Chapter 12 – Enemy Sighted

Raven Squadron had arrived back at the nest and had hung their flight packs back on the rack. Gering and Nussbaum went to peel off their flight suits while the others merely unzipped a bit and began to congregate at the table along with a deck of cards.

Amber declared “I want that writing desk moved to my tent; I'm the one doing all the paperwork.”

Ochsner looked over to Mupia and Albrecht and gestured with his hand, and the two promptly stood up and got to work.

As Amber and Ochsner stood by to supervise, the corporal asked “Did you want to take Jäger's chest, too?”

“Where did he get that, anyway? It's not military issued.”

“He snagged it from an abandoned village we passed by.”

Amber took a closer look at the furniture. It stood about as tall as a coffee table; there were two sliding drawers in the front and a lid on the top. She slid open the drawers; they were empty. “I could keep my clean uniform in here, and it won't get wrinkled. Sure, I'll take it.”

She tried to open the lid, but it was locked.

Ochsner said “I know Jäger had the key for that, but we couldn't find it after he fell.”

Amber frowned. “This is why we use footlockers; we can break the padlock off a footlocker and the next guy can just use a new padlock.”

Ochsner proffered “Well you can still use the drawers. Or we could break the lock...”

“No need,” Amber set her hand over the lock. “When I'm close enough I can use my telekinesis on things I can't see.” Her fingers twitched a little while her eyes rolled around. The lock clicked open and Amber lifted the lid.

Everyone nearby peered over to see the spoils inside. There were four cigars wrapped in a paper sleeve, and a letter in an envelope addressed to Jäger in a woman's handwriting. But what really caught everyone's attention was a bottle. Amber lifted the bottle and looked over the label. The fancy calligraphy was written in Gaullish and she couldn't make out what it said, but the year was easy to read: 1687.

“That,” Amber declared, “is a twenty-five-year-old bottle of wine.”

Nussbaum leaned over to read the label; he whistled. “That'll fetch thirty marks, easy.”

Ochsner uttered almost under his breath “I can't believe Jäger was holding out on us!”

Amber contemplated the value of the wine. She was tempted to sell it; after all, she had no interest in drinking it. But then she remembered that it wasn't really hers. “This belonged to the old lieutenant...”

Ochsner quietly proffered “Perhaps we could drink to his memory?”

Amber slowly nodded, “Perhaps... but... I think he was saving this for a special occasion. I'm going to honor that intention; we'll save this for a special occasion, and drink to his memory then.”

She looked back to the chest. “I suppose I'll have the letter sent back to his family.”

“What about the cigars?” Nussbaum asked.

Amber picked up the paper sleeve. “There's four of them, so... One each to the soldiers he gave his life to protect. Do with them as you please.”

Amber held out the sleeve to Corporal Ochsner, who slipped one out. He pressed it up against his mustache and gave it a good smell. His eyes darted around to the other men. With a soft smile he declared “I think I'll save this for when we open that bottle; save it for a special occasion when we drink to Jäger's memory.”

* * *

Because my body is still growing, I legitimately need more sleep than the rest of my squadron.

Sometimes when I go to bed, I can hear them talking about me when they think I'm asleep. From their candid conversations I know that they don't really respect me, and I don't hold up to Jäger.

That first night I suppose it was to be expected; it is pretty wild to have a child assigned as your superior. And I gave a pretty bad first impression, seeing as how I literally choked one of my men like a Dark Lord. That wasn't the kind of leader I wanted to be, but... I'm just so angry! I'm angry because I lost everything, I'm angry to be in this stupid body, and I'm beyond furious to see where this world is going and have nothing I can do to stop it!

I could accept everything else that has happened to me if I could just make a change to this world, to stop it from becoming what I know it is about to become. But here I am, finally in a position where *maybe* I could do something, and no one gives me an ounce of respect. I'm just some weird anomaly to them.

What am I supposed to do to show them that I'm everything all the other lieutenants are?

Gering woke up early. Laying in his cot he tried to determine if he should be getting up or trying to get some more sleep. There wasn't much light, but it seemed like dawn was starting. He didn't hear movement, so nobody else was up yet, but – no, wait, there was the sound of tiny footsteps. The new commander was pacing around in the common area.

The commander drew a sharp breath and then bellered loudly, “Everyone get up, now! Get your flight equipment on, on the double! The enemy is launching a surprise nighttime attack! Get your gear on! Now!-Now!-Now!”

The tent erupted into calamity as everyone scrambled together. Despite feeling awake just seconds ago, as soon as he started moving Gering realized how tired he really was. But he moved quickly; one boot was already on and he had the other past his heel and – why was he putting his boots on when his pants weren't on yet?

