THE COMMANDER OF THE AIR

Commander Rook landed without asking permission.

Six aircraft descended over the western towers in perfect formation, their engines loud enough to stop every conversation in the square below. They carried no faction colours.

Rook had commanded a logistics wing during the final fighting. He had survived because his aircraft had been hundreds of miles east, escorting grain transports. Now he returned with thirty-seven operational machines and control of the aerial depots beyond London.

The custodians welcomed him as a stabilising force.

Nara called him an army with a supply chain.

Arun cared about the fuel.

Rook met all of them in the same room and refused to salute anyone.

‘The city has nine days of grain at current distribution,’ he said. ‘The eastern stations have grain. I have the aircraft capable of protecting it. Raiders already know your government is divided.’

Marian asked what he wanted.

‘A single authority for air defence.’

‘Yours?’

‘Preferably.’

Rook did not pretend his demand was democratic. He argued that aircraft could not vote on manoeuvres while being fired upon.

Eliza asked whether his command recognised the black seal.

Rook’s expression changed.

Three of his depot systems had accepted black-seal orders the previous night.

He had ignored them.

That made him either an ally or an independent sovereign.

By sunset, Rook’s aircraft were flying over the city with the consent of everyone and under the authority of no one.