Dive Right In

She was floating.

It was like that a lot in her dreams; she’d nod off and imagine herself adrift on the clouds. She wouldn’t really be going anywhere, she wouldn’t be focusing on anything or anyone. She would simply enjoy the feeling of weightlessness offered by her subconscious mind, letting it soothe her worries and erase her fears.

She loved flying. She loved her shiny new Typhoon strikers and the planes themselves that the Steelwing flyers of 1 Squadron flew. She loved the way she could twist and soar and dive through the air like a bird. She loved the tug of gravity, and the way the wind plucked at her rust-red hair, her face, her clothes, caressing her with a lover’s touch. She loved how liberated she felt, like there was nothing on earth that could touch her.

She opened her eyes.

For a moment, she wondered if she was still dreaming. The glorious cerulean sky was on display everywhere she looked and the clouds extended before her like a magnificent white field.

A squawk in her ear put paid to that thought immediately.

‘Chapman to 1 Squadron; calling all Firsties. You getting this?’

A quick chorus of affirmatives from the rest of 1 Squadron followed Fred Chapman’s broadcast. She didn’t; still lost in her own mind for the briefest of moments.

‘Chappers to Parsons, you reading me?’

Flight Lieutenant Lily Parsons blinked and was all too abruptly brought back to reality.

‘Sorry sir, I think my earpiece was on the fritz but you’re coming in clear now,’ she lied, hoping she didn’t sound too out of it.

‘Uh huh…’ Lily could almost see the Air Commodore raising one of his thick, brown eyebrows behind the visor of his flight helmet. Fortunately he chose not to voice any suspicions he may have had, instead continuing, ‘All right my beautiful sparklies and steelies, we’re about to make imminent contact with leading Soviet air elements. Word is that they’re ripping the Poles to shreds and the German reinforcements aren’t faring much better so, naturally, they’ve called on 1 Squadron to save the day.

‘Intel from German flyers indicates we’ll be up primarily against MiG-29s and a couple flights of Flankers, possibly some Supers as well but we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. Once we reach the combat airspace I want all of you to break into pairs; one steelwing and one witch. No one fights alone, copy?’

Another collective of affirmatives.

‘Good,’ Chapman concluded, a predatory note creeping into his tone. ‘Stay cool out there; the Reds have seen Typhoons before, but they’ve never fought anything like 1 Squadron. I know you’ll all rise to the occasion. Chapman out.’

And then, as if on cue, with a roar of afterburners, eight Eurofighters – fully half of 1 Squadron’s full combat strength – broke from behind a thick cloud. They remained on their current heading before all simultaneously rolling inverted – almost like they’d rehearsed it – and knifed through the clouds to dive into the warzone below.

‘Well ladies,’ the squadron’s number two, Wing Commander Janet Gosling, piped up over the wireless, ‘you heard the boss; time to dive into the fireworks. Pick your partner and stick with them. 1 Squadron break!’

Eight witches plunged through the cloud base after their Steelwing comrades. Gone was the calming, pristine field of clouds and in its place now stood a warzone.

Explosions blossomed in mid-air as missiles detonated, littering the sky with shrapnel and thick clouds of smoke from the aftermath of these blasts and the contrails from the warheads as they streaked towards their targets. Fires burned on the Polish countryside many thousands of feet below to mark the graves of the fallen. Fast jets ripped through the air, cannons belching, missiles hissing and countermeasures popping as each tried to avoid a collision, dodge a missile, gain a lock and keep track of the overall picture all at once. There were smaller, more slender shapes flitting about the combat space as well; witches of both sides no doubt.

In the span of a few seconds, 1 Squadron would be embroiled in that chaos.

‘May I have this dance Miss Parsons?’ Lily suppressed a grin as a Typhoon swung up next to her and a silky smooth voice tickled her ears through the wireless. The Steelwing, one Flying Officer Mark Anderson, was rarely subtle in his affections. Lily would be lying, however, if she said she was averse to them.

‘Why of course Mark,’ she responded demurely, slowing herself down so that she flew just off his wing.

‘Keep me covered gorgeous,’ Mark said, ‘we’re both going to earn those ace wings today.’