The commander continued to beller calls of urgency and the panic flushed away any feelings of grogginess. Gering's second attempt to dress put things in the proper order.

He found himself on the tail end of the group as everyone rushed out of the tent and to the rack. Sasha was hopping toward the rack while slipping her boot on. With everyone crowding around the rack Gering had to dip and dive between several bodies to reach his flight pack. He missed putting his arm through the harness the first time. Once all the straps were tightened he grabbed his rifle and stood with the rest of the squadron. It was only then that he noticed that the lieutenant did not have any of her flight gear on.

Lieutenant Darkwood pressed the button on a stopwatch and called out “Time! Four minutes thirty-eight seconds! That was pitiful! If this had been a real attack the enemy could have wiped out a whole platoon in that much time!

Gering's mouth dropped open. 'IF this had been a real attack?!' “You mean this was just a drill?!”

The commander looked at him with irate eyes. “It was a test, and you failed, so now we're going to drill. Everyone put your flight gear back, strip back down and get in your bunks! We're doing this again!”

While they ran the exercise again Amber carefully watched for areas they could improve, trying to find the bottlenecks that slowed them down. She noticed a distinct problem with crowding when everyone went to grab their flight packs; whoever got there first was in the way of the next to arrive.

While she was working out how to resolve the issue Captain Bain arrived with some folders under his arm. Amber was about to tell everyone to freeze but she noticed that the captain seemed to take a genuine interest in the proceedings. Between calls of motivation she looked over at him inquisitively; he made a gesture as if the say “go on,” so she kept the drill going.

The last of the crew joined the others. “Time! Three minutes, fifty-four seconds.” Amber scowled. “If we were attacked in the middle of the night, the enemy could fly here and destroy our equipment before we could get ready! This is unacceptable.

“We're wasting time running across the courtyard just to have everyone in each other's way at the equipment rack.” Amber looked over to the vice-commander. “Corporal, have them re-arrange the sleeping areas. Put everyone's flight gear next to their bunk.”

“Yes ma'am,” he replied.

Amber faced the captain and clicked her heels together with a salute.

Captain Bain returned the salute and began reviewing her orders for the day. There was a particular stretch of trenches she was to monitor and count the number of troops at three specific times; they were looking for troop movement in preparation for an enemy attack the major felt was coming.

The captain handed her some papers and a moment later Corporal Ochsner approached with his report. “Ma'am, we've arranged the beds like you said, but we don't have a proper place to keep the flight packs. We can't leave them on the floor or else we'll get dirt inside the vents and ruin the mechanism.”

The captain spoke up. “We can get you new racks built. It'll be fine for now to run a test to see if it's worth it.”

Ochsner nodded, “Yes sir.”

Amber raised her voice to be heard by all. “There's one more change I'm making, so listen up! The code word for this will be 'Midnight Attack!' When I give that call, it means you jump straight into your flight suit! Don't bother with your pants, tunic, or anything else you wear under your flight suit. If it's not on already, you're skipping it! Your comfort does not come at the expense of lives. Pray I never need to make that call in a real battle.”

Amber looked over her crew. There were a few eyes that betrayed uneasiness, but no one voiced any complaints. “Alright, everyone strip back down and get in bed like it's the middle of the night!”

As they hustled off to fulfill her orders, Captain Bain leaned next to her and spoke quietly “If we really were attacked in the night, how long could you really stay airborne without proper insulation? It's going to be winter in just over a month.”

“Long enough to fight incoming forces. We're talking about an active battle, not a recon flight.”

“Some battles can go on pretty long. Even our ground forces have to fight hypothermia.”

“If we were woken up in the middle of the night we wouldn't have our mana fully recharged. We wouldn't be able to fight for long anyway, and any situation where we are needed that immediately, well...”

Bain made a faint nod. “Fair enough. Well you have my attention; I want to see how they do.”

He didn't have to wait long before they were ready for the next drill. She clicked her stopwatch and began bellering. “Everyone up! Midnight Attack! Midnight Attack! Move-move-move!”

There was a clamor of rustling coming from the sleeping quarters. Soon soldiers began hustling into the open area, fixing the clasps on their harnesses as they ran into position for a take-off. When the last strap was tightened Amber stopped the watch.

“Time, one minute twenty-two seconds. Much better; you've earned your breakfast today. Go get yourselves dressed properly. Everyone be back here and ready to fly by nine-thirty!”

A chorus of “Yes ma'am” came up from the crew.

The captain looked down at Amber and nodded. “Good work, Lieutenant.” And with that he left.

* * *

Lieutenant Schaab of the Hornet Squadron nodded as he reviewed the areas he was to monitor. “Yes sir, we'll have that done for you.”

