AETHER — an extract

Chapter 1

It's him. I look away from the sight on my gun and into the partial darkness of the jungle, my stomach twisting with a hatred that's been dormant for three years.

      I breathe out slowly into my shoulder and lean into the sight of my gun again, my finger resting lightly on the groove of the trigger. Fading out the incessant rain, the intersection of my red crosshairs rests on the profile of a tall, young man. The image in my sight is so clear I can see the shadow of stubble on his jaw and a pale scar on the light-brown skin of his cheek. A face I've studied along with the others on the collateral reports. He's seated on an upturned crate under the shelter of a tarp, a deck of cards spread out between him and the bearded man opposite.

      There's a soft click as my visor displays the target's heartbeat, internal organs and heat signature. The red crosshairs focus on the side of his head, where a brown curl of dark hair rests against his ear. We were taught that a bullet pushes through flesh quicker than the tissue tears. If I were to press my finger on the trigger, metal would rip through hair, skin, bone, fluid and grey matter all before the body registers what's happened. The brain dies immediately. Painless. Instant. It's a merciful kill, and one I never miss.

      It is too merciful for him.

      Focus. I scan the rest of the area. The pre-dawn light isn't strong enough to break through the canopy of giant trees around us and it leaves us in shadows. The harsh white light on the grey vehicles, tents and crates come from the spotlights that stand sentry at the perimeter of the enemy camp. The brilliant light illuminates our targets perfectly and the crates likely hold weapons and ammunition, no doubt, to use against our own soldiers. We'll destroy those too. These Salites had been clever to pick this crater, a mark of the old wars, knowing that its high slopes dull their communication signals so our sensors couldn't detect them through the rad-saturated earth. It almost made their camp invisible. Almost.

      Ethen lays next to me under the cover of a tree, his cropped blonde hair plastered to his forehead. The tree's leaves splay out above him, like the opened spokes of an umbrella. I envy his shelter from the downpour. His breathing is slow and light as it always is in the limbo between calm and contact, but I'm close enough to see his white knuckles from the grip on his gun. He knows the risks as much as I do.

      'Do you have eyes on the target?' Ethen asks, his baritone lower than the whisper of rain around him. He shifts and I glimpse the gold sheen of the General's badge that shines on his chest, the sun etched into it flecked with dirt.

      I blink the rain from my eyes and lean into my sight to the target with the scar on his cheek. There's a soft whir as my visor runs the facial recognition. A formality, because I already know who he is — everyone knows who he is — but I unclench my teeth and read the information to Ethen. 'General Luther Arch, son of Latimer Arch, the Interfector. Target priority level one. It's a positive, sir.'

      The muscle in Ethen's jaw clenches and he nods sharply. It's more than we could've ever hoped for; an unsuspecting high-ranked target. The six recruits with us are alight with repressed excitement. Capturing a general would get the group enough credit for a new bed, decent food, time off. And if it's the Interfector, the favour of Darius himself.

      On my left, Adria leans towards me, her blonde hair tied back and dripping. 'When are we moving?' she whispers to me, shuddering as something slithers over her hand. 'We've been here for ages.'

      'Remind me to write you a sympathy note,' Calvin mutters from the other side of her, droplets of cold rain glimmering against the dark-brown of his cheek. He whips his head around to her. 'Did you just wipe—'

      Ethen shoots them both warning glances and Calvin shuts his mouth, glaring at Adria. She grins at him. Ethen scopes the camp one more time.

      'The net,' I say quietly, just for Ethen's ears, knowing he'd understand what I'd mean. If we came in from the front, they'd be trapped against the high walls of the clearing.

      Ethen stills, the line on his forehead clearing, the plan forming, and relays the strategies to the group. The recruits silently spread themselves along the circumference of the clearing. I settle next to a skinny boy no older than eighteen. He glances nervously at me as I lie next to him, his hand trembles as he releases the safety on his gun.

