Zima must have recognized the name, but she didn’t react. Maybe she thought there were plenty of Zolonovs in the Union. “Yes, I remember. You were the only one I didn’t have a chance to meet.” She stuck out her hand.
Linné stared at it. After a moment she understood and shook it uncertainly.
“It’s a pleasure to see you at last, Miss Zolonov. Colonel Koslen wrote that you excelled with a rifle and had uncanny precision with your spark.”
“Yes, sir,” Linné said.
“I’ve marked you down as a navigator. I understand you have a little more army experience than the rest of the recruits?”
“I’ve been in the army since I was fourteen.” It felt like admitting to a crime.
“Maybe we should make you a commander,” Zima joked.
“No, sir,” Linné said. Not with recruits like Katya and Magdalena.
The commander’s mouth twitched. “You don’t have to keep calling me that.”
“Should I call you ma’am, sir?”
Koslen would have glowered. Hesovec would have told her off. Tamara Zima laughed. “Can I tell you something?” She looped one arm through Linné’s as if they were two friends going for a walk around town. “I’ve never been in the army. I’ve never been called ‘sir.’ Hardly anyone calls me ma’am, for that matter. I’m here because I flew the Winter Witch from coast to coast, and I flew relief for Goreva Reaching. Isaak needs someone with my abilities to train you, not an army commander.”
This was getting worse and worse. No wonder Hesovec wanted them all off his base.
“I’m not interested in the traditional army way,” Zima said. “But sometimes I have to put on a good show. If you’re willing, you can help me with that. And perhaps with guiding some of our new recruits.”
No. Definitely not. Her first glimmering of command was not going to be sabotaged by unruly subordinates who didn’t know how to obey.
Then again, Zima could send her back to Mistelgard if she said no. She hadn’t recruited Linné. She’d been stuck with her. “Your methods sound interesting,” Linné managed.
“They are.” Commander Zima smiled.
Was Linné supposed to smile back? Was this the untraditional army way? She nodded as though she understood the situation completely and waited for an order.
Zima stood there, looking at her. After a few moments she raised her eyebrows. “Would you be willing to help?”
“Of course, sir,” Linné lied. Because no matter what she said, Zima was still the commanding officer. And a superior commanded, even if she did it in nice language. Even if there was nothing Linné wanted less. And there was something she wanted less. She’d rather be here at Intelgard than up north. Faith and loyalty. If the Supreme Commander believes in her, so can I.
“Good. Go change into the nicest uniform you’ve got. We’ll have to see if we can find smaller ones to fit some of the girls, but for now make yourself as presentable as possible. Then report to me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Linné before she could stop herself.
Zima nodded in satisfaction, patted her shoulder, then strode off.
She wasn’t even marching.
Linné found her clean long-coat and walked down to where she thought the commander’s office ought to be. She found it when she spotted men and machines hauling stacks of paper, tangles of wire, and an enormous silver samovar. Even the nonofficers seemed to be able to squirrel something away.
The door was open. She knocked anyway.
Zima looked up from where she supervised two men putting a table together. “Good timing. Nikolai’s palanquin has been spotted approaching the base, and we don’t have much time. Move the supplies behind my desk. Nikolai won’t want to see the clutter.”
“Nikolai Tcerlin?” Linné guessed.
“You’re not intimidated, are you?” her commander said with a sharp look.
Something in her bristled. So Zima had connected her to her father. “I’m not intimidated, sir.”
“Good. You’ll be my aide tonight. Our itinerary is an inspection of the planes, followed by dinner and a tour of the base. I’m afraid it won’t do to have you sit with us for dinner, but I can promise you a plate when the evening’s over.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir.”
Zima shook her head. “I think you’ll do wonderfully, Linné.” Linné couldn’t tell whether the commander thought this was a good or a bad thing.
A nervous recruit poked his head around the door. “He’s here, ma’am.”
Zima straightened and left the room at such a pace that Linné broke into a jog to catch up with her. Suddenly Zima was not the friendly head of the regiment, smiling and asking permission to give orders. She walked with a purpose—not quite marching, but with the same energy, the same concept of a place to go and a time to be there.
What if Nikolai told her father about the sloppiness of her new regiment? What if he said it didn’t reflect well on the Zolonov family? If she played her part well enough, Tcerlin might think the regiment operated perfectly. Or adequately, so that he wouldn’t go back to Mistelgard and mock her father or give a nasty report to Vannin. Tcerlin didn’t need to know that the regiment couldn’t stand on its own two feet. Or that Tamara Zima wanted to be Linné’s friend more than her commander. Or that Colonel Hesovec would be looking over their shoulders and wiring all their errors to Mistelgard.
A stone seemed to settle in her stomach. Tonight, her mission was to make regiment 146 look good enough. Tomorrow, she’d have to make them be good enough. Good enough to get her transferred to a ground unit.
Nikolai Tcerlin’s palanquin sat on the airfield, steaming in the cold afternoon. It was sleeker than the usual Tammin-made army models, with a long green neck that extended elegantly into curved metal jaws. Its body undulated, serpentine. A dozen men could fit inside. The design imitated the Elda Dragon, though it was made for the ground, not the air. Five men stood next to the palanquin, loose, wary. Hungry. Even though they didn’t wear the infamous coats, Linné recognized the amber eyes of the Skarov who acted as Nikolai Tcerlin’s bodyguards. They turned those eyes on Zima and Linné, assessing the threat. Linné’s father had warned her about the Skarov when Vannin approved their development for the war. They look like men, but they’ll prove their true nature soon enough.
A man emerged from around the side of the palanquin. Nikolai Tcerlin, barrel-chested, grayer than Linné remembered, with a coat covered in service decorations. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been in the parlor of her father’s mansion, arguing. He always argued, especially with her father. Now he gripped Zima’s hand and leaned down to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She looked like a doll next to him.
Linné stood behind, waiting for him to notice her. He didn’t.
He released Zima and thumped her on the back, nearly knocking her over. “My last stop on my way back from the front,” he said. “All to deliver some very special items to you.”
“Oh?” the commander replied. She peered around him at the empty field.