Night Witches (17 page)

After a few more comments Glissom descends from his podium to inspect the crews. We watch his expression puff with contempt. He finds buttons too dull, tunics too crumpled, boots too cracked and trousers just offensively ugly. From the corner of my eye I can see Dee clenching and unclenching her hands, furious that Glissom said her hat isn’t on straight when she, in her Dee-like way, is clearly a hundred per cent certain it is. It’s a new hat and she was extremely pleased to get issued it in time for the parade. She’s guarded it from the cap-tossing inclinations of Ang and Lida.

Glissom tuts. ‘I see Marina has been quite the wrong sort of role model for you all. Have you no pride in your appearance? You – why is your cap so big?’

He stops in front of me. I fix my eyes on the front of his tunic as he reaches out to yank my cap off. Inside I’m buzzing like Haze’s jar of stab-tails.
Don’t think, don’t feel, don’t react, don’t stand out . . .

Down fall two black braids. He frowns, then squints. I think it’s only then that he recognises me again as the stunt pilot.

‘Ha!’ We all flinch at his exaltation. ‘Precisely the sort of thing I’ve been talking about. Aranoza here is the only girl in this parade who’s actually retained a little prettiness. Why would you all want to cut your hair off? It looks plain and unattractive.’ With the backs of his fingers he strokes a braid where it falls over my chest.

Don’t think, don’t feel, don’t react, don’t slaughter . . .

It’s no good. I’m not sure how much longer I can hide my outrage . . .

Then up comes Reef. ‘Excuse me, sir, perhaps you’d like to step over to the hangar to inspect facilities there . . .’

When Glissom hesitates Reef blinks once. Enough to show the
Eyes in the Dark
tattoo on his lids. Eyes that see everything, and if they don’t like what they see, they report it. Then Reef winks at me.

He wouldn’t wink at me, or rescue me from slimy officials if he knew all about me.

Just as Reef and Glissom move away my ears start to buzz. The noise gets louder. Drone, drone, drone. Is that Glissom’s voice, or stab-tails I can hear? Or, unbelievably,
Crux
?

‘Incoming!’ I shout. ‘I hear planes!’

Glissom swells with indignation. ‘Preposterous discipline!’

Reef scans the skies. Can’t he hear it? He’s connecting, or trying to.

‘Can’t get connected? Sloppy tech,’ Glissom sneers. ‘Precisely the kind of thing I’ve been—’

‘You’re not in Corona now,’ Reef snaps. ‘Things work differently out here.’

‘They don’t seem to work at all! This is fuss over nothing! I’ll continue the inspection now . . .’

No time for that. There it is. Unmistakable. A drone, a whine, a hideous wail. I cover my ears against the agony of the sound. Moments later others hear it too.

Crux Screamers!

T
wo Screamers streak out of the clouds.

Furey cups her hands to shout, ‘Scramble the Storms! Make for the emergency meeting point!’ She practically turns her lungs inside out to make herself heard then she runs to scoop up her daughter Tilly and carry her to cover.

Set out on the airstrip and in the hangars, our Storms are sitting targets for the Crux attack. This far from the front line, no one’s seen fit to issue us with anti-aircraft weapons, so there’s no way we can defend ourselves.

The first missile explodes like thunder. The ground is caught in invisible claws and torn loose from the planet.

What are these dents suddenly studding the parade square? Bullets. What is that red mist dampening the air? Blood. What is this outrageous sensation in my chest?

Pain. I’m shot!

While everyone sprints for planes, kit and trucks I find myself slipping into a separate stream of time where moments are long enough for thoughts and decisions. I see the glint of a second missile being released and watch it fall, oh-so-slowly now. When it finally strikes I can actually count the flecks of shrapnel spiking out in all directions. More bullets spit down. Unlike seeds or spores they burst into death, not life.

Round the Crux planes curve, sweeping in for a second attack. How did they get so close to Sea-Ways? How far behind is the rest of the invading army? Shots fire from a People’s Number Five Glissom Gun – from Reef! One Screamer judders and whips away.

I run for the hangar. Dee is running too . . . straight to where a line of Screamer bullets will soon hit. I try to shout a warning. A missile detonates. The blast knocks her new hat off.

‘Leave it!’ I call, as she pauses to see where it fell.

She won’t. She veers to scoop the hat up and, in stopping, misses the line of bullets. She looks at the puffs of air where the bullets hit. Looks at her hat. Looks at me. I know what she’s thinking. Her point-to-point brain is joining the dots. She’s remembering the fortune-telling in the bath-house last night, when I said she’d be happy with her new hat – a hat that’s just saved her life.

