Page 25 of Wings of War

Moments later, the group disappeared behind one of the rows of flyers.

“Red, are you listening?” The sergeant was suddenly there, right in Fieran’s face. “Drop and give me fifty.”

So much for the sergeant not noticing. Fieran bit back a sigh, dropped to the floor, and started in on the fifty push-ups. At least fifty wasn’t too many compared to the amount Fieran normally had to do.

Capt. Arfeld cleared his throat, then continued with his speech about the various flyers and engines housed here in the aerodrome at Fort Linder.

Once Fieran was finished, he joined the rest of his unit as they marched into a small room off to the side.

A lieutenant stood at the head of the room and began a lecture on the basics of flight.

Fieran settled into the desk, his legs scrunched to fit, his knees hitting a bar at the front. Time to dust off his old university habits. It had taken some practice to sit still and pay attention in classes, even if he was smart enough that tests weren’t hard, if he devoted some focus during class.

But the daily class times to learn about flight were going to be far harder than all the physical training, drills, push-ups, and whatever else the army would throw at him.

Pip pushed one of the rolling ladders up to the fuselage of one of the T-05 Soarwing biplane flyers that were a favorite among the Escarlish pilots. After climbing the ladder, she opened the hatch to the engine, lifting it up and out of the way.

A male mechanic with longer arms would’ve had no trouble reaching into the engine compartment from the ladder. But she had to basically stick her whole upper torso inside to reach some of the parts of the engine to inspect it, her feet losing contact with the ladder in a way that left her rear end sticking up into the air.

She was sure to get a few wolf whistles, mostly from the pilots-in-training who spent a chunk of every afternoon in the hangar. At least her fellow mechanics no longer pulled such shenanigans around her. She’d proven herself over the previous two weeks at Fort Linder.

The head mechanic here believed in hands-on learning, so after only a week in the classroom with schematics, he’d turned them loose in the hangar, though he checked their work before the aeroplanes took to the sky.

While Pip had proven her skills—the switch from trains to aeroplanes hadn’t been all that difficult—she wasn’t particularly close with her fellow mechanics here at Fort Linder. She recognized a few of them from her Hanford University days, but that was about it. She’d been the odd one out at Hanford—the only female mechanic, the only half-dwarf. And she was just as odd here.

Reaching into the engine, Pip checked each of the parts, from the magical power cell to the propeller shaft.

As she suspected. It was the wiring harness that tended to burn out under the force of the magic of the ancient kings. An easy fix, at least.

She pulled out her 3/8th-inch drive socket wrench, then worked her hand under the buttoned flap of one of her cargo pockets, searching through her sockets by feel. With her magic, she had marked each socket so she could find the correct one by feel instead of manually checking the numbers etched on each one.

When she found the correct one, she wiggled her hand out of her pocket. Clicking the socket into place, she removed the four bolts on each of the corners of the hatch on the side of the engine housing. For most mechanics, they would’ve had to take off the magical power cell housing to get at the last bolt, but with her small hands and thin wrists, she could wiggle her hands into the space and do it without the extra work.

As she removed the final bolt, footsteps clunked closer, then halted beside the aeroplane.

Must be one of the pilots-in-training. One of her fellow mechanics would have called out to her.

She suppressed a sigh. She might as well head off the wolf whistle or lewd comment. “You had better not be gawking at my rear end.”

“Of course not. My parents taught me to keep my hands, eyes, and inappropriate comments to myself.” The baritone male voice held a note of easy, congenial laughter. He spoke in Escarlish—as she did—though his voice didn’t have the elvish accent that hers did.

“You have rare parents.” Pip ratcheted the wrench with small movements. “Not everyone teaches their children such basic manners.”

“My parents are more rare than you know.” His voice had a droll tone, as if in some joke, though she wasn’t sure what it was. When he spoke again, some of the laughter faded into something almost sheepish. “Though, um, I have to confess I looked. Just now. Sorry.”

Apologies instead of whistles? That was a new one. She wiggled her hand free of its tight confines, going carefully so that she didn’t drop the bolt or the cover for the terminal. “At least you’re an honest flyboy.”

“How do you know I’m one of the flyboys? You’re still head-down in an engine.” That baritone voice was back to light-hearted again.

“You sound slightly arrogant.” After setting the bolt and the terminal cover on top of the engine housing, she wiggled her hand into the tight space again to disconnect the end of the wiring harness that connected the terminal on the engine housing with the magical power cell. “All flyboys are slightly arrogant. It’s just a fact.”

He laughed. A genuine, open-hearted kind of laugh. “Very true. Yes, you’re correct. I’m a flyboy. And based on how much extra PT I’ve received, the drill sergeants are very convinced I’m arrogant.”

She laughed as she disconnected the wiring harness from the magical power cell housing. Her laughter quickly died. She hadn’t grabbed new wires before climbing up here. She’d have to wiggle her way down, always nerve-wracking since right now she couldn’t see if the ladder was still directly beneath her feet.

Setting aside her socket wrench, she gripped the side of the fuselage and began to squirm, reaching with her toes for the ladder.

The flyboy’s voice drew closer. “Can I fetch something for you?”

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