‘Wouldn’t that be nice,’ Lily remarked and checked the belt feed to her GPMG. All in working order. Good. ‘I’ll lead, you follow. Sound like a plan?’

‘Ladies first,’ Anderson replied, and Lily could picture that adorable grin he wore so well beneath his flight helmet.

She could have left it at that, but her blood was up, and the adrenaline that was even now starting to pump through her veins made her unusually flirty. ‘Try not to fall behind me Mark; can’t lead them into your sights if you aren’t about,’ she purred.

‘Oh trust me,’ Mark said, his voice low and husky, ‘you couldn’t lose me if you tried.’

This time it was Lily’s turn to grin.

She powered on and barrelled into the furball, GMPG chattering. A MiG dropped out of the sky, a jagged line of three-inch holes stitched into the fuselage.

 ‘Scratch one Cossack! First blood to the Firsties,’ Mark crowed, confirming the kill even as he brought up the rear. Lily heard Polish and German voices coming in over short-range comms, and Air Commodore Chapman speaking back in both tongues as he relayed information.

Lily dove past a climbing Polish Drakken and unleashed another burst from her weapon at its pursuer, another MiG-29. She watched the broken bird lilt in mid-air as its engines died, and then it began to drop and disintegrate as it plummeted earthward, her magically-enhanced shot having ripped great gouges in the machine.

She felt a thrill surge through her as she took in the sight. /She/ had done that. More than £10 million of mechanical design, high-end weaponry and painstaking research into spitting in Isaac Newton’s eyeballs and with a few charged shots she’d reduced it to scrap. That was power. Real, tangible power.

She was so immersed in the rush that she was completely caught off guard when the Soviet witch bull-rushed her.

There was a lurching impact as her shields took the brunt of the assault but then they were gone, so total was the surprise and then Lily was fighting for her life as a witch stabbed at her with a bloody knife. The witch acted like she was in some sort of blood-crazed frenzy, her deep brown hair wind-tossed and wild, concealing her eyes, with a torn uniform, snarling in Russian all the while. Lily’s GPMG was held up in between them but she knew as well as her assailant that it would do her no good past the next few seconds.

Lily heard Mark shout through the wireless as his plane whipped past her, and the British witch knew she was well and truly on her own. The air displacement from the Typhoon’s passing, however, buffeted the two floating witches and spoiled a quick stab from the Russian, which glanced harmlessly off Lily’s bulky firearm.

Thinking fast, Lily ducked her head through the sling and, once she was through, slashed a clawing hand at the Russian’s face. As she’d expected the witch drew back but the act bought Lily precious breathing space, though at the cost of her firearm, which tumbled earthwards.

There was no time to go for it, and even before Lily had unholstered her sidearm the witch was back on top of her with a savage roar, knife poised to pierce her throat. Reacting instantly, Lily raised an arm to ward off the blow and felt hot, blazing pain explode in her forearm as the knife dug deep. Gritting her teeth, she pulled the damaged arm to the side, stifling a gasp as the blade buried in the meat shifted in her flesh, and smashed her forehead into the Russian’s face. She repeated the action three times, feeling her forehead come away sticky with blood the second time.

The Russian pulled the knife free from her arm with a wrench of her arm and despite all her training, and all the adrenaline rushing through her system, she /felt/ that. Her arm hung uselessly at her side, blood soaking into the blue sleeve of her uniform and streaming down her arm and dripping from limp fingers. A punch to her face stalled the British witch, and another one stunned her.

A morbid acceptance settled over her as she realised she was beaten. The Russian was quick. Too quick for her to back off with any hope of escape. She could try to fight through the haze and attack, but with one arm down and spots dancing across her vision she was under no illusions concerning her odds.

The Russian shook her head, shaking off what damage Lily had done before gripping her throat in one hand and raising the knife with the other. A fighter blew past them and they tumbled through the air once more. This time, however, the Russian held on, her fingers clamped around Lily’s throat like a limpet to a boat’s hull.

Then a stray cannon shot struck the Russian.

The projectile struck her left striker, shattering the engine and suddenly the Russian was floating on one leg. The knife fell away as the Russian yelped (probably the sanest noise Lily had yet heard from her) and drew back a fraction to inspect the damage to her striker even as she began to sink.

