Glass Sword (Red Queen #2)(37)
We climb and climb, listening to nothing but roaring engines and our own pounding hearts. Wisps of cloud flit by, breaking across the cockpit like white curtains. I can’t stop myself from leaning forward, almost pressing my nose to the glass to get a good look outside. The island wheels below, a drab green against the iron-blue sea, growing smaller by the second, until I can’t distinguish the runway or the barracks.
When the jet levels out, reaching whatever height Cal decides on, he turns in his seat. The smug look on his face would make Maven proud. “Well?” he says, staring at Kilorn. “Can I fly this thing?”
A grumbled “yes” is all he gets, but that’s enough for Cal. He turns back to the panel, hands resting on a U-shaped mechanism centered before him. The jet responds to his touch, dipping gently when he turns the U. When he’s satisfied, he punches a few more buttons on the console and leans back, seemingly letting the plane fly itself. He even unbuckles his safety belts, shrugging out of them to get more comfort-able in his seat.
“So where are we heading?” he asks the silence. “Or are we just winging it now?”
I wince at the pun.
A resounding smack echoes through the jet as Kilorn slaps a stack of papers against his knee. Maps. “The Colonel’s,” Kilorn explains, his eyes boring into mine. Trying to make me understand. “There’s a landing strip near Harbor Bay.”
But Cal shakes his head like an annoyed teacher with an increas-ingly foolish student. “You mean Fort Patriot?” he scoffs. “You want me to land us in the middle of a Nortan air base?”
Farley is the first out of her seat, almost ripping her buckles apart.
She examines the maps with sharp, deliberate motions. “Yes, we are completely stupid, Your Highness,” she says coldly. She unfolds one map, before shoving it under his nose. “Not the fort. Nine-Five Field.”
Gritting his teeth against a retort, Cal takes the map gingerly and examines the square of lines and color. After a moment, he laughs outright.
“What is it?” I ask, pulling the map from his hand. Unlike the giant, indecipherable ancient scroll in Julian’s old classroom, this map displays familiar names and places. The city of Harbor Bay dominates the south, bordering the ocean coast, with Fort Patriot occupying a peninsula jutting out into the water. A thick brown strip around the city, too uniform to be natural, can only be another stretch of barrier trees. As in Archeon, the greenwarden’s creation of strange forests protects Harbor Bay from pollution. In this case, probably from New Town, the labeled area hugging the barrier trees like a belt, forming a wall around the outskirts of Harbor Bay.
Another slum, I realize. Like Gray Town, where Reds live and die beneath a sky full of smoke, forced to build transports, lightbulbs, airjets, everything and anything the Silvers themselves can’t comprehend.
Techies aren’t allowed to leave their so-called cities, even to conscript to the army. Their skills are too valuable to lose to war, or their own free will. The memory of Gray Town stings, but knowing it’s not the only abomination of its kind cuts even deeper. How many live in the confines of that slum? Or this one? How many like me, for that matter?
I taste bile as it rises in my throat, but swallow hard, forcing myself to look away. I search through the surrounding lands, mostly mill towns, the occasional small city, and dense forest dotted with a few dilapidated ruins. But Nine-Five Field doesn’t seem to be anywhere on the map. A secret probably, like anything to do with the Scarlet Guard.
Cal notes my confusion and allows himself one last chuckle. “Your friend wants me to land a Blackrun on a damn ruin,” he finally says, tapping the map lightly.
His finger lands on a dotted line, the symbol for one of the ancient, massive roads of long ago. I saw one once, when Shade and I got lost in woods near the Stilts. It was cracked by the ice of a thousand winters and bleached white by centuries of sun, looking more like craggy rocks than an old thoroughfare. A few trees grew straight through it, forcing their way up through asphalt. The thought of landing an airjet on one turns my stomach.
“That’s impossible,” I stammer, imagining all the ways we could crash and die attempting to touch down on the old road.
Cal nods in agreement, quickly taking the map from my hands. He spreads it wide, his fingers dancing along the different cities and rivers as he searches. “With Mare, we don’t need to touch down here. We can take our time, refuel the batteries whenever we need, and fly as long as we want, as far as we want.” Then, with a shrug, “Or until the batteries stop holding a charge.”
Another bolt of panic streaks through me. “And how long might that be?”
He responds with a crooked grin. “Blackruns went into use two years ago. At worst, this girl’s got another two on her cells.”
“Don’t scare me like that,” I grumble.
Two years, I think. We could circle the world in that time. See Prairie, Tiraxes, Montfort, Ciron, lands that are only names on a map. We could see them all.
But that is a dream. I have a mission of my own, newbloods to protect, and a kingly score to settle.
“So then, where do we start?” Farley asks.
“We let the list decide. You have it, don’t you?” I try my best not to sound afraid. If Julian’s book of names was left back in Tuck, then this little jaunt will be over before it’s even begun. Because I’m not going one inch farther without it.