      Luther Arch throws his head back and laughs suddenly with some of his soldiers, oblivious to the incoming chaos only moments away. The noise echoes off the walls.

      I press my eye to my sight. In my peripheral, Ethen lifts his hand, pale in the morning light. I inhale through my nose and my lungs fill with the sharp smell of the wet leaves beneath me. My heartbeat slows in my ears as every fibre of me hangs onto Ethen's signal. I can hear the quick breathing of the recruit next to me, feel the damp of the earth digging into my bare wrists, taste the metallic tang of the rain as I bite my lip.

      My crosshairs settle on the forehead of the targets who leans against a crate, a red-haired woman with a pistol hanging from her hip.

      In my peripheral, Ethen brings his hand down.

      Now.

      I take the first shot and the gun shudders in my hands as the bullet leaves. The woman falls instantly, sprawling across the crate as red and grey stain the pale wood. A shout of pain rings out across the clearing and the recruit next to me swears as the bearded Salite falls, clutching his shoulder. A bad hit. Luther Arch grabs the screaming target and starts pulling him to cover. Careful not to hit the Interfector, I breathe out and aim, press the trigger and feel the catch of the gun as it recoils into my shoulder. The bullet meets its mark and Luther jumps back.

      On the other side of the camp, another target pulls out his gun and frantically tries to find us in the treeline. I take him out, not giving him a chance. A woman runs into a tent, I track her trajectory and fire through the material. There's a crash and she doesn't re-emerge. My mind is light and clear as it races to identify the nearest threat. I aim momentarily and then I am applying pressure to the trigger, my reaction time reduced to the space of a second. They fall with the rain.

      They are running with guns now, panicked and cursing, unable to see us through the trees. Until one of the soldiers sees us and shouts out our location just as I have him in my sights. He falls, a hole in the centre of his head, but still the last of the guns swing around to face us in the trees. Anticipation ripples through me.

      'Phase two!' Ethen shouts and we lock our guns into close-range semi-automatics. The scope on my gun disappears and I'm already standing as the gun shifts against my shoulder, the barrel shortening into a semi-automatic. As one, we charge from our cover in the undergrowth and towards the soldiers. My feet slide in the mud as we run down the slope, but I keep my footing and keep firing. They duck as we shoot at them and descend into their camp, diving for cover as they reload. The net has been thrown. We simply have to close in.

      I take out another target and then run deeper into the camp. The spotlights shine at the edge of my vision. Their light illuminates the rain around me, making it hard to see through the glittering drops of water that dominate the air. Half-blind and relying on my visor, I crash into one of the food crates for cover and bullets shatter the wood, spitting out splinters. Something soft inside the crate explodes and the heavy smell of oranges hits the air.

      One of the fallen targets, the red-haired woman, lies nearby, her arm outstretched and her blank eyes wide. Being this close to the Salites, you can see the lines on their weathered faces. Disgust, real and visceral, twists my stomach, as I spot the ceremonial lines that mark her hands. Each line is the equivalent of ten Aetherian deaths. She has lines that disappear into her sleeve.

      A flash of colour catches my eye on the ground next to her. A stuffed bear lies by the opening of one of the tents. A toy?

      More bullets shatter the wood and duck back. I take a deep breath, stifling the instinct to stay out of sight, and swing the barrel of my gun around the edge of the crate. There's a whisper of disturbed air, a sliver of metal, and my bullets reach three targets before they've even registered my movement.

      There's a cry of pain. One I recognise.

      'Adria!' Calvin shouts and he leaves his cover to run.

      The adrenaline is pounding in my ears, louder than the rain crashing onto my skull. I turn to where I last saw Adria. She writhes in the mud, gripping her leg, face contorted with pain. Red is blooming across her trousers at her thigh. How did she get hit? She's never hit.

      I have to fight the urge to run over to her and into the open. My fingers grip my gun tighter, nerves screaming at me that I should be with her, helping her, but I have to keep fighting. Anger burns and in a heartbeat, I take out two more of them, a dark twinge of satisfaction running through me as they go down.

