Chapter 9
Nine
Fieran stood at attention in the crisp row of recruits. It took all his concentration not to bounce on his toes like he was a little kid with a handful of his favorite candy.
They were lined up to one side of the large hangar that sheltered the base's flyers. The biplanes were constructed of a wooden fuselage, the wings formed of a frame of wood and stretched with canvas. A layer of paint coated all surfaces while the wings were emblazoned with the red, gray, and green circle that was the symbol of the joint Alliance Flying Corps. Each of those aeroplanes was fueled by a magical power cell containing either Dacha's, Fieran's, Adry's, or Louise's magic.
But it wasn't the flyers—or only the flyers—that had him struggling to keep the grin off his face that would earn another round of physical training or PT.
It was the man striding back and forth before the lines of recruits, his hair threaded with a few strands of gray while deep lines on his face gave him the appearance of being an older man than he was. While he was only in his mid-forties, he was one of the few pilots from the early days of flight who had lived to even see his fortieth birthday. Most had crashed and died long before then. Still, he was muscular and had that dashing hero look of a pilot with a leather jacket, silk scarf, and goggles perched on his forehead.
Of course he looked the part of a dashing hero. He was Joe Arfeld, an early Escarlish pioneer of flight. A true legend. It was all Fieran could do to stay where he was and not march over there and beg to shake his hand.
Though Joe Arfeld was now a captain in the army's Flying Corps. Fieran could settle for saluting him instead.
Capt. Arfeld swept his sharp blue gaze over the line of recruits. "Over the next weeks, you will study aeroplanes, the physics of flight, air navigation, weather patterns, and much more. This is not just busywork. Once we are in the air, there is no room for error. You will die. I will die. And I have no intention of dying anytime soon. So you will learn well, or you won't be allowed to so much as sit in a cockpit."
Fieran swallowed. The last thing he wanted to do was kill off one of his heroes. Odds were, Fieran would probably survive a mild crash, thanks to his magic and being half elf. But Capt. Arfeld was human and thus far more breakable.
To one side of the large hangar, a large man in green coveralls was leading around a group of men, also dressed in coveralls.
Except that one of the men was tiny…and definitely not a man. Fieran couldn't get a good look at the girl out of the corner of his eye, and he couldn't turn his head without the nearby sergeant noticing.
Moments later, the group disappeared behind one of the rows of flyers.
"Red, are you listening?" The sergeant was suddenly there, right in Fieran's face. "Drop and give me fifty."
So much for the sergeant not noticing. Fieran bit back a sigh, dropped to the floor, and started in on the fifty push-ups. At least fifty wasn't too many compared to the amount Fieran normally had to do.
Capt. Arfeld cleared his throat, then continued with his speech about the various flyers and engines housed here in the aerodrome at Fort Linder.
Once Fieran was finished, he joined the rest of his unit as they marched into a small room off to the side.
A lieutenant stood at the head of the room and began a lecture on the basics of flight.
Fieran settled into the desk, his legs scrunched to fit, his knees hitting a bar at the front. Time to dust off his old university habits. It had taken some practice to sit still and pay attention in classes, even if he was smart enough that tests weren't hard, if he devoted some focus during class.
But the daily class times to learn about flight were going to be far harder than all the physical training, drills, push-ups, and whatever else the army would throw at him.
Pip pushedone of the rolling ladders up to the fuselage of one of the T-05 Soarwing biplane flyers that were a favorite among the Escarlish pilots. After climbing the ladder, she opened the hatch to the engine, lifting it up and out of the way.
A male mechanic with longer arms would've had no trouble reaching into the engine compartment from the ladder. But she had to basically stick her whole upper torso inside to reach some of the parts of the engine to inspect it, her feet losing contact with the ladder in a way that left her rear end sticking up into the air.
She was sure to get a few wolf whistles, mostly from the pilots-in-training who spent a chunk of every afternoon in the hangar. At least her fellow mechanics no longer pulled such shenanigans around her. She'd proven herself over the previous two weeks at Fort Linder.
The head mechanic here believed in hands-on learning, so after only a week in the classroom with schematics, he'd turned them loose in the hangar, though he checked their work before the aeroplanes took to the sky.
While Pip had proven her skills—the switch from trains to aeroplanes hadn't been all that difficult—she wasn't particularly close with her fellow mechanics here at Fort Linder. She recognized a few of them from her Hanford University days, but that was about it. She'd been the odd one out at Hanford—the only female mechanic, the only half-dwarf. And she was just as odd here.
Reaching into the engine, Pip checked each of the parts, from the magical power cell to the propeller shaft.
