Chapter 15: Bringing Down the Eagle

“What about me?” 329 whispers. “Which room do I belong in?”

“You can go into any room you’d like,” answers E-029.

The AI is advanced enough to wear a nearly sincere expression to comfort a prisoner, but its mechanical brain isn’t human enough to understand the self-mockery in 329’s words. This room is used for archiving records. That room is used for storing artifacts. These relics are stored so methodically; where, then, should the Commander’s remains go? He has no way of getting an answer from the virtual butler, never mind empathy: it might look more like the “Commander” than he does, but it doesn’t even qualify as a ghost of the past. It’s only a knockoff.

“Does she fuck you?” 329 asks suddenly.

“No, my physical setup is unsuited to sexual activity.” E-029 thoughtfully adds, “If you’re referring to ‘my simulated form,’ then yes, Lady Yasha has indeed repeatedly engaged in sexual data troubleshooting with this form in a sim environment.”

My simulated form ? Spoken as if that face belongs to the AI itself, and not the man who’d died before his time. His wording inflames 329’s heart like a splash of industrial acid. But in comparison, another part of that sentence calls even more attention.

“Data?” 329 repeats.

“Your data.”

It takes 329 a few moments to realize what this means.

A simulator can model almost anything. Yasha has abundant practice at learning within a realistic sim environment. This sort of luxury is easily obtainable to the powerful, whether the practice sim is of the sky and aviation, or the bed and the aviator. A sim environment can provide enough practice in a few months to turn a fifteen-year-old virgin into an old hand.

There were never other lovers.

There was never anyone else, 329 realizes. With that kind of ‘targeted practice’, Yasha doesn’t need to be a Casanova to master him effortlessly. In the days where she didn’t visit, she’d never truly left him.

What does she want, anyway? Is she trying to achieve a full score off his body? 329 is so stunned he’s laughing. He suspects he’s going as crazy as this room. Shock, alarm, confusion, and a dozen other emotions clash together and end up as strained laughter. He’s almost tickled by this farce. Compared to everything he’s seen in his room, the alpha’s deep dive into sexual intercourse isn’t actually that horrifying. But this kid really, truly needs to see a shrink.

“Do they even know each other?” says 329. “My data isn’t yours, or Eden’s…”

“You are Eden Mitchell himself,” the virtual butler reminds him.

“Not the Commander’s,” 329 repeats, emphasizing his meaning. “You aren’t talking about Commander Eden from however many years ago, because you don’t have his data, right? She never fucked Commander Eden…god, had she even presented then? Have they ever even met?”

“That depends on your definition of meeting,” says the butler.

“Don’t play word games with me! I mean in person, face to face!” says 329.

“No.”

329 laughs aloud.

“But they were once four thousand meters apart,” the butler disputes.

To explain this point, it plays a recording for 329.

Four thousand meters in the air, the sky over the Protected Area is a haze of smoke and gunfire. The Steel Battalion covers the sky and blots out the sun in its net; strangely-shaped antiquated planes weave between them, like flying needles, like fearless fireflies. Four thousand meters below, cutting-edge technology conceals the Consul’s residence. He paces back and forth, his face thunderous. Assassins and common rabble haven’t gotten this close in over half a century; their shadows darken the head of the supreme power in the land, the greatest of transgressions. Who could have thought that the rebel army’s antiquated flyers would hold their own against the Protected Area’s iron fleet.

Four thousand meters above, the legend of the rebel army pilots his Eagle No. 27. Its cry shakes the clouds, and the head of the statue of the Consul falls with it. The mob cheers raggedly; soon, the waves of sound merge into one, clearly audible.

“Mitchell! Mitchell! Mitchell!”

The sound transmits four thousand meters below through the surveillance devices, as if their shouts are resounding through the Protected Area, piercing the countless layers of defense around the command center unabated. The sound makes the generals go pale, makes the Consul go livid. He curses the army for its uselessness, his gaze fixed on the plane cutting across the screen like a swimming fish as lasers and bullets weave a net around it. The chassis is covered in crisscrossing grazes, none of them fatal; they seem more like the medals of the ever-victorious general.

And then, as if in response to the Consul’s command, a missile strikes the Eagle.