One by one the Storms are powering up. People grab a seat where they can. Yeldon’s trying to organise a convoy of trucks while Mossie decides what can be left and what absolutely must be taken. Like me, they’re wondering whether Crux ground forces will be following the air assault. I look for Zoya. There she is, crouching under the wing of our Storm, vigorously signalling me over.

‘Come on, Pip, we have to get out of here!’

I’m torn – save myself, or see what else can be done? ‘You go – hurry!’

‘Not without you, idiot!’

I dash across open space, then skid to a stop at the sight of Fenlon, fallen on churned-up ground, clutching a red-soaked leg.

‘Leave me! Run!’ he gasps. ‘I’ll be fine; I’m too old to die young.’

He’s so heavy! I don’t know where I find the strength to drag him over to the Storm but I do, then with Zoya’s help I heft him into the nav seat where he sags to unconsciousness.

‘There’s no room for me now if you take the pilot’s seat,’ Zoya says in a choked voice.

‘Don’t be stupid. You can fly this plane as well as I can – get him to the emergency meeting point.’

‘What about you? My father said I wasn’t to—’

‘I’ll be right behind – go!’

We can hardly hear each other over the crescendo of a new Screamer approach. Zoya scrambles into the Storm’s pilot seat. I heave her propeller into action and bang on the fuselage to signal
goodbye-and-go-well.
She taxis to the start of the runway where Storms are practically nose-to-tail for take-off.

Through all the chaos I hear someone yelling – Marina Furey. She’s driving one of the bigger trucks, loaded with new recruits and techs. ‘Jump on board!’ she’s shouting to me. A nearby fuel store is hit. Flames gush out. The truck swerves.

‘I’ll take the next one!’

As for Aled Glissom, he’s already in his limousine, bumping across the airfield in search of safety. A bomb-blast shatters the windscreen of the vehicle. It calmly rolls forward and falls nose first into the crater, back wheels still turning. Glissom squirms out of a mangled door, waving for help.

That’s when the bullets catch him, just as I foresaw, a line of holes along his city-tailored tunic.

The day darkens. Clouds are lit from beneath by all the fires and explosions. When I look up I can’t believe what I’m seeing – Ang in her airborne Storm has hit and crippled one of the Screamers. Its shrill shriek kills my ears. It falters, falls, skims the flagpole and finally collapses down to furrow the ground. That girl deserves a medal!

I’m hypnotised by the turmoil of the crash – the churned-up roots, Slick-limp weeds and one pink wormling there in the middle of it all. Wormlings . . . Corvil! I dodge the mayhem and head for the dorm, knowing it’s
stupid
to waste time saving a bird, but I can’t just leave Eye Bright to its fate. Life is life. I left it nesting in my locker. Frightened, it stabs my hand when I reach for it.

‘Come on, you poor thing, we have to get out of here. There’s just time to catch the last truck if we’re quick . . .’

As I sprint past the bio-vat towers my way is blocked. It’s Haze. She’s turned into a screamer as painful as the one still zooming over.

‘You did this, Rain Aranoza! It’s all your fault, all of it!’

‘You’re mad, Haze! Unless you’ve got some kind of death-wish we have to leave!’

‘You already stole my life, why should I worry about losing it?’ She lifts up one hand. She’s holding a jar of stab-tails. As I watch she smashes the jar to the ground. It shatters. The insects dart out in every direction. I swipe the air to keep them away from me.

‘Why do you hate me so much?’ I yell. ‘We could have been friends. Everyone says we look like each other – we could even have been sisters. Whatever you say I’ve done, I didn’t know I was doing it.’

‘I saw you make Mossie poorly!’

‘She wasn’t poorly, she got better.’

‘Look at your jacket. You’ve been shot, but are you dead?’

That gets me. It’s true the front of my uniform is torn and the rips are red at the edges, but no blood runs now. The bullets have been pushed out and the wounds are closed.

‘I know all about you,’ Haze taunts. ‘I’m the only one who does, though others are watching and wondering. I know where you’re from and what you can do.
Monster!
’

Something catches my eye. Na! It’s the Scrutiner Roke. Has he seen? Has he heard? He’s reaching for his keypad. Let him not connect! Let him not tell the world what Haze has said . . .

Be careful what you wish for . . . 
A bomb shatters the tower beside us. Great blocks of bioweave fall in a cascade of grey, and that’s Roke gone, almost every bone in his body broken, just as I saw in my vision that winter’s evening, all those ages ago when he came to scrutinise me at home.

The blast catches me too.

There’s a cry. A thud. Then darkness.

H
ere you are, thank god, my precious, my darling, my sweeting, you’re safe, I’ve found you, I’ll never let them take you again I swear . . .

Mama’s arms pull me close. Lips kiss my face. Gentle hands brush feathers away.

