The Diatous Wars 1: Rebel Wing Read online

  For a long time Dianthe didn’t speak, and Aris was sure she’d offended her again. But when the older woman turned, her black eyes shimmered, as if with tears. She cleared her throat. “I do this because I believe a woman should have the right to fight and die for her dominion, just like any man,” she said softly. “There’s no reason for our leaders to ban women from making this choice. So I help them make it anyway. Even if it means giving up who they are. Even if it means joining Military as ghosts.” The blank eyes of Dianthe’s snake tattoo glared at Aris. “This is not and never will be only about finding a loved one, or avenging those lost. Even for you, Aristos.”

  She slammed the last clean dish onto the counter. The noise echoed through the room. “I hope you’re prepared to live with your choice.”

  Chapter 14

  Pyralis sank further into his massive chair.

  “And this goes with the coral dress, the one with the gold belt that I showed you before the red one, remember?” His wife, Bett, held up yet another necklace, this one a long strand of colorful beads.

  He tried to focus. “The red one, yes. . . .”

  “I don’t have any shoes that color, so of course I had to go to Peregrine’s,” she went on. “They had the loveliest sandals . . . wait, where did they go?” She bent to rifle through the baskets of shoes and clothes and jewelry. “You know, I had nothing to wear to the Sector Ball next month and this will be just perfect—”

  “Bett, please,” Pyralis begged.

  She glanced up. “But I haven’t even showed you the dress I got for—”

  “Desist, I beg you!” He couldn’t keep the exasperation from his voice. “This is the third time you’ve gone to Panthea in as many days. What is one more dress now, when we’re in crisis?”

  Bett dropped the necklace. It hit the floor, tinkling like a hundred small, discordant bells. Hands on her hips, she suddenly became a study of angles—sharp elbows, pointed chin, narrowed eyes—beneath her fall of heavy black hair. “We’re always in crisis. I see the vids, Pyralis. I see the burned corpses of our villages, the faces of our lost soldiers each and every night.”

  It always threw him, how quickly she could go from flighty to deadly serious.

  She stalked to a spot behind his chair and dug her strong fingers almost savagely into his shoulders, kneading the tight muscles. “How can I not, as the Ward’s wife?”

  “Not now.” Pyralis leaned forward, away from her hands. He couldn’t concentrate with her here, flitting every which way like an insistent, buzzing honey bee.

  Bett stayed where she was and gripped the back of the chair instead. “And if I want to lose myself for an afternoon? Do you think the worry, the fear just falls away? There is no escape, for me, from the horrors of this war. Not with you carrying them every day for the last three years.”

  He sighed. “It’s so extravagant, when so many are suffering. What message does it send to the people? There must be something . . . you used to speak to the children in school. Why not that?”

  She moved to face him, her eyes hard. “Don’t tell me how to cope, when you will listen to no one, will let no one help you. So many times I’ve tried to talk to you about your plans, so many times I’ve tried to help . . . Believe me, I didn’t work all those years in struggling Tech companies to improve my shopping skills. I have insight to offer, by Gods! But you never listen. You won’t even look at me.” She gathered her baskets of bright cloth and shimmering jewels.

  Shamed, he reached for her, his hand floating for a moment between them. But he let it fall when she didn’t see it, when she didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry, Bett. It has been a long day.”

  “A long day, a long week, a long year . . . I know.”

  “Please—” he started, half-rising. He would pull her into his arms, let her hold him. Do his best to forget the rest of the world, if only for a moment—

  “Ward Nekos.” Kellan, Pyralis’s assistant, strode into the room. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were occupied.”

  “He isn’t,” Bett snapped. “I’m leaving.”

  Pyralis let her go. Kellan was holding a red digitablet, which meant it was secure tech and not something Pyralis could delay. His assistant’s short ginger hair stuck up every which way, as if he’d run his hands through it . . . or tried to pull it out. His hair often looked like that these days.

  “The reports?” Pyralis stood and gripped the back of his chair.

