“You’re dumber than you look,” she says.
“You might not believe in our rebellion. But I saw Tactus change before his future was robbed from him. I’ve seen Ragnar forget his bonds and reach for what he wants in this world. I’ve seen Sevro become a man. I’ve seen myself change. I truly do believe we choose who we want to be in this life. It isn’t preordained. You taught me loyalty, more than Mustang, more than Roque. And because of that, I believe in you, Victra. As much as I’ve ever believed in anyone.” I hold out my hand. “Be my family and I will never forsake you. I will never lie to you. I will be your brother as long as you live.”
Startled by the emotion in my voice, the cold woman stares up at me. Those defenses she erected forgotten now. In another life we might have been a pair. Might have had that fire I feel for Mustang, for Eo. But not in this life.
Victra does not soften. Does not crumble to tears. There’s still rage inside her. Still raw hate and so much betrayal and frustration and loss coiled around her icy heart. But in this moment, she is free of it all. In this moment, she reaches solemnly up to grasp my hand. And I feel the hope flicker in me.
“Welcome to the Sons of Ares.”
“It’s gorydamn infuriating being kept in the dark,” Victra mutters as she helps me rack the weights on the bench press. The sound echoes through the stone gymnasium. It’s bare bones in here. Metal weights. Rubber tires. Ropes. And months of my sweat.
“Don’t they know who you are?” I say, sitting up.
“Oh, shut up. Didn’t you found the Howlers? Don’t you have any say over how they treat us?” She nudges me off the bench to take my spot, laying her spine on the padded surface and pushing her arms up to grip the barbell. I take a few weights off. But she glares at me and I put them back on as she fixes her grip.
“Technically, no,” I say.
“Oh. But seriously: what’s a girl got to do to get a wolfcloak?” Her powerful arms thrust the bar up off from its rack, moving it up and down as she talks. Nearly three hundred kilos. “I shot a Legate in the head two missions ago. A Legate! I’ve seen your Howlers. Aside from…Ragnar, they’re tiny. They need…more heavies if they want to…take on Adrius’s Boneriders or the Sovereign’s…Praetorians.” She grits her teeth as she finishes her last repetition, racking the bar without my help, and standing to point to herself in the mirror. Hers is a powerful, laconic form. Shoulders broad and swaying with a haughty walk. “I’m a perfect physical specimen, on and off my feet. Not using me is an indictment on Sevro’s intelligence.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s probably your lack of self-confidence he’s worried about.”
She throws a towel at me. “You’re as annoying as he is. Swear to Jove if he says one more thing about my ‘nascent poverty’ I’m going to cut his head off with a gorydamn spoon.” I watch her for a moment, trying not to laugh. “What, you have something to say as well?”
“Not a thing, my goodlady,” I say, holding up my hands. Her eyes linger on them instinctively. “Squats next?”
The ramshackle gymnasium has been our second home since Mickey Carved us. It was weeks of recovery in his ward as her nerves remembered how to walk and both of us tried to put on weight again under the supervision of Dr. Virany. A gaggle of Reds and a Green watch us from the corner of the gym. Even after two months, the novelty hasn’t worn off seeing how much two chemically and genetically enhanced Peerless Scarred can lift.
Ragnar came in to embarrass us a couple weeks back. Brute didn’t even say a word. Just started piling weights onto a barbell till no more would fit, power-cleaned it, and then gestured for us to do the same. Victra couldn’t even get the weight off the ground. I got as far as my knees. Then we had to listen to the hundred idiots who flocked after him chant his name for an hour. Found out afterward Uncle Narol had been overseeing bets on how much more Ragnar could lift than I. Even my own uncle bet against me. But it’s a good sign, even if the others don’t think of it this way. Gold can’t win everything.
It was with Mickey and Dr. Virany’s help that Victra and I regained control of our bodies. But regaining our sense in the field has taken just as long. We started with baby steps. Our first mission out together was a supply run with Holiday and a dozen bodyguards, not for the supply run itself, but for me. We didn’t do it with the Howlers. “Gotta work your way up to the A squad, Reap. Make sure you can keep up,” Sevro said, patting my face. “And Julii has to prove herself.” She slapped his hand when he tried petting her.