I feel small and cramped, as if I’ve gone from being a meadow to being a flower. Suddenly there’s no room in my mind for all the memories I need to hold. They start to shrink into a small hard ball that can be rolled away. I forget who I am or what I am. I begin again – a child, a mere baby. I fear, I need, I cry.

As if for the first time I see with eyes, taste with a tongue, feel with skin and nerves. Mama buries me with love. She wraps me in a blanket that smells of some other baby. Takes me to a house. Shows me to a man – calls him my papi. She crafts sun-shaped windmills and cakes that sparkle with honeycomb. Tells me she’ll never lose me again, never.

The storm has passed, the light is back, my baby’s safe
, she croons.

Is this what
safe
feels like? I’m definitely wrap-trapped in something. I struggle out of dreams, memories, mad-thoughts, whatever they are. I’m not a baby. I’m me. I’m now.

I’m grown over with green.

Shoots twine in my hair. Flowers whisper in my ear. Grass tickles, leaves tease. It’s a wonderful way to lie, lazy with life spread out all round me. If I didn’t have this bulk, these bones and flesh, this body . . . if I was free of the whole lot I could easily coil and swirl with the vines. I could burst into orange flowers or spread through the sky with feather-light spores, or dig deep into the warm earth along with the roots. How lovely it would be to let go . . . not just to live life but to
be
life.

Whatever’s gripping me squeezes tighter.

I open my eyes and start to thrash. Stalks snap. Stem sap stains my skin. Let me go! Plants growing around me shrivel away. Some are burning, catching sparks from the flames of bomb-blasted bioweave. I scramble to my feet and stagger around in a wild, orange-black world.

Night has darkened the broken bio-vats. Fires glare from fuel spills. Smoke chokes the airfield. It’s ruined, all of it, wrecked by a few wild Screamer flights. My friends are gone. The Storms are gone. The flag has gone. The pole is whole but bare.

How dare they, yash Crux!

I start along the rows of bio-towers, dragging my nails against the weave.
Pad pad pad
go my boots on the ground. Where are you, Crux? There, in that tower, behind that door there, the locked one, that’s where the prisoner skulks.

Steen leaps to his feet as the door crashes open. Wasn’t it locked after all? It’s flat on the floor. I’m standing on it, fists clenched.

He’s dressed in shorts only, slick with sweat and fear. Bare chest, bare feet. A bed, a chair, a table, a god-book . . . and smoke from the fires outside. His chair has fallen. He’s backed right into the farthest, darkest corner of the tower with his manacled arms flung up to shield himself. Not so arrogant now! He’s right to be afraid. I found him before the flames did.

‘You!’ I scream. ‘They were
your
planes bombing us!
Your
bullets!’

He breathes half his fear out. ‘Thank God – you’re alive.’

‘Very!’ I shout. ‘More than you’ll be when I’m done. Have you been praying? Your god-talk won’t help you now.’

‘Kill me if you want,’ he whispers. ‘I’m yours, life and death.’

I stop in my tracks.

His eyes shine, even in the dark. ‘You . . . you’re everything that matters, Rain. You’re what I’ve been looking for, dreaming of, praying to find . . .’

‘Shut up! Stop talking! I’m not listening!’

No more words come out. Next thing I know, Steen’s slammed up against the wall and I’m not afraid of touching him because I’ve already seen how he dies back in that killer-cold day in the forest when he got cut from his ’chute and collapsed in my arms, so now I can press my hands against the bare skin of his chest; could push them all the way through his ribs if I wanted, grab his heart, squeeze it, squeeze the life out of it . . .

But I don’t. I don’t even push him away when his hands grab my arms – weren’t they in cuffs a moment ago? – and his eyes light up with fear and . . . and something else. I know what else because I feel it too. Feel angry. Passionate.
Alive!

Feel I have to kiss someone.

Kiss him.

This is more than a kiss, it’s outrageous, awful, stunning, sensational.

From the way he presses hard against me I can tell he’d devour me if he could. I’m gripping the rough stubble of his head as if my hands will burn off the white cross shaved on to it. His mouth is on my neck, my throat. His hand reaches up, feeling my body and whatever monster is seething inside me.

Enough!

I push him away. Is that me, snarling? He’s breathing furiously, and his expression . . . I’ve never seen a face so drenched in lust. I hate him. I don’t want him. I want . . . I want . . . 
I don’t know what I want
.

‘They’re coming,’ he whispers. ‘My people. Soon they’ll be here. Nothing can stop them – Sea-Ways, Corona, all of Rodina will fall before the Light. Come away with me now to the forest, come be with me, let me take you home. Let me treat you as you deserve. Let me worship you . . .’

I hear a new sound – someone calling my name over the sound of crackling fires.

I stagger backwards. Crash into the toppled table. Can barely suppress my energy before I turn to see who’s there.

Reef Starzak stands in the broken doorway.