  Kellan nodded. He placed the digitablet in its docking station in the center of the desk and tapped the edge of the screen; the huge monitor affixed to the opposing wall blinked on.

  Together, the men studied a series of images: flame-engulfed villages, the ruins of Atalantan wingcraft. In one, a fleet of Safaran wingjets sat on a landing pad with the remains of bombed Atalantan wingjets all around them.

  “Where is that?” Pyralis asked, pointing to the photo.

  “Bieza, a village just inside Atalanta’s southwest border. They took over the regional landing pad.”

  Pyralis rubbed a hand over his chin. “And how far into Mittaka?” The fighting was the worst in this hilly, wooded region between Safara’s border and the Fex River.

  “This week, three miles.”

  Pyralis let out a deep, heavy breath. “Are we still holding to the north?”

  Kellan tapped the digitablet and the monitor went black. “For now.”

  “Has Ruslana chosen an acting Ward yet?” Pyralis stalked to the window. Headaches were a daily nuisance now, the blades of tension that ran from the base of his neck to his skull seemingly permanent. Each night Bett tried to work the knots out, tried to ease the tightness, but she’d only had success in strengthening the muscles of her fingers. Pyralis’s pain remained.

  “They are still determined to wait until Ward Vadim can resume her role. Her advisors and the head of their Technology sector have shouldered some of the responsibility, but no one is talking foreign policy right now. They’re just trying to keep Ruslana running smoothly.”

  “So their trade with Safara?”

  “Still halted, as of now. Ward Vadim had stopped water shipments before the World Council; they’ve left her policies in place.”

  Pyralis stared into the forest, at the army of trees pressing close. “Thank the Gods for that.” Without those sanctions, without the miniscule amount of hope they provided, there would be little left to do but watch as his country shattered.

  Chapter 15

  Calix, I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. The new job has been more of a challenge than I expected. But no matter how busy I am, I still think about you every moment. It’s different, living in the city. I miss the ocean, and Mother’s cooking. She’s happy I’m here, but I still haven’t heard from Father.

  The worst part, aside from missing you, is not being able to fly. I knew it would be hard, but it’s so much worse than I imagined. It feels like half my soul is with you, and half is soaring above, without me. There’s so little of me left.

  I’ve found one thing that helps. I pretend you’re a mender, Health-selected, living in Panthea, and we’re here together. There is nothing I want more than that. Than I want you. Stay safe. I love you. ~ Your mosquito

  Aris pressed the button to send and stuffed the digitablet into her bag. Calix couldn’t understand what she was saying to him in the white space, the silence around her words, the small details she wove through the lie that had become her life. She so wanted to tell him what she was really doing. She wanted to tell someone what was actually happening to her.

  Every morning for the past two weeks, Dianthe had hooked Aris up to the slick silver disks, mapping her body and voice. She drilled Aris for hours in walking like a man and hand-to-hand combat, which gave Aris new bruises every day. In the afternoons, Dianthe made her run and strapped her to the frightening silver exercise equipment to strengthen her arms and legs.

  Now Aris’s legs didn’t just tremble; they spasmed and buckled beneath her. She’d fallen s
o many times her skin resembled starberry jam more than it did human flesh.

  Still, Dianthe didn’t send her away.

  But she wasn’t kind either.

  “You think that hurts?” she taunted as Aris attempted a push-up, arms shaking with the effort. “You have no idea how bad it will get.”

  When Aris fell during a sprint: “Why don’t you drag yourself home to your mother and let her coddle you. Is that what you want?”

  And, as she heaved herself into another sit-up: “Don’t think that one’s going to count, not with your arms in the air like that. Again!”

  At each insult, Aris would nod, snot and tears and sometimes blood streaking her face, and Dianthe would laugh. Worst of all were those moments when Dianthe twisted Aris’s own history against her. “Feel a fever coming on, sick girl?” one day, and “You want to give up? Your precious Calix not enough?” the next.

  Just when Aris was ready to walk away, when Calix and the flying and getting out of Lux didn’t seem worth it, the “can you really be this pathetic?” would burrow under her skin and make her burn to prove Dianthe wrong. To prove them all wrong—her father, her mother, and most of all herself, she who wanted to cry, “Yes, Dianthe! You’re right! This is too hard. Send me home.”

