Page 128 of Aviatrix

“Did my dad create you?” I ask, my throat tight and burning.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss my creator,” she replies.

“But I might die, VAL,” I whisper. “And I need to know, was it him? Did he make you for me?”

“I was created to learn and protect,” she responds mechanically. “That was what my creator wanted most.”

It’s not a confirmation, but it’s close enough to believe.

“Then, let’s protect, VAL.”

I close my eyes. It’s not the answer I wanted. But it feels like him. VAL’s calm, her clarity, her purpose. Like something he would build.

Something to carry me through the fire, even if he couldn't.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s the piece of him I get to keep.

“Engines engaged,” she confirms.

VAL takes the lead, taxiing first out of the hangar.

The moment she lifts off, I feel it deep in my bones. Time is running out. If I’m going to learn what really happened to my father, VAL might be the only one who knows.

I have to survive, and she does, too.

When Scooter and Gary join me in the air, their wings nearly brushing mine, we activate Stealth Mode. And together, we fly to Washington so close, we’re nearly one shadow in the sky.

The hours pass in tense silence, just the low hum of engines and the weight of what’s ahead keeping us company.

When we arrive just under four hours later, the three of us divert to a small air base about twenty miles outside the capital, while Lark and the Alien Warfare team land at Andrews in Maryland. We’ll meet at a rendezvous site in an hour, then motorcade to Arlington National Cemetery to say our goodbyes to Wingard… and possibly to ourselves.

“My arms are killing me,” Scooter groans, stretching. “Hours of trying not to clip your wing was brutal.”

“But we did it,” I offer, trying to stay optimistic.

“Nova, why don’t you get changed while Fox and I make contact with the Colonel,” Gary suggests.

I toss my bag over my shoulder. My limbs feel steady, but there’s a gnawing unease in my gut.

We have a plan. But I’m not sure we’ll survive it.

Still, I’ve always loved a good underdog story.

I dress quickly beneath the dim, flickering light of the dated bathroom. A black dress—modest sleeves, knee-length—form-fitting at the top and flaring at the skirt. I hate dresses, but they make it easier to reach the firearm strapped to my inner thigh. Hopefully, I won’t need it.

I unpin my hair and brush it out. A touch of blush, a swipe of lipstick. I stuff my flight suit into my bag and head back toward the hangar.

Gary and Scooter are outside, eyes trained on the sky. I stop beside them.

“What are we looking at?” I ask.

Gary exhales. “Colonel’s on his way.”

I frown. “What’s he flying?”

Scooter chuckles. “A chopper.”

“A helicopter?” I scoff. “I doubt it.”