meet Dianthe. As soon as she moved into the hall, the woman stomped her foot. “Not like that. Widen your stance,” she ordered, crossing the room to join
Aris. “Shoulders back.”

  Dianthe grabbed Aris’s shoulders in nearly the same way her mother did. Aris might have felt nostalgic, but for Dianthe’s next words, “As a man, you must keep your body straight and solid. Weight even on both legs. You start favoring that left leg of yours and I’ll send you home.”

  Aris moved so her feet were hip-width apart and squared her shoulders, trying to channel the way Calix stood. It was so strange, learning how to move like a man. She still couldn’t imagine how she’d fool anyone. There was nothing she could do about her height, her curves, or her facial features.

  “Better.” Dianthe let go of her shoulders. “Aristos.”

  “Aristos?”

  Dianthe gave her a considering stare. “That’s your name. Get used to it. From this point forward, all of your identification, electronic and otherwise, will be under the name Aristos Haan. And for all the world, you’ll be male. Come with me.”

  “How does the disguise actually work?” Aris asked, following her across the large living room and into the kitchen. “You haven’t said.”

  Dianthe stopped before the far wall. On it hung an enormous photo of the three eastern dominions: Atalanta, Safara, and Ruslana. “As a matter of fact, I’m about to show you.”

  She pressed a finger to the photo, right in the heart of Atalanta, where a silver shimmer indicated Panthea. There was a hissing noise, and the wall slid away.

  “A secret room?” Aris asked, eyes wide.

  “Clandestine affairs cannot be conducted out in the open, can they?” Dianthe said, with a little smile.

  The room was small and windowless, with a panel of monitors and equipment along one wall. In the center, a large white chair was bolted to the floor. The air was cold and had a faint bitter scent, like disinfectant and metal filings.

  Aris couldn’t help it. She laughed.

  Dianthe looked at her, brows raised.

  “Sorry. It’s just . . . I thought we’d already done the torture part.” She swallowed back another nervous giggle as she followed Dianthe into the room.

  The tall woman drew a handful of silver disks from a tray on a table against the wall. “With these I’m going to map your body. I’ll also record your voice,” she said, holding up another strange instrument. “And then, with the data, I’ll create a holographic second skin, called a diatous veil. It’ll smooth your curves, give you a less delicate nose.” She studied Aris’s face. “I’ll adjust your cheekbones,” she continued, tracing Aris’s skin with a long, feather-light finger, “And give you a more pronounced Adam’s apple. A voice modulator connected to the veil will lower your voice.”

  “Does it hurt?” Aris asked, eying the gleaming disks in Dianthe’s hand.

  “Not particularly.” Dianthe returned the electrodes to the tray. “The data collection is painless, and the veil itself is only an image.” She glanced back. “You have to be careful though. If someone touches you, they’ll feel your real shape. When you’re wearing body armor it won’t be a problem, but you’ll have to learn to keep your distance in training and during meals. We’ll practice.”

  Aris nodded. It terrified her, the thought of being surrounded by strange men. Trying to hide among them as if she belonged.

  “And you mustn’t, under any circumstances,” Dianthe continued, “remove your clothing in front of others. The diatous veil is not entirely correct, anatomically speaking.”

  A blush swarmed up Aris’s cheeks. “There’s no way I’ll have my own room. Where will I change clothes?”

  Dianthe settled her hands on her hips. “The network is extensive. You’ll be paired with another disguised female as your sectormate. The two of you will go through training together, bunk together. You’ll be responsible for keeping each others’ secret.”

  “There are that many of us?” Aris asked, in wonder. Would she be able to tell the difference?

  “There are enough.”

  “So I am Aristos Haan.” Aris rolled it on her tongue, trying to fit it around her real name, smoothing it out so it sounded natural in her mind. This might actually work. She smiled.

  “Alright, Aristos,” Dianthe said, emphasizing the name. “Sit.” She gave Aris a little push into the chair.

  “We’re starting the body mapping now?” Anything to have a break from the endless running and sparring.

  “Yes,” Dianthe said. “After we shave your head.”

  Aris felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. “After we do what?”

  Chapter 13

  “Stop that,” Dianthe snapped that night.

  Aris started and realized she’d been running her hand along her shaved head again.

  “Sorry.” She couldn’t get used to the smoothness, the curve of her skull so exposed. Calix had always loved her hair; it was long and thick, dark as the earth in which the olive trees grew. He was always running his hands through it, tucking it behind her ears.

  What would he think when he saw her, looking like any other soldier in Military? Would he mind that she cut her hair?