The sight of her panicking foe energised Lily. She was in with a shot now, and grim acceptance of her fate gave way to a burning desire – a will – to live. To survive.

The haze was still present, but it had cleared enough for Lily to start wailing on the Russian with her good hand, punching and scratching. She had dim recollection of sinking her teeth into a wrist. The Russian screamed and drove an elbow onto the crown of Lily’s skull. Lily let go but continued to press the attack. She grasped a clump of dark hair and yanked upwards–

–and saw her sister.

Soft, pale cheeks, a little button nose, coupled with high cheek bones gave her a distinctive profile that Lily had much envied when she was younger. Her lips were full and the kind of red one only ever really achieves with damned fine genes or damned fine makeup. Were it not for the grey eyes, much darker hair and the expression of twisted, seething rage, Lily would have sworn that she was locked in combat with Olivia.

The likeness startled Lily into inaction, and the Russian used the opening to smash an elbow into her chin. The angle was awkward though, and what would have been a knockout blow merely dazed the RAF witch instead. The Russian tore away from Lily, who still had a grasp on her hair, and Lily heard a muted ripping sound followed by another yelp from her opposite number.

Lily shook her head and snarled. The doppelganger stood – or hovered, to be more precise – barely two metres from her and was slowly but steadily gaining distance. Her one striker, however, had slowed her considerably, and Lily could tell that she was starting to descend.

A German Starfighter tore through the space between them and Lily threw herself back with a yelp that was equal parts fright and surprise. A Flanker blew past a moment later in hot pursuit, its cannon belching fire.

When the planes had passed, Lily saw that the Russian was dropping; her last striker a smoking ruin. Her expression was a horrified gape as gravity took hold of her and pulled her to a grisly death. It was too much to see that look on her sister’s face, and before she was even aware of it, Lily was powering after her, pouring as much magic as she could into closing the distance.

She swerved to avoid a crash with a burning Drakken, and flew underneath its killer, narrowly avoiding being skewered on the nose of the craft. All the while her gaze was locked on the plummeting Russian witch. Drawing ever closer. Closer.

She reached out with her good hand.

‘Grab on!’ she shouted over the rushing wind, her screaming strikers, and the raging conflict above.

War, Lily thought in that moment; was a strange thing.

Barely a minute beforehand she and this young witch had been locked in a deathmatch. Indeed, her foe had very nearly won. Now, here she was trying to save her life. Was it because of the uncanny resemblance to Olivia? Stupid question. Of course it was.

The Russian witch bawled something in Russian. Lily thought for one heart-stopping moment that she was going to refuse her help. This was quashed; however, when the Russian threw up both hands, fingers splayed and reaching for Lily’s outstretched hand.

Tracers whipped past her and slammed into her shields. Lily whipped her head around and saw a MiG-29 diving for her. No doubt some opportunistic pilot had spotted her descent and thought he had an easy kill. She groaned as she felt her reserves dwindle under the sustained fire.

In that moment she had two choices: pull out and let the witch fall to her death, or try to save her and end up as target practise for a Red steelwing. Neither choice appealed, though she knew for certain it would be a no brainer for any other witch in her shoes. War was hell and people died. She had tried and that was more than most would have done but there it was. Was this witch worth saving even at the cost of her own life?

Would she be able to live with herself knowing she had knowingly let a fellow witch die? And then there was the kicker: the thing that had sparked this entire debate and what was currently causing her so much agony. She looked /so/ much like Olivia. Was probably as young as her too now that she really looked. What kind of people would be so desperate or so cruel as to send /kids/ into a warzone.

It was hypocritical, she knew. Girls as young as twelve had fought in the Martian War of the forties, Lily knew some academies in NATO countries were even now pushing witches into active service who were barely fifteen. That still didn’t make it right though, and Lily had fought tooth and nail to keep Olivia – a striker prodigy, the matron of her academy claimed – from being dumped into a uniform and pointed at Moscow.

Her dilemma was solved on its own, however, when the tail of the MiG suddenly exploded. Lily had barely caught the sharp hiss of a missile before the detonation. The fighter began a lazy spin earthwards as the pilot ejected.

