Harlen's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Harlen crouched on the ridge above the dead town and counted Vael in his head. Nine confirmed kills. Three rigs stripped and rebuilt. The newest one sat clamped over his mouth, glowing red against his jaw, humming when he breathed. He had scorched his own collarbone testing it at ten percent. He wanted to see what it did at forty. The town below had been empty since the first day, when dozens of Vael dropped from the sky and no one but him lifted a hand. Dust filled the doorways now. A weathered building sat pressed against a long slab of red rock, half its roof caved in. Harlen watched that ruin because something inside it was moving. A figure stepped out through the broken doorway. Not a Vael. A woman. Then she turned, and he saw the wings. Stained glass. Colored shards held in lead. They caught the sun and threw red and blue across the sand. Harlen had seen Vael tech glow like that on a scout's back. Close enough. He was already running. He cleared the slope in six strides. She looked up. He fired. The rig kicked. A rope of flame tore across the ground where she had been standing. She was not standing there anymore. The wings snapped open and she was above him, ten feet up, then behind him. Something sharp raked his shoulder and knocked him flat. He rolled, aimed, fired again. She slid sideways in the air and the flame went past her ear. She landed hard in front of him and drove a boot into his wrist. His hand opened. She stepped on the rig's trigger line and pinned it. "Stop," she said. He swung at her knee. She let him miss. "I'm not Vael." "Wings say different." "Wings are glass." She turned so he could see the edge of the left one, sharp as a knife. "A man made them. Not them." Harlen stared. The shards were hand-cut. He had seen Vael work up close. Vael work was smooth. This was seams and solder. She lifted her boot off the line. She did not step back. "You could have burned me," she said. "You didn't check." "I check by shooting." "Change that." He sat up slowly. Blood ran down his shoulder into the dust on his shirt. The rig ticked as it cooled against his mouth. He reached up and unclamped it, let it hang at his throat. "Harlen," he said. "Elina Cross." She offered a hand. He took it. She pulled him up without effort, and he felt the strength in her arm and understood he had survived something. "How many of them have you killed?" she asked. "Nine." "I have people," she said. "We need nine more." Harlen wiped blood off his collarbone and looked at the wings again. He was listening now.