I went all the way back to the start of the novel to add this in, in case you’re wondering; I didn’t only just begin and I didn’t restart.
In his dreams, he soars through the remembered evening sky.
He flies below the clouds, washed gold and purple by the setting sun, seeing shadows stretch across the land as the sun sets and the power of the Reapers begins to fade with the dimming light.
He flies parallel to the Waste, feeling the thrum of Death below, sensing as an irritant the intermittent loss of lift in his left wing as it hits pockets and eddies of Affinity vacuum. The desire to cut away and swing back to Diabolus base is great, a sweet temptation pulling at the mind in a tidal undercurrent of the soul.
But he has a job to do.
Instead, he boosts the gain on Air, a sudden pair of vortices flaring out at his wingtips as they curve and reshape themselves to catch the wind.
Once upon a time– and back in the Old World they still do– they’d flown in airplanes, giant sealed tubes of dead metal that caught an unliving wind by strict mathematical principles.
And they’d flown at speed, ensconced in comfort within pressurised cabins that sped through the sky faster than a speeding bullet.
But surely, that couldn’t give the same pure joy of being connected to every molecule of air.
To every element of Air.
He flies high enough that the boundary layer enchanted to his body begins to flicker and flutter, and he pauses to strengthen the channels, turn up the gain on Fire to prevent icing.
He cruises to the end of his perimeter patrol zone in a serene silence, seeing nothing of note, before something catches his eye– flickers of shadow and light on the other side of the Waste.
He opens his inner eye; sees the searing fire of the Reapers burning at the shadows of the valley of Death
And you shall fear no evil, the old saying echoes through his mind.
Yes.
It’s not evil that humans have to fear.
He folds his wings in and cuts the boost; comes coasting back down, a barrelling projectile beholden only to the laws of physics, skimming down into the deeper part of the Waste where the interference is the least, and clicks on his radio.
“Redgrave to base. No Breach. Assault in sector four, non-critical.*
”Base. Assault status?”
As he speaks, the fires burn a little too deep, a little too fast, and the shadows surround them.
Death. Darkness.
SIlence.
“Assault failed. Request Waste check.”
“Understood. Come on home.
He banks out of the dead zone, wings flaring wide to grant him lift, and heads towards Diabolus, watching for a speck of light rising from from the launch tower that heralds a fellow Steel Wing ready to take over.
But, as it does every time, the horizon erupts behind it.
And he falls back into his flesh.
Current status: 19800 words and WAAAAY behind on word count.
Loading comments...