  So she’d pull herself up, bloody and numb with pain, and keep going.

  •••

  One afternoon, during the third week, Dianthe skipped the run and led Aris to the secret room instead. She asked her to sit, then held a thick silver medigun to Aris’s throat. “This is your voice modulator,” she said, as she engaged the gun.

  “Ow!” Aris flinched at the sudden sting as the tiny chip was shot under her skin, where it lodged against her voicebox. “You could have warned me it would hurt.”

  “Why?” Dianthe said, dabbing at the spot with a piece of gauze. “Was that worse than me kicking you in the head this morning?”

  “Good point.” Aris ran her fingers lightly over the sore spot at the base of her throat; the lump made by the modulator was nearly imperceptible. “I don’t sound any different.”

  Dianthe helped her up from the sleek white chair, pushing her toward the full-length mirror at the back of the lab. “Of course not. It only works when the veil is activated.”

  Aris stared at herself in the mirror. Her black exercise clothes hung off her; she’d lost weight in the last couple of weeks. Across one cheekbone, she sported a purplish yellow bruise, and a scabbed-over scratch marred her temple. The newly shaved skin that curved along her head was paler than her face, her cheeks still tan from all the time she’d spent on the beach in Lux.

  “You ready?” Dianthe met Aris’s eyes in the mirror. “This won’t hurt, but it will feel . . . odd.”

  Aris took a steadying breath and nodded. Without another word, Dianthe pressed the clear, rectangular diatous veil against the back of Aris’s neck, where her Military brand would go.

  An electric tingle radiated outward, up the back of Aris’s skull and down her arms, sizzling along her spine and legs. It felt like millions of tiny bugs scurrying across her skin. She nearly succumbed to the impulse to scream and bat at the invisible creatures. But as soon as the tingle reached her fingertips, it faded to a subtle hum beneath her skin. Which was still plenty disconcerting.

  Even more unsettling was how Aris’s face changed in the mirror. Instantly, her narrow jaw became defined and square. Her cheekbones suddenly rounded. Her nose widened, a blunt stub at the tip. Only her blue eyes were the same, though now they looked even more like her father’s.

  With the activation of the veil, Aris disappeared. And Aristos was born.

  She rubbed the back of her neck gingerly, fingers catching against the subtle hardness of the diatous veil. In the mirror, Aristos did the same, his muscles engaging as she moved. You are Aristos Haan, the fiercest Flyer in Atalanta. Your enemies tremble when they hear your name. She narrowed her eyes and turned her lips down in what was meant to be a threatening scowl. The expression just made Aristos look ill.

  Aris leaned closer to the mirror, touching her skin with an experimental finger. The place where cheek and fingertip met shimmered, just a little, like heat on a wingjet pad in the middle of summer. It was subtle; if you weren’t looking closely, you’d miss it.

  “See? No touching,” Dianthe said. “No rubbing or scratching your face in public. And I wouldn’t cross your arms too tightly, either.”

  Aris looked down at her arms. They were still marked with bruises but larger than her real arms would ever be. Another glance in the mirror showed that she wasn’t any taller, but her shoulders looked broader and the proportion of her hips to waist had shifted to a more boyish shape.

  “This is . . . this is blighting insane.” Aris clapped her hand over her mouth automatically, her eyes widening in shock. “My voice! It really is lower.”

  Dianthe nodded, a satisfied look crossing her face.

  Aris stared at herself in the mirror for another long moment. She genuinely did look like a man.

  Now all she had to do was act like one.

  Chapter 16

  Aris ~ I can tell how much you miss flying. It’s making you miserable, isn’t it? Have you gone home to visit your parents yet? Maybe you need a break. Or, I don’t know, maybe Panthea isn’t the place for you. You should go back to your family. Your wingjet. I’m sure she—they all—miss you. You sound so tired. It makes me worry for you.