Ten supply runs, two sabotage missions, and three assassinations later Sevro was finally convinced that Holiday, Victra, and I were ready to run with the B squad: the Pitvipers, led by my own Uncle Narol—who has become a bit of a cult hero to the Reds here. Ragnar’s a godlike creature. But my uncle is just a rough old man who drinks too much, smokes too much, and is uncommonly good at war. His Pitvipers are a motley collection of hardasses specializing in sabotage and thievery, about half are ex Helldivers, the rest are a spattering of other useful lowColors. We’ve completed three missions with them, destroying a barracks and several Legion communications installations, but I can’t shake the feeling we’re a snake eating our own tail. Every bombing is twisted by the Society media. Every pinprick of damage we do seems only to bring more Legions from Agea to the mines or the smaller cities of Mars.
I feel hunted.
Worse, I feel like a terrorist. I’ve only ever felt this way once before, and that was with a bomb on my chest walking into the gala on Luna.
Dancer and Theodora have been pressing Sevro to reach out to more allies. Trying to bridge the gap between the Sons and other factions. Reluctantly, Sevro agreed. So earlier this week, the Pitvipers and I were dispatched from the tunnels to the northern continent of Arabia Terra, where the Red Legion had carved themselves a stronghold in the port city of Ismenia. It was Dancer’s hope I could bring them into the fold in a way Sevro hadn’t been able to, maybe pull them away from Harmony’s influence. But instead of finding allies, we found a mass grave. A gray, bombed-out city shelled from orbit. I can still see that pale bloated mass of bodies writhing on the coastline. Crabs skittering over the corpses, making meals of the dead, as a lone ribbon of smoke twirled and twirled up to the stars, the old soundless echo of war.
I’m haunted by the sight, but Victra seems to have moved past it as she plows through her workout. She’s pushed it to that vast vault in the back of her mind where she compresses and locks away all the evil she’s seen, all the pain she’s felt. I wish I were more like her. I wish I felt less and was less afraid. But as I recall that ribbon of smoke, all I can think is that it presages something worse. As if the Universe is showing us a glimpse of the end we’re rushing toward.
It’s late night and the mirrors have fogged with condensation when we’re done with our workout. We wash up in the showers, talking over the plastic dividers. “Take it as a sign of progress,” I say. “At least she’s speaking to you.”
“No. Your mother hates me. She’ll always hate me. Not a damn thing I can do about it.”
“Well, you could try being more polite.”
“I’m perfectly polite,” Victra says in offense, turning off her shower and exiting the stall. Eyes closed against the water, I finish shampooing my hair, expecting her to say more. She doesn’t, so I finish rinsing the shampoo out and exit the stall when I’m done. I feel something’s amiss the moment before I see Victra naked on the floor, hands and legs hogtied behind her back. A hood over her head. Something moves behind me. I whirl around just in time to see a half dozen ghostCloaks slipping through the steam. Then someone inhumanly strong slams into me from behind, wrapping their arms around mine, pinning them to my sides. I feel their breath on my neck. Terror screams through me. The Jackal’s found us. He’s snuck in. How? “Golds!” I shout. “Golds!” I’m slick from the shower. The floor is slippery. I use it to my advantage, wriggling against my attacker’s arms like an eel and lashing back with my head in his face. There’s a grunt. I twist again, feet slip. I fall. Smacking my knee on the concrete floor. Scramble to my feet. Feel two attackers rushing me from the left. Cloaked. I duck under one, putting my shoulder into his knees. He catapults over my head and smashes through the plastic barriers that divide the shower behind me. I grab the other by the throat, blocking a punch, and throw him into the ceiling. Another slams into me from the side, prying at my leg with his hands to take my balance. I go with it, jumping in the air, twisting my body in a Kravat move that steals his center of gravity and puts us both on the ground, his head between my thighs. All I need do is twist and his neck breaks. But two more sets of hands are on me, thumping me in the face, more are on my legs. GhostCloaks rippling in the vapor. I’m screaming and thrashing and spitting, but there are too many, and they’re nasty, punching the tendons behind my knees so I can’t kick and the nerves in my shoulders so my arms feel heavy as lead. They shove a hood over my head and bind my hands behind my back. I lay there motionless, terrified, panting.