Captain Bain was about to leave, but then faced the lieutenant once more. “While I'm here, there is something I'd like to discuss with you. If we were attacked by enemy mages in the middle of the night, how long would it take you to get ready?”

The lieutenant responded with an air of pride. “I run a tight crew here sir, we could be in the air within three minutes!”

“Yes, well I just watched Raven Squadron run that drill in one minute fifteen seconds.”

The pride vanished from his face and he emitted a surprised grunt.

Bain continued. “I've had two ideas on how to improve your squadron's responsiveness. First of all, I want you to start storing your flight packs next to your bunks.”

“Sir?”

“We haven't used those flight packs with the wings for a couple years; we have the space now to keep them by the bunks and it will save you some time. I'll send someone by to turn your rack into smaller racks you can slip next to your bunks. Sound good?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. The second idea I had is to have everyone jump into their flight suits from whatever they are already wearing.”

“With all due respect sir, we could freeze to death.”

“We'd only make you do it in a dire emergency, but I want your squadron prepared for such a possibility. The code word will be 'Midnight Attack.' Do you got all that?”

Lieutenant Schaab stiffly nodded. “Scout enemy numbers. Keep our flight gear by our bunks. Drill for 'Midnight Attack.'”

“Keep it up Lieutenant; I always know I can bet on you.”

* * *

Lieutenant-Commander Grant looked over to the young ensign as he stepped through the bulkhead into the wardroom and saluted.

“Pardon me, sir!” the ensign said, “but one of our passengers would like to have a word with you.”

The Lieutenant-Commander raised a suspicious eyebrow. “And just who is this passenger?”

“A Captain Weston, sir, he's right outside.”

Grant's eyes widened. “A captain?!” He had heard that there was a last-minute order to transport some personnel to Ribe, but he hadn't heard that a captain was among them. He hustled outside where he found the officer before his eyes could adjust to the sunlight. He stood straight and saluted. “Captain Weston, sir!”

Captain Weston returned a stiff salute with an awkward expression. The man had a rather young face for a captain, there was also a birthmark above his eye. His face seemed so distinct that the last thing Grant noticed was that his uniform was a dusty-gold and not navy-blue.

The captain responded in a stern but humble tone, “Ah, captain in the army, sir. You outrank me.”

The lieutenant-commander lowered his hand. “Ah, yes. So I see. So what did you need from me, Captain?”

Captain Weston lowered his salute. “I was hoping you might have a few crewmen I could borrow to assist with a training exercise, and a portion of your deck where I can conduct it.”

Grant wasn't very amused. “What do you need a training exercise for?”

Weston's tone dropped to a very casual one. “They just gave me this new squadron, and they're all fresh out of boot; never seen a battle in their life. They gave me one day to sort them out, but we'll be in the thick of it just as soon as we make port.”

Grant slowly nodded. “I get it, I get it. So what are you planning that you need my men for?”

“Just a mock battle, is all.”

Grant nodded again. “I think we can do that. I just need to run it by the Captain first.”

* * *

Lieutenant-Commander Grant stood before half a dozen seamen just aft of the bridge as Captain Weston finished his explanation to the crew-members. “So that's about it; just a basic mock battle.”

After a short pause Seaman Cooke spoke up timidly. “Excuse me sir, but... What are we going to use for guns?”

Grant grabbed a deck-scrubber and handed it to the seaman. “Use this.”

Cooke tepidly took the deck-scrubber with a quizzical look. “Uhh...”

Weston looked at him accusingly. “Don't you know how to shoot a broom, seaman?”

Grant responded “Just point it at the enemy and yell 'BANG!'”

Weston shook his head, “Honestly it's like they were never children.”

A host of deck-scrubbers were handed out and the brush heads were screwed off leaving only the broom handles. Weston's squadron made their way toward the aft. Weston himself had retrieved his flying platform and was taking himself up a little higher to get a better view. He made some lazy circles at first as he found that he was not only fighting against the wind, but also to keep pace with a moving vessel. As he got accustomed to the effort he floated back down by the naval crew.

“How can you stand that?” one of the seamen blurted out. “There's nothing keeping you on that thing! Aren't you worried you'll fall off?!”

Weston was already facing the seaman. “There's actually a spell that locks your feet to the disc. I've seen men pass out during training; they flip over and hang upside-down in the air. Nothing is getting me off this platform unless I die or willfully terminate the spell.” Technically it was activating a secondary spell that interrupts the binding spell, but Weston wasn't in the mood for an in-depth technical discussion, and the sailor didn't look ready for one either.

The sub-lieutenant's Swedish accent began sounding over Weston's comm. “Okay Captain, we are ready here.”

