“We’ll do…that,” she managed. “No problem.” Good Lord.
Kale laughed, a lifting sound. His salt and ash hair shook. It was always a little longer than regulation and seemed to prove that he was the only person who could head a military academy full of teens who spent as much time battling each other as keeping their eyes on the horizon of a very real war. “Sylph is a fine, clinical pilot, but she doesn’t have the spirit to outthink those drones. You’re the one who’s going to prove that a mind will always beat a machine.”
Chase touched the side of her head as though she needed to make sure her brains were really in there.
Kale’s eyes held a renewed spark. “Just be yourself, Harcourt. Well, be a less impulsive version of yourself.”
She nodded.
“Go get out of that zoom bag. Get some rest.” He sat back in his desk chair and his voice went soft. “You gave me a serious scare with that stunt, but—and I’ll deny it if you relay this to anyone else—it was a fine maneuver.” He bent his head over the book he had been reading when she entered. “Dismissed, cadet.”
She tried not to grin—and failed.
5
KNIFE FIGHT IN A PHONE BOOTH
Getting Too Close to Sylph
Chase loved the Green. The crisp scent of trees filled each breath while the clip of her boots on the brick path sounded a strong beat.
Banks Island rubbed elbows with the Arctic shelf, but the center of the Star was a glass-ceilinged greenhouse designed to feel like a campus in temperate zones. The trees were too straight, however, lining up every few steps for the length of two football fields. Pippin called them “planted soldiers poised for battle.” She wished he were wrong. But it seemed like the threat of war was everywhere, even in the landscaping patterns.
Chase’s muscles were beyond tired, but she kicked into a jog and then a full-out run. Her dog tags thwopped against each other on her chest, the rubber silencers depriving them of their traditional metal clink.
Get some rest, Kale had said. People always suggested it like it was easy. Just lie down. Relax. Take a load off.
No way.
If Chase stopped, the world rushed in. She’d long since learned how to escape the hardest truths. Before the Star, she’d outrun her father’s shadow and her mother’s neglect—literally. She could sprint nearly two miles by the time she was twelve. That stamina helped her get on the Star’s radar, and now her endurance and evasive tactics made her an excellent pilot. And, if she were being honest, kind of a crappy person.
What people never understood—not even Pippin—was that Chase wasn’t blind to her reputation. She just needed her tunnel vision more. Needed direction. Pippin didn’t really get it. He was more concerned with literature and music than any one element of the real world. Maybe it was a perk to having a genius level IQ, but he got by swimmingly in the military with his nose stuck in a fantasy and some Mahler tune pounding through his headphones. Chase sometimes wondered if he was constantly trying to distract himself from where he was.
The overhead sunlamps flickered like runway lights as she ran, her footsteps hammering the brick. No one was around. It was a little late, and she had classes early the next morning. Still, she couldn’t head back to her room. Not yet.
Something sat at the edge of her mind and waved a red helmet, and even though she felt like the bull eyeing the cape, she couldn’t resist. First, Pippin had gotten weird about what they’d seen. Then, the tower had denied her. Practically called her crazy. Add to that that Kale had been an odd mixture of reproachful and distracting. Something was up.
There had been one other flight team in the sky. Maybe Sylph had seen something.
Of course, that meant going after Sylph.
Chase was delighted by the sudden challenge. It would be easier to ask Sylph’s RIO, Riot—after all, they had a thing going on—but confronting Sylph was always like hitting the throttle hard. Yes, please.
The recreation room buzzed, filled with the academy’s after-hours mayhem. It was as dim as a bar and smelled just as grimy. Cadets mingled around pool tables, gaming machines, and flight simulators. Arguments cracked in every direction, but tonight’s main attraction was in the back corner where two pilots sparred with thick foam gloves on the roped-off gym mat.
Chase pushed forward, fielding enthusiastic greetings from freshmen and seniors, flyboys and ground crew alike. The rec room really was the great leveler at the Star. Everyone, every specialty and class, mingled here. Chase had heard that before Kale was in charge, only a year before she had started, the room was reserved for flyboys. It was a smart move on the brigadier general’s part; Chase wouldn’t know a single cadet outside of her circle if she didn’t frequent the rec room as often as she did.
“Nyx!” someone yelled, followed by a volley of several more cadets chanting her call sign. She waved and pounded some fists without taking in faces. Her attention was glued to the central fight.
The boxers were really going at it. The taller of the two was a girl who Chase knew all too well. Leah Grenadine.
Better known by her call sign, Sylph.
Sylph’s thick blond braid whipped like a stinging tail with each punch she threw. Her toned arms were scaled with sweat, but she showed no sign of tiring, which sucked because she was simply destroying the other fighter. He was also all too familiar.
Asian American. Adorable. Tanner Won.
Chase found herself swearing on a loop. Not again.
One of Tanner’s eyes was swollen, and his shoulders folded in to protect his chest. Sylph slammed him over and over until he fell to his knees, coughing for breath. She adjusted her gloves like she had a few more rounds left in her, and Chase ducked under the rope and stood between them.