‘Lily!’ she heard Mark Anderson call her name, and a warm feeling enveloped her as she spotted the distinctive profile of a Eurofighter trailing the burning MiG. Mister Anderson had earned himself a big wet one when they were back on the ground.

Then a shadow passed over her and Lily panicked as she realised the dying Russian fighter was falling right on top of her.

‘Lily! /Move!/’ Mark bellowed.

She couldn’t. She was so, /so/ close. Just a little closer, an inch, a centimetre farther and she’d…

Got her!

Lily pulled what was probably the tightest turn a witch had ever performed in Typhoon strikers, screaming at the pressure exerted on her as her shields and all what protection they offered from the elements went.

She felt something scrape across her back–

–and then she was free. Panting with effort and straining to keep a hold of the young Russian who dangled from her arm.

‘Christ Parsons you gave me a fucking heart attack!’ Mark said with a loud exhale as he circled around the two.

‘Oh so we’re back to “Parsons” now?’ Lily offered weakly.

‘Enough jokes,’ Mark chided. ‘I can tell from here that you’re shattered. Hold on there; Parker and Black took a few knocks, I’ll get them to help you home with your ah… friend.’

Mark was as good as his word, and scant moments after he flew back into the furball, a steelwing and a witch – Parker and Black respectively – formed up alongside her. The Typhoon, piloted by Parker, stood off a distance away, one of its wings sporting some nasty looking scrapes, while the witch, Black, helped hoist the Russian witch up and into a more secure hold. The poor thing clutched onto both of the RAF witches with a grip like a corpse, her fingers white and her hands shaking as adrenaline was flushed from her veins.

It was only now, being able to take a close, easy look at the girl, that Lily realised she was off in her estimations of the witch’s age.

She had thought she was about Olivia’s age.

She was, in fact, even younger.

Lily felt a stab in her heart as she took in her pale, frightened face, which was followed by a surge of determination. She knew then and there that she would do anything to keep her own blood from wearing that expression, from feeling the same fear this poor girl did.

‘Easy there,’ Lily breathed, trying to approximate the same tone of voice her mother had used whenever she or Olivia were upset, ‘you’ll be fine.’

The Russian didn’t react. She said nothing the entire journey, and kept shivering all the way back to the NATO airbase in Germany.

Two hours later she was out of her strikers and debriefed just as the rest of 1 Squadron touched down. They had suffered no casualties, though Flight Sergeant Harrison had been forced to eject when a missile had blown his engines out. Otherwise, they were all fine, and morale was high.

So why did Lily feel so down?

‘Hey.’

Lily looked up from her sitting position in a dimly lit hallway to see Mark standing close by. Not close enough to violate her personal space, but close enough that he could offer comfort if it was required.

Which it most certainly was.

Lily offered him a weak smile, ‘Hi yourself pilot.’

‘Mind if it sit down?’

This time her smile was real, ‘Yes. I mean– if you want, it’s not really up to me…’

‘Easy there,’ Mark soothed with a calming hand gesture, ‘simple question Parsons.’

‘What happened to Lily?’ she asked him.

Mark quirked an eyebrow and sat down next to her. After a brief period of silence, he asked, ‘So what’s wrong?’

It took a while for her to answer.

‘That Russian witch we brought back… she… I…’ she sighed heavily, ‘she looked like my sister.’

‘By “looked”, do you mean a passing resemblance or–’

‘I mean for a moment – for one awful, awful moment – I thought my sister and I were trying to kill each other.’

‘That’s… shit. I’m sorry.’

It was a silly thing to say. Mark had no more control over what had happened than Lily. She appreciated the attempt though, and she bumped against him softly to show it.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked after a moment of silence passed.

‘No.’

‘Do you want to talk at all?’

She thought about it.

‘No.’

He said nothing else after that, but after a minute, he placed his hand over hers and gave it a comforting squeeze. Lily did not squeeze back, but she felt a warm, comforting feeling settle over her at the contact. It was nice. And so there they sat, with no further words exchanged, simply basking in the company of one another, connected by the warmth of their palms.