As she suspected. It was the wiring harness that tended to burn out under the force of the magic of the ancient kings. An easy fix, at least.
She pulled out her 3/8th-inch drive socket wrench, then worked her hand under the buttoned flap of one of her cargo pockets, searching through her sockets by feel. With her magic, she had marked each socket so she could find the correct one by feel instead of manually checking the numbers etched on each one.
When she found the correct one, she wiggled her hand out of her pocket. Clicking the socket into place, she removed the four bolts on each of the corners of the hatch on the side of the engine housing. For most mechanics, they would've had to take off the magical power cell housing to get at the last bolt, but with her small hands and thin wrists, she could wiggle her hands into the space and do it without the extra work.
As she removed the final bolt, footsteps clunked closer, then halted beside the aeroplane.
Must be one of the pilots-in-training. One of her fellow mechanics would have called out to her.
She suppressed a sigh. She might as well head off the wolf whistle or lewd comment. "You had better not be gawking at my rear end."
"Of course not. My parents taught me to keep my hands, eyes, and inappropriate comments to myself." The baritone male voice held a note of easy, congenial laughter. He spoke in Escarlish—as she did—though his voice didn't have the elvish accent that hers did.
"You have rare parents." Pip ratcheted the wrench with small movements. "Not everyone teaches their children such basic manners."
"My parents are more rare than you know." His voice had a droll tone, as if in some joke, though she wasn't sure what it was. When he spoke again, some of the laughter faded into something almost sheepish. "Though, um, I have to confess I looked. Just now. Sorry."
Apologies instead of whistles? That was a new one. She wiggled her hand free of its tight confines, going carefully so that she didn't drop the bolt or the cover for the terminal. "At least you're an honest flyboy."
"How do you know I'm one of the flyboys? You're still head-down in an engine." That baritone voice was back to light-hearted again.
"You sound slightly arrogant." After setting the bolt and the terminal cover on top of the engine housing, she wiggled her hand into the tight space again to disconnect the end of the wiring harness that connected the terminal on the engine housing with the magical power cell. "All flyboys are slightly arrogant. It's just a fact."
He laughed. A genuine, open-hearted kind of laugh. "Very true. Yes, you're correct. I'm a flyboy. And based on how much extra PT I've received, the drill sergeants are very convinced I'm arrogant."
She laughed as she disconnected the wiring harness from the magical power cell housing. Her laughter quickly died. She hadn't grabbed new wires before climbing up here. She'd have to wiggle her way down, always nerve-wracking since right now she couldn't see if the ladder was still directly beneath her feet.
Setting aside her socket wrench, she gripped the side of the fuselage and began to squirm, reaching with her toes for the ladder.
The flyboy's voice drew closer. "Can I fetch something for you?"
She paused. He was a flyboy. He wouldn't know what she needed. But what was the harm in seeing if he could figure it out? "Probably not. Unless you can tell the difference between gauges of wire?"
"Ah, I see." The flyboy almost sounded like he did, indeed, understand. "That flyer has the latest Dymman engine. The wiring harness burned out, didn't it?"
Pip froze, her middle aching from hanging over the fuselage at her waist. "How would you know that? I didn't think the flyboys learned more about the engines than what gauges to watch in the cockpit."
"Let's just say I've had more experience with a variety of engines than most." The flyboy gave that easy laugh again. Despite her calling him arrogant earlier, he said this last bit almost self-consciously instead of arrogantly. "Wait there a moment, and I'll fetch a new wiring harness for you."
While she waited, Pip checked a few of the other pieces of the engine. Calling up her magic, she reinforced the metal.
The footsteps returned, quicker and lighter than she would have expected. "I'm coming up the ladder behind you, just so you know."
A creak of wood came from the ladder, then she could sense the warmth of someone at her back. An arm clad in basic army green reached into her view, holding out a bundle of wires in long, slim fingers.
"Thanks." She took the wire from him, comparing it with the wires she'd taken off. Not only was it formed of the right gauges, but it was correctly bundled together and so close to the right length that this flyboy must have worked with Dymman engines before.
"Here. I wasn't sure if you'd have the right pliers in your belt." The hand came into view again, this time holding the large combo pliers and wire cutter.
She did, but it was all the way on the wrong side of her belt in a place that she'd have to squirm around awkwardly to try to reach.
"Thanks again." Pip took the pliers from him. "Could you fetch—"
"A torque wrench for the bolts?" he finished for her. Strangely, the interruption didn't feel rude. Instead, it felt like he was too eager to help and couldn't stop himself from interrupting. The kind of interruption experienced between friends or family who were comfortable with each other.