Weston raised his voice to the sailors carrying broomsticks. “Alright, they're in position. Now, seek and destroy!”

Weston flew up higher to watch the proceedings. His squadron had made illusions of two large shipping crates that were strapped to the deck. He had heard that the real crates secretly contained deck guns to defend the transport ship if need be, but he didn't know if that was true. It did seem odd to have just a few crates above deck when all the cargo was below deck, but he didn't think he had enough rank to get an honest answer.

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From his vantage point it was exceptionally obvious that there was a trap set up for the broomstick-wielding sailors. The illusions that most of his men were hiding in didn't have tops to them, so he could see the men inside. But even if the sailors weren't tall enough to see the missing tops, he still questioned if any would be fooled; the sudden appearance of two extra shipping crates on their ship should be suspicious.

The sailors didn't move like soldiers. They did hold their broomsticks like rifles, but they didn't have them at the ready. The group they formed also had some irregular spacing with some moving a little slower or faster than others. Weston had to resist the impulse to correct them and drill their behavior.

Once the sailors had made it around one of the real crates they had a clear view of the deck and saw the sub-lieutenant's flight, plain as day. Following the directions Weston had given, they had to be closer before they could open fire, so as to simulate the larger scale of the open sky while constrained to the size of the boat. Blomgren's flight began retreating from the advancing sailors. Whether or not the sailors suspected something, they still took the bait and marched right into the trap.

O'Kenny's flight popped out of their hiding spot first and rushed the sailors with shouts of “Bang!” Hunt's flight immediately followed suit and the deck fell into the chaos of battle. Weston watched the cacophony with a scowl on his face.

Weston activated his voice amplification spell and bellowed “FREEZE!” All the mock combatants held their positions and the captain descended onto the crowd. He glared at Hunt's flight and with an irate voice called out “Do you see this man?!” He pointed at a sailor near the front of the crowd. “This man is your priority! This man sees what is going on! This man has already picked a target and is making shots! He needs to go down first!

“But half of you are aiming at this man!” He pointed at a sailor in the middle of the crowd. “This man isn't even looking in the direction he's aiming! He's confused! That's the last one you want to target!” He took a short breath. “Watch their eyes; watch their demeanor. Confusion is our ally! Until one of them realizes what is going on and tries to make a move, they are not a priority.”

He turned to Blomgren's flight. “And you were taking far too long to turn around! The moment the trap is sprung, we need everyone in the fray! The moment one of those cabbage-heads figures out which way to shoot, I want nine rounds plugged into the bastard right then and there! I don't care if it's overkill; I want his shield to shatter before anyone has time to chamber a second round! You got that?!”

A chorus of “Yes, sir!” came from the soldiers, and even a couple of the sailors. Weston drew a slow breath.

* * *

I wonder if it is too late to change what kind of leader I am to these people. But what kind of leader do I really want to be? When I started thinking about what I would do as an officer, I never gave any thought to things like personality or what kind of face I would show to my men. I didn't think about things like how we would get along.

No, my thoughts were entirely focused on strategy. I thought only about what kind of tactics I would run, how I would best utilize my resources to achieve victory. But even then, I was completely misguided.

When I first joined the Army, I had this notion that I would be an outstanding strategist; I thought everything I would do would be leaps and bounds above the others. Now that I'm out here and seeing the war first-hand, not to mention seeing everything that my superiors are already doing without me, I begin to realize that my ideals were as childish as this body.

I went into the Army thinking I was a brilliant strategist because I win at strategy games.

Now I see how out-of-touch I am with reality.

Amber put her hand over her orb, triggered the radio spell, and heard the radio's chirping noise. “Raven reporting; section two-one-eight has forty-eight visible soldiers.”

A moment later the radio chirped again and the operator's voice came through. “Copy that, forty-eight in two-one-eight.”

As Amber looked down at the trench patterns, she was reminded of her mistake the night before. She could see the same fortification pattern she failed to notice before, although completed now, along with a few extra additions peppered across the design, courtesy of Argan artillery.

Reminded of her mistake, Amber felt like an idiot all over again.

As they flew toward the next section, Amber stared off into the East, her eyes catching the glint from the Bar-la-Sal River in the distance. It was just a tributary to a larger river that went all the way to the capital. That larger river wasn't named “Marne” and the capital wasn't called “Paris,” but already this war had repeated the same First Battle of the Marne where the Germans (and now the Argans) learned that their plan to reach the capital would not be a simple task.

'Paris or Leukesia, Marne or Coruis... The names have all changed, but the story is still the same. Hmm, maybe I could use that line in my journal. ...But some names haven't changed; maybe I should say banners instead?'

