He looked away, digging into the earth with a boot heel. “What I don’t understand about this flight is why you didn’t form a connection with the plane. You’re a good pilot. I didn’t think anyone could get us out of that fix, but you did.”
“I didn’t do anything. It was all Evie.”
I’d heard the voices and ignored them. I fought the plane instead of being a part of it, and every good pilot knew you couldn’t fight something that much bigger than you, you had to coax it on its own terms. Evie knew that. She tried to tell me.
Maybe I’d remember, if I ever managed to climb inside a cockpit again. I wanted to laugh—if I’d been a great pilot, I wouldn’t be questioning whether or not I’d ever fly again.
The thing hunkered in the field like a dying beast of legend. The fuel lines had to be leaking after a crash like that. If the electrics started sparking, if there was a fire—I waited for the fire and the explosion, but it didn’t come.
“Cook, do you have a match?”
He patted down his pockets and came up with a box of matches. He looked at me questioningly when he handed it over. Carefully, I laid Evie on the ground. I went to the bomber.
“What are you . . . ?” Cook started. I kept walking.
The wings had ripped during the crash. They hadn’t come off, but the metal was scraped and twisted, the propellers bent and curled like tin daisies. Part of the engine casing on the left wing had torn off, exposing the motor and fuel lines.
I climbed up on the wing and waited. I half expected the metal to gape open and swallow me, but it didn’t. Didn’t want me before, why should it take me now? I reached into the machine and pulled. I tore at electrical cables, ripped fuel lines. I made sure the liquid ran over the wing, made a path that led to the fuel line, which would carry the poison to the tank. This late in the flight, the tank would be filled with fumes. Very volatile.
I struck a match, dropped it.
“No!” Cook scrambled to his feet and raced toward me, then changed his mind mid-stride and backpeddled.
The liquid caught, flaring to blue and orange life—a more natural, more comprehensible light than the other—and I ran.
“You’d better duck,” I called.
Cook collapsed face down and wrapped his arms around his head. I covered Evie’s body with my own as the thing exploded. Debris rained. The air smelled of fuel and scorched metal. The flames were orange.
Cook sat up, gasping like a fish. “Why? Why did you—that was priceless—irreplaceable—”
“Must have been a hysterical response due to stress.”
A convoy from Wright Field picked us up less than an hour later.
The Heroic Death of
Lieutenant Michkov
In the cavernous reception hall, the sorting of paper rustled like bats’ wings.
Dispatches and more dispatches. Every morning, Lieutenants Michkov and Romey sorted through dispatches sent from across the Empire, from generals at the front lines, ministers in the Capital and wardens in the gulags. The two undersecretaries arranged the dispatches in order of importance, condensed the content, and organized the features into easily digestible reports for the Emperor.
Troop movements, supply schedules, projected deployments, morale reports. Dissatisfaction, unrest, starvation, defeat. Every day, the story of the Empire told by the dispatches grew more dismal.
“I wish—” Michkov said, then sighed. The shuffle of paper at the other desk stopped, and Romey—a small, thick, badger-like man—glared at him from under a creased brow.
Long used to Romey’s expressions, Michkov hardly noticed. “It’s the same every day,” he continued. “The line at Kajin has fallen back again. Casualties mount. A plague has decimated the Fifth Regiment. I wish there were better news. A victory. Or at the very least some tale of courage. We need more heroes. I can’t think of the last time His Majesty awarded a Meritorious Service Medal for field duty.” Chin propped on hand, elbow propped on desk, his eyes gazed unfocused at the mass of papers spread over his desktop. “We need more heroes. I wish—I wish I could be there. At the lines.”
Romey snorted. “You’d be the first one in the pits they dig for graves there.”
Michkov didn’t feel like arguing the point that morning. Just because he hadn’t proven himself in battle didn’t mean he couldn’t. He’d most likely never get the chance. He discovered recently that his father, a Sub-minister of the Interior, in return for some arcane favors had convinced the Dispatch Office to refuse all Michkov’s requests for a transfer to the front. The elder Michkov had secured this undersecretary post for him instead—a very fine post, with great opportunity for advancement in the government, as well as money and favor. Far better than being forgotten on the war-torn frontier, eh?
It was much spoken of in the family that Michkov did not quite resemble his father.
Between the courtyard and the military detachment offices ran a long corridor lined with cracked and darkened portraits of old Emperors, fathers of fathers of the one who currently reigned. The corridor ended at a double doorway, made from slabs of oak cut from a single immense tree and carved by northern craftsmen with depictions of battles from old epic songs. The door opened into a round chamber where petitioners of the regional director gathered. Another, much smaller door led to the reception hall—with walls and floor of polished rose granite, tall windows covered with dusty curtains, a ceiling with faded allegorical paintings, and numerous glowing lamps—where Michkov worked with Lieutenant Romey.
Every day at noon, the Emperor and his entourage marched down this corridor, passed through the round chamber and a crowd of bowing petitioners, through the smaller door, to the reception hall where the Emperor received oral summaries of the daily reports. His Majesty always asked his young undersecretaries about the state of affairs, a personal attention amidst the cold stone bureaucracy. A young lieutenant in this position could easily gain the notice of the Emperor and advance to a stunning position, if he were worthy and able. If he could fashion his reports to gain the Emperor’s notice.