Black smoke pours from Eagle No. 27. The undefeated legend plunges from the sky. The Consul’s face shows pleasure—then fury: the pilot ejects from the disintegrating chassis, his escape pod launched toward the slums. The mobs have destroyed the surveillance system there; if Mitchell makes it, it’s akin to letting a tiger back into his mountain.

“Who?” The Consul roars. “Who swapped out the pulse missile?”

His elite corps have turned out in force, all of them equipped with highly destructive pulse missiles that never leave survivors, let alone opportunities to escape. The Protected Area’s higher ranks have long since given up on capturing the leader of the rebel army alive; they now only seek to eliminate this thorn in their side. What pilot would dare swap out the deadly ammunition of their own initiative?

“I did!”

Incredibly, someone confesses.

One of the control pods in the command center swings open. A petite girl jumps out. She takes her helmet, revealing a head of red hair identical to the Consul’s. The recording can’t be from more than a few years ago; Yasha looks almost the same as she does now, only even more pampered and childlike. “I got him! Papa!” she whoops as if she has the whole place to herself. “I swapped in a tracking missile! The tracker’s still on him!”

Everyone outside the control pod is staring, stunned beyond words. It’s not that no one’s thought of tracking missiles; it’s just that using one requires very high accuracy and skill, running a huge risk of letting a major criminal get away. But no one dares to let their embarrassment turn to anger. No one who can make it high enough up the ranks to be here is an idiot; even if she snuck into the command center, joined this operation against all regulation, and swapped out the missile, who would dare say a word against the Consul’s precious youngest daughter?

The Consul’s expression relents slightly, partly because it’s his daughter, but more so because of her words. He asks urgently, “What’s the tracking number?”

“I set it myself. No one can guess it if I don’t tell,” the girl says proudly.

“Don’t fool around, this is serious!” The Consul sighs.

His voice isn’t at all harsh, more like he’s trying to persuade a small child to give up her candy. Similarly, his daughter doesn’t seem to consider herself as being ordered around by the commander-in-chief. Her grin remains bright, her gaze playful. She walks over and grabs the Consul’s arm. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t give it over!” she says. “But you’ve got to promise me something. When they track him down with the number, you have to give him to me, okay?”

“What?” The Consul is taken aback.

“I don’t care about anyone else, but you have to give Eden to me, directly to me,” she says, tugging at her father’s arm and playing cute. “I shoot it down, it’s mine, you said so!”

A wrinkle of the Consul’s brow can leave a grizzled general shaking, but sadly, it has no effect on his daughter, who continues to look at him, grinning. After a few seconds, the Consul gives an impatient nod. “Very well,” he says.

Yasha smiles, showing teeth.

The recording ends here, the smile congealing on her face. The smile of a beautiful girl should be entrancing, but this one chills 329 to the bone—the smile is so wide that it almost distorts that exquisite face. Her green eyes glitter, looking directly into the camera, as if gazing out at the audience on the other side of the screen. So much joy…no, it’s ecstasy, it’s a good girl anticipating her Christmas present, it’s a fanatical believer receiving a miracle, it’s an addict salivating for her drug, it’s a predator gazing at the bloody meat about to fall into its jaws, the tip of its tongue grazing over bone-white teeth. It’s not unfamiliar, 329 realizes. It never really went away. It’s lurked behind Yasha’s eyes this entire time, dormant in every gaze she’s turned toward him.

He’s always been uneasy over Yasha’s causeless desire. He’d never thought that what she revealed was only the tip of an iceberg, already disguised and hidden through caution and reserve. Her hunger had once been so naked and razor-edged, unfettered and uninhibited, utterly fearless. She reveals it now only in glimpses during the throes of passion.

329 touches his abdomen without thinking.

The scar under his hand is the most serious on his entire body. Memories of Yasha laying kiss after kiss on it flash across his mind. So that’s why. So that’s why. It’s not only lust that motivates her. She brought down the eagle. She defeated the legend, for the last and only time. She’s his protector, and she was once his executioner. She robbed him the ability to become another’s mate or mother, then forced on him the role of lover. She kisses her masterpiece, an equal measure of tenderness and pride in her lips and tongue.

So, they were all wrong, 329 thinks. The people bitterly mourning his loss of reproductive ability were wrong. But he was also wrong, to think that his injury wouldn’t kill or cripple him. That tracking missile took Commander Eden’s life, in the end. No one could have guessed that the shard of shrapnel that remained in his body would light the way for the enemy, turning the hero into an unwitting traitor.