      Calvin reaches her and fires from his position, defending her, but he's not able to do much until everyone's been taken care of. Ethen and some of the other recruits join them. A target aims at my team during the moment of confusion and I take them out, hissing through my teeth at the close call. They need to be careful.

      I'm about to join the rest of the group when I catch the cold metallic gleam of a gun in the corner of my eye. I duck back behind the crate as someone quietly emerges from what I'd thought had just been a shadow, but now I see is a cave in the high walls of the clearing. The target silently makes their way towards Adria along the shadows, unseen. Protectiveness rears its head and I raise my gun, only for a bar of light from the spotlights to fall against his rain-soaked face.

      It's Luther Arch.

      Fear grips my stomach as I lower the gun. I can't kill him. I have no stuns, only the magnetic cuffs. We weren't prepared for this level of active combat. I drop the useless gun, thinking fast but there isn't enough time — he's closing the distance to Adria and the group and without another thought of the mission, I break into a run.

      I slip momentarily in the mud, slamming my knee into the side of the crate but I ignore the burst of pain and keep on running. I unclip the strips of magnetic cuffs from my belt. Luther adjusts his grip on the pistol. No. It's the overriding thought that obliterates all else. I gain momentum until I am sprinting towards him, fear propelling me forward.

      He's raising his gun to Adria when he finally hears my feet slapping in the mud over the downpour of rain and gunfire.

      He turns, but I'm faster and slam the first cuff over his outstretched arm and use my weight to pull him to the ground, keeping a hold of his armed hand as we both go down. The gun fires and for a moment all I see is a streak of cold rain and light before my shoulder slams into the ground. Luther Arch gasps at the impact, but I'm already swinging around, using the mud and his disorientation to wrench his gun away.

      I spin around him, ignoring the sharp pain in my ribs, and twist his cuffed arm against his back. The elbow he swings misses my jaw by a few centimetres before I grab it and close the other cuff down over his wrist and they activate. The metal glows green and the electromagnets switch on, wrenching his arms back. He shouts out as his shoulders are forced into a painful position. His gun lies at his feet and I grab it, slick with rain.

      Kneeling in the mud, I pull him upright and bury the muzzle into Luther Arch's neck.

      'Don't move,' I hiss at him.

      He groans and the first flow of blood trickles down his forehead, stemming from a cut above his hairline. I see a stone half-buried in the mud next to us; he must've hit his head. He looks up and being this close, we are suddenly eye to eye.

      You. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. But as I look, I don't see any flicker of recognition, no realisation, just a glazed kind of anger. He doesn't even… I clench the gun tighter. It would be so easy, to pull the trigger one last time.

      Over my heavy breathing, I realise it's quiet behind me. The fight is over.

      Adria. I fight the urge to check on her. Luther eyes flick to someone over my shoulder.

      'Good work, Lieutenant,' Ethen says behind me, his footsteps sucking on the mud as he approaches behind me. 'Eyes on the prisoner.'

      As if I'd let my eyes leave him for one second.

      There's a bitter laugh from Luther. 'Prisoner? That's a bold assumption.'

      Rain is mixing with the blood on Luther's forehead and he blinks a couple of times from under the dark, ragged strands of hair. His eyes are slightly unfocused. Some part of me recognises the almost unnatural clarity of colour in his eyes. Like the pictures of deep-blue skies in the history books before the Smoke.

      I take a step back as Ethen stands by my side and raises his own gun at Luther. The rest of the team join us as Luther leans back on his knees and glares at the guns trained on him. The whole right side of his face is smeared in dirt.

      Ethen steps forward, his shoulders back and his spine rigid as he approaches the enemy general, now surrounded by Aetherian soldiers. 'General Luther Arch, you are now a prisoner of Aether. We will transport you back to the Supreme Court for judgment, where your crimes will be weighed by the High Council and, in this case, Darius himself.'