When they stopped and her crew began counting troops, she reached into her flight suit and pulled out her brown suede book. She pressed it against her leg and began writing. 'The banners have changed...' She did not finish the sentence before something of greater importance stole her attention.

Sasha excitedly called out “Commander! We have enemy mages coming from... over there!”

Amber checked which direction Sasha was pointing and found some specks floating in the distance. She fixed her scope on them and saw nine Gaullian air mages making a beeline to her position.

Amber had seen the Gaullian flight craft before; they had a captured one at the training base, and Amber even got to fly it a couple times during her flight training. The craft had a name in Gaullish, but Argish-speaking nations all called them “sky bikes.” The design looked to Amber like a jet-ski, but without room in the back for a second seat, and the nose was boxy with only the top being rounded; a jet-ski if it were invented in the 1920's.

Amber stared at the nine flapper-style jet-skis. What she felt brewing in her stomach wasn't excitement, it was apprehension. Was there really any need to fight? Surely the Gaullians didn't want to put their lives at risk. What were they fighting for?

Corporal Ochsner's voice interrupted Amber's thoughts. “Commander? Your orders?”

Amber looked over her surroundings. “...We're in their territory. Everyone head back toward our side.” 'Maybe this will be enough; maybe they were just trying to scare us away; maybe they don't really want to fight either.'

Half a minute later when they were over No-Man's-Land Amber asked “Are they still going the same way they were going, or did they change course to follow us?”

Ochsner peeked through his scope. “They're still heading directly toward us, ma'am.”

Amber slowed and looked back to the Gaullians. With a soft voice she uttered “So you have chosen death.”

“Ma'am?”

Amber shifted her tone to one for giving orders. “Everyone stop. This is where we'll draw the battle line. Let them come to us. Ochsner, take Mupia and Sasha and form a flight on my left. Nussbaum, take Albrecht and Gering into a flight on my right. We'll all stay as one group for now, chevron formation; when I say to break, split into your flights and engage the enemy.”

As the squadron began forming up Amber thought: 'If I let my squadron do all the fighting, I won't have to kill anyone.' The thought caught hold in Amber's heart; it was a wonderful idea. She could free herself from the burden of guilt, because she wasn't the one pulling the trigger.

She glanced to the right to make sure everyone had formed up. There seemed to be a look of worry on Gering's face.

'No, I can't do that; if I hold back one of my men could die!' She took a breath; she would have to do this. “Everyone pick a target; I'll take the three in the middle.”

Amber felt her heart pounding fiercely in her chest. 'Why is my heart pounding? I haven't even done anything yet.' She put the thought out of her mind and focused on the task at hand.

The incoming Gaullians had their rifles ready, but neither side was firing. They were both in range of each other, but not close enough to make a sure shot. That distinction would be gone in less than a second. Amber kept reaching out with her mind, trying to make a firm connection with her telekinesis, as soon as they were close enough – there it was! “Break!” she yelled.

The two flights split off from her and Amber started charging toward the enemy. She saw several rifles dance around as they picked new targets. Four were pointed at her, but Amber made sure they missed.

The enemy was not in a tight formation, and with a hard bank to the left Amber was positioned so her three targets were nearly in a line. She charged her bayonet with mana and rushed into them. This time, she didn't aim for their necks, but she knew how to take them out of the battle without taking their lives.

She held her rifle firmly with the bayonet sticking out to the side, and flew in close enough for the blade to cut through the first soldier's arm. With a brisk S-curve she flew by the next two and dispatched them in the same manner.

She spun around and began slowing down. She felt supernally pleased with herself.

Until she saw the three men screaming and clutching their bleeding stumps.

The screams caught the attention of the entire group and most of them turned to see the calamity. As the various faces looked on Amber and her handiwork, she balked for a moment, her emotions too confusing to make sense of.

But in that moment of emotional ambiguity, she saw one of the Gaullians fire and hit Gering. Gering's shield held, but he winced as if in considerable pain.

The complex emotions within Amber gave way to a simpler Primeval one. “You... You hurt one of my men!” She pointed her rifle at the offender and fired as rapidly as she could manage. Before anyone could properly react his shield shattered into glowing shards and he began falling to the ground.

The Anger she felt was only slightly satiated; as the rush of combat began surging she looked around and saw another soldier aiming at her; she nudged his rifle only barely in time before he fired, and the shot nicked the edge of her shield, the glowing explosion billowing off of the invisible sphere. It wasn't painful, but it was a slap in the face, and enough to cue Amber back to some more rational thought.

Every single one of the enemies was now facing her – her voracious display having made her their top priority – and that was far more rifles than she could deflect at once.

