Bellara scoffs. “You’re right,” she admits. “But you’re also wrong.” She looks at her fingertips showing through the ends of frayed wool gloves. “I want to create something wondrous. I want to dazzle. I want to make people smile. I don’t want to just hide or distract.”
“Perhaps,” I say, wondering if she’s been considering the same offers of amnesty from the enemy, “that is the better tomorrow we fight for.”
“Then why am I forbidden from doing so now?”
“Because you have to save your strength.”
Bellara sighs. “If we allow ourselves no happiness, and we win the war tomorrow, then what have we fought for? We will be a bleak generation on a broken world, and we will never know joy again.”
The proclamation seems incredibly poetic from someone her age, though she’s only a couple years younger than me.
“Don’t you want to dance?” she asks.
“I don’t know how,” I respond. My mother used to dance when she made bread, but that was a long time ago.
“Is there anyone left to teach you?”
“I don’t know.”
Bellara spreads her hands, as if to indicate the futility of it all. “I would like to dance,” she says. “I would like to create light shows that make children and adults laugh. But no one ever taught me, so if this war ever ends I will be forced to teach myself, and then to convince everyone else that it is no longer taboo.” She speaks as if it’s a burden that has been placed upon her. Her face is set, stubborn.
I open my mouth to assure her that someday the war will end and she will find someone to teach her. It’s a happy lie, as these things go. But a change in the air stops me, and I tilt my head to listen. I shift, crawling out of the cave.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
I point at my ear. “Single engine, flying low.”
Bellara’s face lights up instantly. “Rodrigo!”
She scrambles down the slope back into the canyon, then around the edge of the mountain. I follow more carefully, then run to catch up when I get on level ground.
The plains to the northeast of our canyon are uneven and spotted with scrub. Narrow gullies dot the landscape, and anyone flying overhead would be hard-pressed to find a proper landing spot within a hundred miles.
The illusion, Bellara explained to me once, was easy to set and maintain. She used her sorcery to mimic a patch of land to our west. Throw in a bit of variance, and no one would ever suspect a runway out here in the middle of nowhere.
Even though I know it is there, I’m not able to spot the runway until I am actually on it. Scrubland turns to old, broken concrete beneath my feet, and forty paces later I see a shimmer of the light. Benny emerges from the morning haze. She is an old red and gray fighter, rusted and worn. Her engine smokes and whirrs, her propeller looking choppy. There are a few new bullet holes in her wings.
Rodrigo is a small man, not much bigger than his sister. He has olive skin and a frail-looking body, but he is all sinew and muscle like a piece of old leather. He wears a big grin as he climbs down and embraces his sister, and then grabs me and kisses me on both cheeks in greeting.
I look upon Rodrigo’s love of flying and his passion for life and realize that my conversation with Bellara was anything but surprising. The urge to perform, it seems, is in their blood.
“Teado!” he says. “I have news. We’ll take it to the commander.”
“Did you bring back any food?” I try to ask, but I’m cut off by Bellara, who points at the bullet holes in his wings.
“What happened?” she demands.
Rodrigo dismisses her concern with a gesture. “Close call. Some asshole shooting in the air. Nothing to be worried about. Your illusions held well, my sister. I got in and out of Bava.” He makes a kissing gesture to his fingers, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “I was only held up because the garrison captain was waiting for intelligence. Which I have!”
“We could hear you coming in,” I tell him.
They both look at me, and comprehension slowly dawns on their faces. Bellara’s illusions did not hold. The enemy couldn’t see him, but they could hear him. They hadn’t been shooting randomly.
Bellara’s face turns ashen. “Rod…”
“Shh!” Rodrigo says, putting a finger to her lips. “It’s fine. I survived, didn’t I? What’s war without a little risk? Besides, I’m back and I have news!”
“What kind of news?” I ask.
“Intelligence!”
“What kind of intelligence?”
Rodrigo is evasive the entire way back to camp. Bellara hangs back. I want to comfort her, to tell her we all make little mistakes, but I am too concerned with whatever Rodrigo is holding near his chest.
We interrupt the commander and Aleta, and within moments the whole platoon assembles. We sit on empty supply crates and rocks, or crouch in the dust, Rodrigo, Aleta, Bellara, the commander, and me in the middle.
“I have news,” Rodrigo repeats to the commander. His face is stretched in a clever smile, his eyes alight. Rodrigo is one of those loveable fools who lives on the edge between life and death, and I can tell that flying in and out of Bava and being shot at has given him new energy.
Giado chews on the stub end of a cigar that is more mush than paper and tobacco. “Food,” he says bluntly.
Rodrigo opens his mouth, looks around at the gathered faces, then leans into the commander. Only those of us closest can hear him. “I brought back ammunition and gas,” he says. “Condoms and some newspapers.”
“No food?” Giado asks, clearly stricken.
“Two tins of biscuits. Headquarters is straining. It’s all they could part with.”
The commander visibly struggles to keep his temper in check. “They could spare us bullets and condoms, but no food?” he says in a low voice.
Rodrigo’s smile has disappeared. Aleta gets up from her seat to hover, as if ready to swoop in and keep Giado from attacking our pilot. We all know that Rodrigo is simply the bearer of bad news, but the commander has gotten more bad news than any of us these last few weeks, and is clearly at the end of his rope.
Rodrigo hurries on. “There is good news, though. They’ve given us intel on the enemy.”
“Who cares,” the commander asks, “if we are all too weak to attack them?”
I reach over and put a hand on Giado’s shoulder. He does not look at me, but slumps in his camp chair, tired and angry. “What’s the intel?” I ask.
Rodrigo speaks up so that the rest of the crew can hear him. “We’ve got a target. The enemy has plans for a new air base closer to Bava.”
“That doesn’t sound like good news,” I say.
Rodrigo holds up a finger. “Maybe not for Bava, but it is for us.” He scoots his makeshift seat back and draws in the dust, though only Aleta and I are able to crane our heads to see. “Here is Bava.” He indicates a rock. “Here is the enemy’s current air base.” He draws a line in the sand. “And here is the new one. They’ve already sent their engineers ahead and have an operational runway cleared. They will begin moving supplies tomorrow at dawn, and the first three cargo planes will be nothing but food.”
I stare at his map. The new air base is farther from the mountains, making it harder for us to hit and run. But it also means their new air supply path is closer to our runway than it’s ever been before, and well out of reach of their normal patrols. I see Rodrigo’s point immediately—their cargo planes will be exposed.
There is an audible silence throughout the platoon. Aleta bites her bottom lip. People grin at each other. Even the commander leans forward, his interest piqued.
“You’re suggesting an air drop?” Giado asks.