“We’re scaring first,” Greycap says over the radio cheerfully. “See you on the other side, fellows!”
He and the two Landorian planes waste no time, diving down, away from us. They’re barely above the city buildings. Their olive-green wings zigzag through the sky, growling their challenge, reminding the people below they made the wrong choice and soon vengeance will come.
Merlant’s voice crackles over the radio. “Our turn, Charm. Follow close. Stay on my wing.”
“Understood, Leader.”
Stick forward and down we go. Hady grows in size, coming near, though we don’t go as low as the first group. Surprise isn’t on our side anymore. But we’re still there, moving so fast it’s hard to focus on anything except the little bit of reason nipping at my brain. Why are you here again? Why are you willingly flying over people who’d like to shoot you down?
Garrick and Cyar circle behind us from the west, then our throttles are opened and we’re back in the wide sky, no one in flames.
Merlant orders us to 6,000 feet. From this new altitude, black puffs of smoke appear to the south, beyond Hady. Anti-aircraft fire. The remnants of large shells hurtled into the air. I know exactly the acrid scent of burnt metal and smoke, memories that feel woven into my existence as tightly as charcoal pencils and brilliant skies. Lightstorm’s facing that vicious assault, trying to weaken the Nahir defenses. For what? Is there an army on the way?
“Here they come. Stay awake.” Merlant’s voice is calm.
No time to worry about the big picture. Six dark dots are hurtling close. Colourless wings. My hand clutches the stick tighter.
“Greycap, give them a chance to reconsider,” Merlant says.
“Will do!”
The three Landorian planes break away and meet the pursuers from above. We’re on the offensive at this height. Greycap holds fire until they’re close, then his guns light up the air with red tracers and bullets. A quick burst and away. It looks easy, effortless. One rebel plane chokes out black smoke. Someone was asleep there. Down he goes, spiraling, bits of plane glinting.
A parachute?
Yes. Lucky him.
“On my turn, Charm. We’re going next.”
We fling our planes to the side, world shifting hard, familiar weight against my limbs. Blood racing to my feet. One of the rebels is alone and Merlant locks sight on him. A burst from his plane forces the rebel to break upwards, a beginner move, and I’m waiting for it. I pull the trigger. A stream of fire from my plane, like a dragon. The rebel pilot dodges, spinning down, and Merlant maneuvers into position. He wounds it in seconds. We’re so close behind, going so fast, that we’re over the smoking wreckage before I can look for a parachute to appear.
“Thanks for the help, Charm. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I don’t need your charity, Knight.”
He laughs.
My hand itches on the trigger. I glance around, wondering where else I can point my plane. Voices blur over the radio, calling out victories, strategies. The sky’s become a little battlefield. Of the six enemy planes who answered our challenge, three are already down, one still tries to engage, and another flees with two Landorian fighters in hot pursuit. This feels too easy. I almost wish for more of a challenge.
A shadow momentarily blocks the sun and I glance up. Garrick’s Moonstrike plane shoots past a hundred feet above me, flying hard. No wingman behind.
Wait, where’s Cyar?
I glance side to side, trying to spot him in the fray. Nothing looks familiar. Can’t spot one from another at this distance. “Fox, do you copy?”
Breathe, he’s fine.
Stupid, reasonable voice. I don’t trust it right now.
“At five o’clock,” Merlant says.
I twist around. Cyar’s plane loops wildly below us with a rebel on his tail. My breath catches, amplified by the oxygen mask.
“Bring him this way, Fox,” Merlant says. “We’ll get him off you.”
“I can’t make it!” Cyar sounds scratchy, panicked. “He almost got my left wing. I’m taking him lower!”
He dives, disappearing into cloud cover, the rebel plane behind.
“Do not pursue, Charm,” Merlant warns. “We need to do this together.”
The warning doesn’t register. I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. It’s not even a question.
I’m gone.
“Don’t leave my wing, Charm!”
“Follow your leader,” Garrick barks.
The only one who seems to agree with my decision is the plane between my hands. She responds immediately, engines spurring to a furious roar as we plunge deep and to the right. We’re going far too fast for the dive, and I hang on to the stick with all I’ve got, plunging through thousands of feet of air. The overwhelming force hits like an anvil against my chest, against my head. Grey smoke appears at the edge of my vision.
But it works.
Through sheer will I level out, and the chase is on.
Cyar’s maneuvering his fighter with a light hand—left, right, up, down—trying to shake the enemy. My head spins working to keep up. I give a solid burst of machine-gun fire and graze the attacker’s tail, some work for his ground crew. Hady looms ahead. Galloping towards it seems like a bad idea, perhaps why Merlant was against this pursuit. But to hell with reason. It’s not going to serve me well up here.
We reach land just west of the city and our three planes are damn close together. Spent shell casings from the rebel’s guns rain against my cockpit, rattling glass and nerves. Have to be careful with my shots. Don’t want to hit Cyar by accident. I haven’t said a word to him over the radio, but conversation seems pointless right now. At least he knows I’m here, that I didn’t leave him on his own.
I push up to get some altitude when another dark dot appears ahead, racing straight for us at an alarming speed, smoking from one wing. My pulse scatters.
“Watch yourself, Fox! Eleven o’clock.”
“I see it.”
Cyar dips his wings deeply to the left, preparing for a turn, and his attacker does the same. But at the moment of spin, Cyar swings his fighter back the other way, breaking up and out. A brilliant move, and the plane in pursuit finishes his now pointless roll to the left. The game’s over. Time for me to break and follow. But something still burns inside. I hate this pilot in front of me. This person who thought they could hurt Cyar. I hit the throttle, ready to pounce, then freeze.
Damn it, the second plane!
I jam my feet against the rudder, throwing my stick right, flinging myself into a wild downward roll. Anything to get out of his crosshairs. For half a second—half an infinite moment—I brace for the inevitable red fire, the pounding bullets into my fuselage. But then the enemy wings flash silver above me. Bright silver with glorious black swords painted beneath.
Safire!
My breaths are ragged. The injured Lightstorm fighter passes close overhead, and I’d like to shoot him out of the goddamn sky. What the hell’s he doing over here by himself, charging me! My reckless relief and fury are twin flames. But I hate myself most. If he hadn’t been friendly, I’d have been shot down my first time up. Top Flight, my ass.
But no time for this. I search the sky for the rebel plane and spot him diving, almost falling, in a frenzy to get away. I’ve come this far. Not stopping now. I throw my plane into another steep dive, straining to hold it all together. She shudders around me. The poisonous grey clouds my vision, the anvil pressed to my chest like a death sentence. I ease back a touch. Blacking out over Hady will only turn me into the Nahir’s first prisoner of war. But once we’re level …
He flies straight at five hundred feet. No choice, low as he is, and he uses the speed of his dive to propel him forward. I fling open the throttle and push my plane hard. “Come on,” I say, like anyone’s listening. “Prove to me you’re the best damn plane in the world!” She doesn’t disappoint, and we close in. He must be panicking now. He tries a sudden roll to the left.