She put her speed to the test and made every kind of errant flight pattern she could think of – zig-zag, corkscrew, serpentine – during which two shots streaked by dangerously close to hitting her. Yet she heard a lot more than just two shots... She made one last spin to face the crowd.

Chaos had descended upon the Gaullians. While they had been focused on Amber, the rest of her squadron opened fire. Some of the Gaullians had turned around to face the men shooting them, a few had remained focused on Amber, and the rest didn't know where to shoot.

Amber began pumping rounds into the soldiers who were attacking her men. She managed three shots before she had to focus on deflecting the shots aimed at her. She made a sweeping arc around the group, nudging two more rifles just before they fired, and stopped in a position where the dismembered soldiers obscured a clean shot from half of the remaining enemies.

She unloaded two rounds into the soldier nearest her and his shield burst like a glass balloon. The soldier next to him fired at Mupia, who cringed at the impact. Ochsner and Sasha both shot at the Gaullian, and his shield shattered and he fell from the sky.

Suddenly Amber's shield lit up. She felt the force of the impact; it rattled through every sinew, but her shield stayed up as she saw the fiery magic wrap around the bubble that was protecting her. She glanced toward the source of the attack; one of the enemy soldiers found a break between his wounded comrades. 'Fine, you're next!'

Amber took a final shot at the enemy in the group before her and Mupia did as well; the double-whammy did him in. She turned and soared over the wounded soldiers, her eyes glaring at the combatant who had shot her. The soldier fired at Amber again, but Amber was watching and easily deflected the shot. Now it was Amber's turn. She fixed her aim and pulled the trigger.

Click!

'Dammit!'

Ochsner's flight followed after Amber and began firing at the offending soldier. His squadmate behind him took another volley from Nussbaum's flight, resulting in another shattered shield and a falling corpse. The final Gaullian soldier looked about, realizing he was the only one left.

Amber had finished reloading and immediately opened fire; with two shots the soldier went down. She anxiously looked around the battlefield; “Is that all of them?” she demanded.

Sasha began spinning around to look for more troops. Ochsner curtly responded “That's all of them, ma'am.”

“Head count!” She looked around to her troops. “One two three –”

Ochsner practically interrupted her. “We're all accounted for ma'am, no casualties.”

Amber noticed that she was breathing heavier than normal. “Good, good, so... prisoners.” She looked down to the three soldiers who had lost their arms. They had all been imperceptibly descending, so they were now a dozen feet below everyone else. They had stopped screaming, but there was sharp and forceful breathing.

Amber called out some orders. “Check them for grenades or anything else the might use, then we'll have them fly to the dressing station for medical treatment.” She then visibly piqued. “Oh that's right, we need to report this.” She placed her hand over her orb and connected to the radio. “This is Raven, we encountered an enemy squadron. No casualties. Six tangos down, three taken prisoner. We are escorting the prisoners to the dressing station for medical treatment.”

The operator replied a moment later. “Copy that; six down, three prisoners. Good work, Raven! Make sure you properly disarm the prisoners before bringing them in.”

Amber looked to the bleeding stump the prisoner was desperately clutching. “...disarmed, check.”

Amber flew over to the nearest Gaullian. He was a lieutenant. Albrecht had already taken the grenades he previously had clipped to his belt.

She moved to his side. That's when she realized that the cut she made wasn't as clean and precise as she imagined it would be. Her blade had cut past his arm and made a large gash into the side of his torso. The gash was bleeding profusely, and the lieutenant was struggling profoundly to plug the arteries in his stump and cover the gash at the same time.

“Commander!” Mupia yelled. He was floating by the soldier in the middle, and the gash on that soldier's side was twice as big. “T'is one, I don't t'ink he going –”

The soldier slumped over and rolled off his sky bike, tumbling to the earth like a rag doll. The body hit the ground in a particularly gruesome manner, owing to the tremendous gash on his side providing a point of least-resistance for the sudden pressures within.

Amber looked away from the horrible scene of gore as the sound of the crashing sky bike rang through the air, but it was too late: the image was burned into her mind. Her face felt light and her stomach was churning, tightening, about to push – 'No, no I need to get a tourniquet on this man! I have to do that now!'

The urgency of the task gave her focus, and her stomach held itself as she patted her hands around on her pouches. She clasped the one with medical supplies in it and quickly found the tourniquet. She wrapped it around the man's stump and twisted it tighter than she thought she could manage. The blood stopped oozing from the stump and the man moved his hand to better cover the gash in his side.

Amber looked up to see Sasha following her example. She took a breath and nodded. 'Good, good. They can at least make it to the dressing station.'