The commoners living in the Protected Area were too far removed from the elites. They’d never even heard of tracking missiles. When the Steel Battalion slaughtered their way into the Revolutionary Army’s main camp, everyone in it, caught unawares, perished.

This, 329 doesn’t know about. His capture and the slaughter occurred outside of surveillance range. In the past, surveillance was still insufficiently widespread; certain precious moments went unrecorded, beyond the ability of even the daughter of the Consul to collect.

The slaughter in which Eden was captured, for one. The first time Yasha saw Eden, for another.

This ‘seeing’, of course, was not in person or face to face.

At that time, the rebel army had yet to reach its heights. Their guiding star was only beginning to make a name for himself. At that time, all of Yasha’s older siblings were still alive, and she was only an ignorant little girl, sneaking into the meeting room where her father was. The atmosphere in the room was as solemn as ever, the old folks long-faced, her father, sister, and brothers frowning, everyone as dull as stone statues. Yasha pouted, looked up, and saw the man on the screen yank off his helmet, open his mouth, and tear the stagnant air asunder.

“Is this a live broadcast? Fantastic!” Hanging onto the rope ladder dangling from a civilian flyer, he shouted into the camera, “The sky should not be chained! Citizens should not be collared! Knowledge and culture belong to all of humanity! They have no right to stop us! We deserve the truth! Friends, rise up—”

“Cut the signal!” the Consul ordered.

The screen immediately went black. The room fell deafeningly silent. The somber air returned. Next, they began to discuss that new troublemaker Eden Mitchell , that accursed omega.

But in the little girl’s head, the scene hadn’t faded, that clarion voice hadn’t fallen silent. Under a hail of bullets, that man was covered in blood and filth. He truly couldn’t be called presentable-looking. He was completely lower-class. But the wind had whipped up his short golden hair. Even in the blurry shot, his blue eyes shone under his goggles. His eyes flashed with an arresting radiance. His voice blazed with an overawing flame. In that moment, Yasha didn’t know what to do. The rambunctious little girl could only stand there, feeling…feeling strange.

She’d never seen anyone like him.

It was as if a permanently drawn curtain had been yanked aside, and dazzling sunlight was shining in, making you cover your eyes even as you couldn’t resist peeking between your fingers. It was as if a hole had been blasted into a windowless tower, and a wild wind roared through the shattered stone wall, forcing you to cover your face even as you longed to breathe deep. Yasha’s mouth was dry, her skin covered in goosebumps, her heard pounding. She wanted to say something, but no words would come out.

She didn’t know what she saw in him; if you’d never seen colors in your life, only to come across a rainbow one day, you wouldn’t know how to put your heartfelt admiration into words. But it was a wonderful feeling. This person was wonderful. Like the sun before the Disaster, like the sky inside a simulator. It dizzied Yasha. It made her want to fly.

Her father finally discovered her. The Consul felt puzzlement at his youngest daughter’s daze, followed by concern; he thought that she’d been frightened by the ruffian earlier. Yasha shook her head vigorously. Adults were so dumb. How could they think she was frightened? “He’s not scary at all!” she blurted out. “He’s, he’s…”

Yasha couldn’t find the right word. She thought forever, but couldn’t squeeze out even a slightly adequate descriptor. Right, he was an omega.

“He’s really good-looking?” she said uncertainly, using the words her older siblings used to praise omegas.

The adults laughed. Yasha snuck a glance at their faces and found confirmation in them. She nodded more confidently. “He’s beautiful,” she said.

“Yeah,” snickered the youngest of her older brothers. “He sure is pretty.”

The still frame suddenly shifts. The Yasha of the past disappears, replaced by the logo of the Protected Area’s official news channel. The virtual butler says, “Urgent news.”

The news is, the Consul’s successor has met with an unfortunate accident.

The Crown Prince’s photo appears on one corner of the screen, red hair, green eyes. Shortly after, the Consul appears onscreen, still sitting in his chair, his expression more dire than before, almost hateful. Dully, he introduces the new Crown Prince to the public—or rather, the Crown Princess. The red-haired, green-eyed female alpha stands behind her father’s chair, her hand on his shoulder, her smile sweeter than ever.