  Adjusting to the new stationpoint has taken some time, but I did something today. I saved someone. There’s a soldier here who’s alive because of me. It’s a consolation, knowing I’m really helping, when I miss you so much I can barely breathe. I hope you’ll find it a consolation, too. I love you. ~ Calix

  Aris sighed as she powered down her digitab. It was a comfort knowing Calix missed her as much as she missed him, but his worry over her was less welcome. She didn’t want to cause him added stress.

  After washing her face and pulling on her exercise uniform, she strode into the main room, where Dianthe was waiting.

  They began with yet another sparring session. “Get your left arm up!” Dianthe yelled as she drew one impossibly long leg into a kick.

  Aris ducked, too slowly, and collected another bruise on her shoulder. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth at the pain.

  She had a pounding headache from the diatous veil’s constant hum and a building knot of frustration in her chest. As she lurched to the side, trying to avoid Dianthe’s fists, she panted, “I don’t . . . know why . . . this is necessary. I’m a flyer, by Gods!” This couldn’t be what Calix was going through in his field mender training. It had to be some kind of special torture, just for her. To make her a man.

  “What do you think this is, the peace brigade? Block!” Dianthe sprang forward, lithe and precise as a striking snake. “What happens if you crash in enemy territory? How will you defend yourself?”

  Aris grunted as another blow connected with her shoulder. She threw a weak jab. “If I crash, I’ll be dead.”

  “That’s all you’ve got?” Dianthe taunted. “My ninety-year-old uncle could throw a better punch than that.”

  Aris jabbed again and, tripping, went down hard on one knee. Her legs barely held her as she staggered to her feet. Why couldn’t Dianthe let the insults rest? Wasn’t the pain and lack of sleep and endless training enough?

  “Come on, you weakling, attack!” The woman lunged at Aris, holding nothing back.

  And just like that, Aris could take no more. “I am not a weakling!” she screamed, the words pushing her anger through the pain with a burst of desperate strength. She blocked Dianthe’s blow and threw her fist as hard as she could into the woman’s belly. And, for the first time, she connected.

  With a thud, Dianthe went down, sucking at the air like a dying fish.

  Shocked, Aris’s knees buckled. “Holy hell,” she gasped, “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  Dianthe coughed, the grating noise sliding into a gruff laugh. With a li
ttle groan, she scooted up against the glass wall, suspended over the silent city. For a minute she sat there, catching her breath. Then, “Haan, let me ask you something,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  Aris looked down at her bruised, swollen hands, bracing for another insult. “Yeah?”

  “Didn’t anyone in Lux treat you like a normal person?”

  Surprised, Aris glanced up and met her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Dianthe raised an eyebrow. “I mean . . . after this fever of yours, did anyone in your village ever treat you like a capable human being? Someone they didn’t constantly need to take care of?”

  Aris leaned back on her hands and frowned. “But I’m not capable, am I,” she said bitterly. “Look at me.” She gestured to her bruises and shaking legs.

  Dianthe laughed again and stood, holding out a hand to help her up. “You’re doing just fine. Worse than some, better than others.” She smiled. “Better than I expected.”

  “Really?” Aris stood, frozen, as Dianthe left the room. Surely she’d heard wrong. There was no way, after all of her falling and weakness and, yes, tears, that she was doing “just fine.” It wasn’t possible—

  “Come on, Haan,” Dianthe called over her shoulder. “I want to see you fly.”

  •••

  Dianthe gave Aris a pair of men’s pants and a gray tunic but let her wear her own flying boots. After Aris washed up and changed, spurred on by her excitement to finally fly, she headed back to the main room, only to find a tall, thin man in Dianthe’s place. The woman’s disguise was uncanny; her tattoo still blazed crimson and black, but her facial features had changed: a subtle widening of her chin, heavier brow bones, less pronounced lips.

  “Wow.” Aris stared.

  “While we’re out, watch the men around you, the way they stand. How they interact with one another. Pay attention to how they assert themselves in a crowd.” As they walked down the hall to the lift, Dianthe added, “It’s important that you blend in. Do not draw attention to yourself.”