* * *

The two Gaullian soldiers were shuffled into the dressing station and the medics there quickly started work on them, cutting away their tunics, pulling off the field bandages and cleaning the wounds.

A medic mage put her hand to the orb on her chest as beads of light spilled out of it, forming a glowing sigil. Amber recognized the sigil; it was the same disinfecting spell she had copied onto her own orb. The medic mage held the glowing sigil aloft in her hand and motioned to the Gaullian lieutenant. “Hold him down,” she said.

Four nurses surrounded and pinned the patient down. The medic mage held the sigil against his side, and the spell began glowing brighter. The Gaullian inhaled furiously and then began emitting a stifled scream through his clenched teeth. Soon he ran out of breath and had to furiously inhale again to continue his screaming. The medic mage kept the spell pressed firmly into the wound as her lips moved with her silent counting: thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three... Finally the soldier's scream turned instead into a whimper, and then at long last she lifted her hands and the glowing magic sigil disappeared.

Guilt had swept over Amber, knowing that she had caused this. At the start of the battle she thought she was being merciful; now she was left to think about how the man would struggle with the most basic tasks for the rest of his life.

Ochsner's voice interrupted Amber's thoughts. “Commander? I don't think we're needed here anymore.”

Amber shook her head as she cued back in with reality. “No I don't suppose we are.” With that she turned to leave.

She had only made it two steps past the dressing station before Major Detmold came around the corner. Her entire squadron stood sharp and saluted.

The major smiled. “Ah, Raven Squadron! At ease, I was looking for you.” He began pacing by the troops, looking them over like an informal inspection. It made Amber all the more conscious of the blood on her flight suit. “I heard that you just had an altercation with the enemy. You really defeated their entire squadron with no casualties?”

“That is correct, sir.”

The major was beaming. “Magnificent! That's the kind of results I wanted! Let's take a look at those prisoners, shall we?”

Detmold stepped into the dressing station and looked around. He turned back to Amber. “Two?”

“One of them didn't make it.”

Detmold looked back to the the prisoners and stepped close enough to the lieutenant to examine his insignia. “An officer?” He looked back to Amber. “Good work, Darkwood!”

Amber nodded with a faint smile, but inside she felt twisted and broken. 'So this is what I need to do to win his favor; kill and maim more people?'

I get the impression that Major Detmold only sees me as a tool; as a weapon. He wants me to go out and kill the enemy, and that's all. It's insulting and a waste of my talents, but honestly, I'm pretty lucky just to be seen like that. I'm sure most of the brass sees me as some kind of joke; they'd never see past my age to let me even serve as a soldier.

General Greenfield did all he could to get me out of the army entirely; he saw me as just a child. Major Brandis seemed to not really know what to think of me nor what to do with me. Sergeant-Major Vanderkaum seemed to hate the very idea of having me around. I hear in Norlandy they don't even let women hold real rank.

Altogether I should be glad that Detmold at least lets me be a soldier; he lets me lead my squadron and help defend his regiment. He's pleased every time I lead a successful sortie. But even so, I feel like my aptitude is wasted. I could do so much more, but I'm stuck just being a proverbial sword for this guy.

Will this really be enough to change the result of the war? I don't think it will be.

But I guess sometimes that's all we can be. We're stuck being a cog in the machine and all we can do is be the best damn cog to ever spin in this gear.

As the squadron began disseminating within the Raven's Nest, Amber called out to her crew “I would like to review that last battle before everyone scatters.”

The men all paused and looked around at each other, their expressions revealing that such a review was not normal. After a brief pause it was Ochsner who spoke up first. “Well, we all survived, and we got all of them. So that's good, right?”

Nussbaum spoke up next “What is there to talk about, really?” His tone shifted to a more respectful one. “That is, ma'am, I think we all did quite well. What is there to discuss?”

Amber was curt. “If we don't understand what we did to win, then our victory is nothing more than dumb luck. Besides, there's always room for improvement.” She directed her tone to the whole group. “So tell me, what did we do to win this battle, and how can we achieve that again?”

There was a moment of pause, as if no one was sure who should speak. Mupia interrupted the silence. “We won because you took down a t'ird of them right at the start. I t'ink if you keep doing t'at we can keep winning.”

The privates all nodded in agreement.

Amber let out a deep sigh. “No, I don't know if I'll be able to pull that off again.”

Mupia looked a little stunned. “Why not?”

Ochsner turned to him. “You know full well how dangerous it is to fly that close to an enemy; they can reach past your shield and end your life right there.”

Albrecht interjected, “But she's fast; she's fast enough to pull it off!”