"Yes, that would be great." She set to work with the pliers, swapping the connecting ends from the old wiring harness to the new one. While she was at it, she called up her iron magic and sent it over the wires to reinforce them.
By the time she had the wiring harness in place, the flyboy had returned and was holding out the correct torque wrench to her. The thin wire and dial on the bottom of the wrench measured the amount of pressure she put on the bolts.
As the flyboy retreated to the ground, she torqued the bolts holding the wiring harness into place, then replaced the terminal covers and wrenched the bolts down.
As she finished, she gathered her tools and stowed them back in her toolbelt and pocket. After one last check that she hadn't left anything undone or any tools in the engine, she squirmed again to lower herself out of the engine, feeling with her toes for the ladder.
The ladder creaked again, then the flyboy's voice came from beside the aeroplane. "The ladder is about three inches directly below your feet. I'm holding it steady."
"Thanks." She shook her head, even as she was glad for the extra reassurance that the ladder was beneath her. "I've done this loads of times before. You get good at scrambling over stuff when you're as short as I am."
Once free of the fuselage, Pip straightened, her head whirling slightly. Her feet tingled as blood flowed better into her toes once again.
Now that she stood on the semi-solid though wiggling step, the flyboy let go of the ladder, stepping back before she caught a glimpse of more of him than his short-cropped, red hair.
Within moments, Pip had the hatch in the fuselage latched back in place, and she quickly climbed down the ladder.
As her feet hit the ground, she turned around and got her first good look at the mechanically inclined flyboy.
He was at least a foot taller than her with that rangy, slim build often found among elves. He even had pointed ears, hinting at some kind of elven heritage despite his presence here on an Escarlish aerodrome. He had the most brilliant red hair she'd ever seen, and the red of his hair only seemed to highlight his bright blue eyes. A hint of a smirk played around the corners of his mouth.
Aw, man. She had such a thing for tall, skinny guys. She didn't know why. Perhaps it was her elven heritage. Or maybe, she was just a short girl with a thing for guys who were tall enough to get items off the top shelf.
Even worse, this handsome, red-haired elf with laughing eyes and chiseled features had a hint of freckles across his nose, stark against his pale skin. Freckles! How could she not get a little flutter at the freckles?
Fieran facedthe tiny female mechanic he'd been slightly flirting with for the past few minutes. He'd seen her at a distance several times over the last two weeks. But she was far cuter up close. Her dark brown hair was currently knotted up in something of a messy bun, but the tendrils that fell free spiraled in curls. Her skin was a warm light bronze while her eyes were the kind of dark chocolate that made a man want to lose himself in her gaze. The points of her ears were just visible through her hair, so she wasn't a human. Perhaps half-human since Fieran had never seen an elf that short.
Even with grease smeared across her cheeks and wearing coveralls—or perhaps because of the grease and coveralls—she was adorable.
As he swept a glance over her, a smile pursed her mouth as she took him in. She stuck out a hand. "I'm Pippak Detmuk-Inawenys. But that's a mouthful, so most people just call me Pip."
Pip. An adorable little name for an adorable little mechanic.
Fieran shook her hand, impressed at the way her grip was strong and firm. Nothing shirking or retiring about her, despite her size.
Yet as he opened his mouth, his stomach sank. Proud as he was to be his dacha's son, he hated watching the reactions in people's eyes when he introduced himself.
"I'm Fieran." He swallowed. As much as he wished he could, he couldn't leave off his last name. She'd find out eventually. "Laesornysh."
"Laesornysh?" Her eyes lit, and her voice went up. "The son of Prince Farrendel Laesornysh?"
Ugh. She'd said his dacha's name in that way. The octave higher, voice-squeaking way that suggested she was one breath away from breaking into a squeal.
Great. It was even worse than he'd feared.
Bracing himself, Fieran forced out the word. "Yes."
This time, she gave a slight squeal, her hands over her mouth. She spoke rapidly behind her fingers, as if the words were popping out without her permission. "I have his poster on my wall at home!" Her hands clapped harder over her mouth, as if she couldn't believe she'd just said that.
Oh. Oh, no. It was much, much worse. This adorable mechanic had one of those posters on her wall. One with his shirtless dacha lounging in a sexy way.
Well, so much for flirting with her. He would never flirt with anyone who had a pin up poster of his dacha.
Fieran's ears burned. He edged backwards. "Um, well, I probably should…"
Pip's face flushed, and she flapped her hands as if she didn't know what to do with them. "I didn't mean to say that. It isn't as weird as it sounds. I dreamed of going to Hanford University just like he did, and he was the first elf to do so, and I put up that recruiting poster as motivation and…" She dropped her face into her hands. "Ugh. I sound like a stalker. I promise, I'm not stalking your dacha."
