Free Martyr (The Martyr Trilogy) by N.P. Beckwith

figure dropped to the earth on the far
side of the ‘copter, and presently the cockpit hatch on our side opened.  A
more graceful frame slipped nimbly from the pilot’s seat and dropped the few
feet to the ground, landing in a feline crouch.  For half a second I thought
she was trailing a black cape, but immediately realized my mistake as an
impossible quantity of thick, dark hair settled about her shoulders and around
her small face a couple of moments after her body touched down.  She wore an
oversized military helmet covered in green camouflage material, and a matching
vest covered with dozens of pockets of various sizes, every one of which bulged
with something interesting.  A few odd apparati jutted out of their respective
pockets, revealing buttons, knobs, and dials galore.  The remainder of her
lithe form was covered in a close-fitting black jumpsuit, the base a
clunky-looking pair of late-issue canvas and leather army boots.  It looked as
if she had just come from the going-out-of-business sale at a military surplus
store and had bought the lot.
     
    As
she stood, I momentarily lost her soot- and grease-streaked face in the black
cloud of hair that floated around its periphery.  As she took a few steps in
our direction a breeze wafted it back and I could see that she wore a filthy
pair of goggles of the kind worn in high school wood-shop classes and usually
labeled “protective eyewear”.  She tried in vain to wipe the blackened lenses
with her two index fingers, a comical gesture that reminded me of a pair of
tiny windshield wipers working frantically to restore visibility during a heavy
downpour.  She then abandoned this effort and instead pulled the goggles away
from her face entirely and set them to rest on the front of her helmet.  Her
eyes were the same almond shape as Reya-Mana’s, only larger, softer, and of a
decidedly brown-gold hue.  Framed by her dark lashes and brows, and set off as
they were against the sooty blackness of the surrounding skin, they were
stunning. 
     
    My
eyes flicked to Reya, who met my gaze for the briefest of moments then turned
her attention quickly back to the scene before us.  Even from my skewed
perspective at her back, Reya seemed for the first time in my experience
somehow other than entirely sure of herself.  But she lowered her bow and
muttered the command to our mount, and we both descended to meet the
newcomers.  By this time the other passenger had come up to stand beside this
odd female.  He was a giant of a man, clad more simply than she in a
surprisingly clean white tank, brown slacks, and army boots of a more vintage
style.  Spotting a dirty flak jacket on the ground behind him, I realized that
he must have stripped it off after exiting.  He was dark and brooding, all
rippling muscle topped by a neatly-shaved head.  A heavy brow and chiseled jaw
dominated his countenance.  Reya extended a shaky hand, never breaking eye contact
with the younger woman.  The latter clasped the offered hand tightly in both of
hers and shook it enthusiastically, if a little too much so.  Then in a
somewhat husky but cheerful voice, she declared, “I’m Maya!  This is Doog. 
We’re resistance!”
     
    “Uh…,”
Reya shook her head once briskly as if to dismiss a thought and then resumed,
“Yes….Yes, of course.  I assumed as much, but…where did you get that?”
indicating with a little jerk of her chin the downed chopper. 
     
    “Oh! 
I found it!  We found it, Doog and I!”  And then, dropping her head toward her
left shoulder, she squinted one giant eye and peered up at Reya with the other,
then continued in a small voice, “I mean we stole it.”  Then suddenly louder, 
“But we stole it from Magus!”
     
    “Well
then, that crime is officially pardoned!” replied Reya.  Everyone chuckled, and
it went a long way toward relieving some of the tension.  “Sorry, I should have
said…I’m Reya.  And this is Justin.  We’re not far from