Amber folded her arms and looked downward despondently. “I'm fast enough to pull it off if they don't see it coming; fast enough to run in while they are still chambering their next round. But anyone who knows I can do that can easily turn it against me; they can prepare their own bayonet or wait to fire until I'm close. Once the enemy knows there's someone as fast as me they'll prepare to fight me.”

Albrecht continued. “Well it's not like any of this last crew managed to get away, so no one knows it yet.”

Gering nodded his head. “Dead men tell no tales.”

Amber looked over to the two young men. “Are you sure there weren't any soldiers watching from the trenches who saw what I did?”

The eyes of all the privates opened wide. Albrecht breathed out “...That's why you had us fight over no-man's-land...”

Amber said nothing in reply. Of course it wasn't the reason, but she knew to not let them know that.

Ochsner raised his voice slightly. “Even once those three were out of the battle, we were still seven against six. And as the commander said, if we don't understand how we pulled that off, then it was just dumb luck. So how did we get through that?”

Mupia spoke up with a broad smile. “By kicking t'err asses!”

Cheering broke out among the group. Amber raised her voice above the noise. “How many times did you get hit, Mupia?”

He looked at her with a bit of a surprised tone. “T'ree,” he said.

Amber glared at him for a moment.

“...Four,” he somberly declared.

“Do you even have enough mana left to make our last recon flight tonight? We may have a KDR to be proud of, but we made it out by the skin of our teeth. I won't be taking any pride in what we accomplished until we know how to pull it off reliably.”

There was a sober silence across the Nest.

Sasha timidly spoke up. “What is Kay-Dee-Arr?”

* * *

As Lukas Nussbaum cruised through the atmosphere the early evening cold stung sharply against his face. His cowl and goggles kept the chill off the more vital parts, but the exposed parts kept him reminded of how much the temperature changes as one climbs in altitude. 'Maybe I should grow a beard, just for the winter.'

The commander began broadcasting over the radio, “This is Raven Squadron, we are ready to begin our report on enemy numbers.”

The operator replied “Raven Squadron, stand by.” A short while later he continued. “Ravens, we're a bit busy right now. Write down the numbers and bring them to us in person.”

“Understood.” The commander reached into her flight suit and pulled out a paper and a pen. “Hm, I should have brought a clipboard.” She rested the paper against her leg but the wind kept blowing it about. She grumbled and looked around. “Nussbaum! Come over here!”

Nussbaum complied and faced the wind; the commander slapped the paper against his flight pack and began writing. He silently exhaled. 'Of course, this is still part of my punishment for defying her when she first arrived.'

The commander spoke up. “Heh, so that's how a raven is like a writing desk. I always wondered about that.”

Before Nussbaum could ask what she was talking about she had switched on her comm. “Alright, let's move to the next one!”

As they flew to the next location Nussbaum mulled over the situation. It still felt weird to be taking orders from a child, that much was certain. For most of the past two days he was looking for an opportunity to request a transfer. The child had a chip on her shoulder, and he had seen enough of that when he was a private. He'd seen plenty of it in the business world, too. A boss who felt like he had something to prove was bad news: they cared more about looking good than doing good, and they would step all over their underlings to meet a quota or to look good to the upper management. Yet they would rarely be seen putting forth the effort they demanded of others.

Nussbaum didn't want to deal with that here, not when lives were on the line.

But when that battle started, that wasn't what she acted like at all. When the new kid got hit, she tore into the enemy with unbridled fury. And despite the heat of battle, Nussbaum could follow her motions: she had prioritized the enemies who were attacking her squadmates, not the ones attacking her.

Something was different about her, that much was certain. But perhaps she wasn't different in the way he had thought.

Maybe... Maybe she might even be the kind of different they needed...

* * *

As the Raven's Nest began bathing in darkness Amber went off into her tent and began preparing for bed. The rest of her crew gathered around the table in the common area along with a deck of cards, but Amber needed sleep. It was dark in the tent so she cast a spell to summon a glowing ball of light. It had a cool temperature to its glow and was about as bright as a light bulb, but it wasn't as steady; there was a rhythmic flickering like the burn of a flare.

After slipping out of her flight suit she examined the garment. Blood had spattered and dried on it. She set it down on her bed and walked over to the chest and opened the top drawer. Inside was her second tunic, all neatly folded. Pinned to it was her golden medal, glistening from the light-ball.

The clean tunic seemed a stark contrast to the one she was wearing; it was wrinkled from the flight suit, had a bit of dirt from the trenches, and no golden medal was pinned to it. Then she noticed that somehow some of the blood got through the flight suit and on to her tunic. 'Guess I'll have to wash this too.'

She closed the drawer again, taking one final look at the gold, shining in the light, and then at the spot of dried blood on her tunic, trying to hide within the shadow.

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