Fieran released a breath, some of the urge to run fading. She didn't have one of those posters. She was talking about one of the Hanford University recruitment posters. Dacha had posed for one of those decades ago—fully clothed, thank you very much—with goggles on his forehead, magic lacing around one hand, and a textbook in the other hand. The result had been an unusually high number of elven university students—and female students—in the next few years after that marketing campaign.
"I don't think that…well, for a moment…" Fieran shook his head and forced a smile back onto his face. "He's my dacha, you know? He's just normal to me. But he's not normal to everyone else, and that's…weird."
"Sorry." Pip's smile was lopsided. "If you hadn't guessed, he's my childhood hero."
"Understandable. He's a hero to a lot of people." Fieran nodded, working to keep his smile in place. As cute as she was, he probably wouldn't flirt with her again.
But he could be friendly with her. If he ignored everyone who looked up to his dacha as a hero, then Merrik would be his only friend in the world. And Merrik only didn't see Dacha as his hero because he saw him as an adopted uncle.
Come to think of it, Merrik had been his only friend until he'd met Lije and the others in the barracks. The whole famous parents thing made finding genuine friends rather difficult.
Her eyes cleared a bit from the hero-worship haze. "Oh, that's why you knew so much about the engine."
A slight topic shift. He could work with that. Fieran gestured around them. "I work—well, worked—for AMPC, so I've done a lot of testing on all kinds of engines, including these most recent Dymman models. Not to mention that my magic is in the power cells in about a third of the flyers around us." Fieran pointed to the aeroplane she had been working on. "Not that one. My dacha's power is in that one. But mine is in that one. And that one." He waved to two of the nearby aeroplanes.
He wasn't boasting. Well, okay. Maybe he was boasting a little bit. But she was a mechanic who dreamed about going to Hanford University so much that she tacked a poster of his dacha on the wall as motivation. She'd find the fact that he could tell whose magic was in which aeroplanes fascinating.
As he'd expected, her eyes took on a gleam as she glanced around at the aeroplanes. "That's really interesting." She turned back to him, cocking her head as if she was now studying a piece of machinery instead of a man. "I've always just worked with the magical power cells. It makes it easy to forget there's actual people's magic in there."
Fieran raised his hand, then let a tendril of his magic loose from that tight control he always kept on it. After two weeks of holding his magic in check without the daily release of morning practice with his dacha, his magic flared bright and blue, crackling as it twined around his fingers and up his arm. Something almost like relief flowed through him, as if he'd been in pain and hadn't even realized it from holding his magic back for so long.
Pip's eyes widened, her mouth falling open. "Oh, wow. That's…so neat. I never expected to see the magic of the ancient kings in person. Does it feel different than normal magic when you wield it?"
"I wouldn't know. It's my magic, so it just feels normal to me." Fieran let his magic play around his hand and arm before he, reluctantly, suppressed his magic again, locking it once again into the iron control his dacha had drilled into him over years and years of practice.
"I guess that makes sense." Pip held out her hand. A shimmer of some kind of silvery magic glowed around her fingers. But it didn't look like the gray stone magic Aunt Vriska wielded. Or any other stone magic he'd seen over the years. Pip glanced up, meeting his gaze and smiling. "I have an unusual form of iron magic. It just feels normal to me too."
"Iron magic? I've never heard of an elf with iron magic." Fieran crossed his arms, wishing there was a wall nearby so he could lounge nonchalantly.
"Half-elf. And half-dwarf." She gestured to herself, her smile tipping as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
She probably did. Being half-dwarf explained her height and her magic. "I was guessing you were half-human like me. You have a good grasp of Escarlish."
"I had to learn it to go to Hanford University." Pip fiddled with one of the wrenches tucked in her tool belt. "Not to mention that Escarlish has become the language of trade among many of the human kingdoms. My family runs the far western rail terminal in Tarenhiel, so we interact with some of the Afristani tribes on the other side of the river. Many of them have begun learning some Escarlish since that's easier than elvish."
Fieran opened his mouth, but tromping boots behind him had him straightening.
"Red, are you bothering this mechanic?" the sergeant's voice barked from behind him.
"No, Drill Sergeant." Fieran kept his gaze straight ahead.
"He really isn't bothering me," Pip added, stepping closer.
Her defense didn't matter. The sergeant shouted, "Put your face to the floor and give me a hundred."
More push-ups. He was going to have the arms of a gorilla at this rate.
At least with Pip standing there, Fieran could take the opportunity to show off a bit. He might not want to flirt with her more than that, but showing off was still always acceptable.