      The scripted words fall deaf on his ears. Luther is looking around in shock at his now-destroyed camp. Ethen turns to give an order to one of the recruits to replenish supplies and Luther steals a glance towards to the cave at the edge of the clearing. Unchecked desperation flashes across his face; he's going to run.

      I shove the gun in front of his face. 'Don't you dare.'

      Luther freezes and growls in frustration. 'Why, sweetheart?' he whips his head around to glare at me. 'Are you going to shoot me? You need me alive.'

      I stare at him long enough to make him question whether that is the case.

      'Lieutenant Lyra Stone is the best marksman in Aether,' Ethen says, distractedly. He glances at one of the recruits who nods in confirmation that all the targets had been dealt with. Luther squints at me before his eyes widen. Finally, he remembers. 'She could immobilise you from a hundred metres if you try to run, not enough to kill you but just enough to make it a painful walk to Aether.' Ethen steps back and lifts his arms. 'So by all means, go ahead.'

      Luther glares, but doesn't move. Ethen sighs and gestures for two of our recruits to detain him.

      'As if your forces could ever stop them,' Luther growls at Ethen as they haul him up.

      'No need to worry about us.' There's a twitch in his eye. Ethen is losing his patience.

      'You don't get it.' Luther shakes his head, his tone changing and his eyes seeming to regain their sharpness. 'Look, you can torture me all you want—' he laughs dryly '—and I'm sure you will. But there's nothing you can do to me to make me help you. Unless you listen to me.'

      'And we will listen to you,' Ethen says, unfazed. 'In fact, when you're at the Supreme Court, everyone will listen to you.'

      Luther scoffs. 'You mean Darius and the council? We don't have time for your rules and traditions, no—'

      'Well, for you they're about to become the difference between life and death.' Ethen's voice has risen ever so slightly. Rivulets of rain run down his cheeks as he looks hard into the other general. They glare at each other, hazel against blue. The sons of two nations, Aetherian against Salite. 'So if I were you, I'd make time.'

      They stare at each other for a moment, neither moving. The hatred is physical space between them.

      Calvin clears his throat and slowly, both generals turn to look at him, like they don't quite want to. I check Calvin over, there's a purple bruise flowering just above his brow, but other than that he seems unharmed. 'We should go,' he says to Ethen.

      Adria is leaning on him, thankfully looking a little less in pain. They must have given her some meds. She sees me and gives me a bloody thumbs up, but the red stain high on her trouser leg makes me nervous for how she'll deal with the walk back. We were on our own this far into the jungle.

      Ethen nods and then does a quick headcount. 'Let's move out.'

      Luther laughs as the others start to move, incredulous and a little delirious. 'You idiots don't know what you're doing. I'm actually on your side.' He's looking at me as he says this. I narrow my eyes. A desperate attempt at bargaining.

      Ethen narrows his eyes at him. 'As if we'd let your lies poison our mission. Move!'

      A recruit passes by me with his head down. He freezes when I hold out my hand to stop him.

      'Ma'am,' he squeaks.

      'Don't miss again.' I tell him, quietly. 'If I have to compensate for your mistake again, you're out of the Academy, understood?'

      His face pales and he manages a nod. 'Yes, Ma'am.'

      'Good,' I say. I follow behind Ethen out of the camp. The team is silent as we walk past the other fallen targets, but I can still hear Luther as they shove him forward. I don't know why I thought he'd recognise me; why those moments at the Battle of the Black Forest would be anything significant to him. I shake my head slightly. It didn't matter now, of course. He's a prisoner of Aether; his days are already numbered.

      Luther's muttering to himself — he really did hit his head hard when he went down — and I pretend I don't notice, but I still catch some of his feverish words.

      'I'm not the one swimming in poison,' he's saying and for some reason, I feel my skin crawl. 'You were all born sick, and nothing I say can cure you.'