  Would he even recognize her?

  She took another bite of the roasted vegetable stew Dianthe had made for them and tried to keep her free hand tethered to the table.

  “It feels weird, you know? Having no hair, I mean,” she said. “Doesn’t it feel strange to you?”

  “I’m used to it.” Dianthe didn’t look up from her bowl.

  “How long have you trained women like this? Are you a real Atalantan soldier, too?”

  Dianthe took the time to swallow her spoonful of stew before answering. “I was selected for Technology. The Ward at the time—this was years ago—tasked the company I worked for with developing a device to disguise a body’s shape and appearance.”

  “So you invented the technology?” Aris asked, impressed.

  “I helped.” Dianthe didn’t look up from her bowl.

  “But if you’re in Tech sector, why do you have a Military brand?”

  “About ten years ago, Military wanted to experiment with allowing women into the sector. But they didn’t want anyone to know.” Dianthe took a sip from her glass. “They bought the technology and brought me in to oversee the project. In a way, I volunteered. Just like you.”

  Aris’s jaw dropped. “So this whole thing is sanctioned by the dominion? Then why can’t women—”

  “The program no longer exists as far as the dominion is concerned,” Dianthe interrupted. “There are no women in Military, Aris. We’re all just ghosts.” Her lips contracted to a thin line; it was obvious she’d said all she was willing to.

  Aris turned her eyes to the window, where the city lights twinkled like stars in the darkness. As in her village, electricity here was solar-powered, but in Lux the pathways from house to house glowed cool and milky, like the moon. Here the light was sharp-edged, sparkling.

  “Are there other women out there, in Military? In other dominions, I mean?” Aris didn’t turn her gaze from the window.

  “Atalanta has never shared the diatous veil technology,” Dianthe replied. “If there are women in the other Military sectors, they’re in disguise, like us. But by the traditional methods.”

  Aris glanced at her, eyebrows raised in question.

  “Breast binding, body language. Luck.”

  It would be difficult enough with the diatous veil; Aris couldn’t imagine trying to pass as a man without it. “So what do you do about your Military brand when you go out? Don’t people give you strange looks?”

  “When I go out in public, I do it as you will. In disguise.”

  Aris suppressed a shudder. “So you never really get to be yourself? Ever? That’s so sad.”

  “It’s the sacrifice I made to do this job. And it’s the choice you’ve made as well,” Dianthe pointed out.

  “But when I go home, you can remove the Military brand, right?”

  Dianthe’s eyes narrowed. “No, I can’t. I don’t have the tech. Only a few high-ranking officials have access. After all, volun
teering for Military and getting a second brand is fairly commonplace. Removing a brand is something they only do to criminals.” In a harsh movement, she shoved her empty bowl across the table. “If you abandon your job and go home, it’ll be your responsibility to hide the brand. A tattoo, something big and black on the back of your neck, would be best.”

  “A tattoo?” The brands might not hurt, but getting a tattoo definitely would. Aris swallowed hard. “Couldn’t I just grow my hair out? Hide it that way?”

  Dianthe stood abruptly. “Do you not remember a word I said? I told you. Out there,” she gestured to the glittering city, “you are breaking the law. If anyone sees your Military brand, if a well-meaning shopgirl brushes your hair out of the way in helping you try on a new necklace, they have to report you.”

  Dianthe grabbed her bowl and took it to the kitchen, reappearing in the doorway before Aris had time to move. “Even when you’re out, you’ll always worry that someone will expose you. You’ll always be looking over your shoulder. And you’ll never be able to tell anyone what you did.”

  Aris ran a hand across her bald head. “Why can’t the holographic thing project the brand itself? Why do I have to get one at all?”

  Dianthe crossed her arms over her chest. “The diatous veil will sense and adjust to your clothing or lack thereof. If there’s an extensive mark of some kind on your skin, it will reproduce that. If you had a scar, you would retain the scar even while the device is active. It will add or redistribute shape and bulk, but pigment, no.”

  Aris followed Dianthe through the doorway into the kitchen, carrying the remaining dishes, trying not to limp. She kept waiting for the pain to lessen, for her muscles to adjust to the abuse. “Can I ask you one more question?”

  Dianthe grunted as she placed the dishes one at a time in a slit in the row of cupboards. She pressed a button and seconds later the dish slid back out, clean.

  Aris took the noise as permission. “If Military ended your program, why are you still doing this? Why aren’t you working on some other invention or, I don’t know, retired? You must have made a lot of money.”