I woke up the next morning groggy and sore, with a face full of stuffed bear. I groaned, turning over, my muscles aching. Why did I hurt so much? Had I …
I bolted upright and flipped on my light-line bracelet, peering out of my cockpit bed. The light illuminated my little kitchen, a pile of mushrooms waiting to be sliced, some rocks I’d placed as seats there, and …
And a car’s power matrix, the size of a small nightstand.
It lay where I’d dumped it after lugging it all the way to the cavern. I’d been so worn out after that, I hadn’t plugged it in, but had climbed right into bed.
I groaned and flopped back, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms. I’d been so angry last night that … well, I hadn’t been thinking clearly. Stealing the power matrix had seemed like a great idea—but now the holes in my clever plan were stark.
Gee, I wonder who vandalized your car, Jerkface? Could it be the only one of us who wasn’t at dinner, and who had immediate and powerful reasons for wanting revenge on you?
When it became known that I’d destroyed another cadet’s property, I’d get tossed out of flight school so fast, I’d get whiplash. I groaned again, a sound that was unhelpfully mimicked by Doomslug, who had snuggled into a spot on the dash.
Why? Why couldn’t I stay focused? Why did I have to let them get to me? Beowulf or Xun Guan wouldn’t let themselves be goaded into acting this stupid!
I felt sick as I trudged to Alta that morning. I didn’t even have the will to try out the power matrix. As if there were anything I could do to prevent my doom at this point. Why couldn’t “rational Spensa” and “determined Spensa” get together for a battle briefing once in a while?
I fully expected the MPs to be waiting for me, but the guards at the gates just waved me through. Nobody stopped me on my way to the classroom. Jerkface came in while I was settling down in my seat, and he didn’t so much as glance at me. Cobb limped in and started class like normal.
At one point during a break, I managed to catch Jerkface’s eyes. He met them and didn’t look away. There was a challenge in them, yes. But how was I to read this? Was he waiting for some specific point to turn me in?
As the day progressed, and we practiced using the light-lances on moving targets, I started to wonder if maybe he wasn’t going to get me into trouble. Maybe … maybe he was taking the warrior’s way. Rather than running to the admiral for help, was he planning his own vengeance?
If that was true, then … scud. I might have to give that boy a little respect.
Not much, mind you. He’d still aggressively and maliciously branded me a coward in front of the others. Arturo, Nedd, FM, and even Bim trod more softly around me, peering at me out of the corners of their eyes. It didn’t seem to affect our training, but during our breaks everyone was dancing around the news. They asked me about other things, then exited conversations quickly.
The only one who didn’t act odd was Kimmalyn. That didn’t mean she ignored what had happened, of course.
“So,” she said, hovering beside my seat as I rested and drank from my canteen, “is that why you’re always so bellicose?”
“Bellicose?” I asked, unfamiliar with the word.
“So willing to seize the stars with one hand and shove them in your pocket,” Kimmalyn said. She leaned in, as if the next part were somehow naughty. “You know. Heated.”
“Heated.”
“Maybe even … once in a while … cross.”
“Is my father why I’m such a mess of anger, bravado, and temper? Is the fact that they call him a coward the reason I walk around with my sword in hand, screaming that I’ll make a pile of everyone’s skulls, then stand on that to help me behead the people who were too tall for me to reach?”
Kimmalyn smiled fondly.
“Bless my stars?” I asked her.
“Every single one of them, Spensa. Every single bouncing star.”
I sighed and took another drink. “I don’t know. I remember liking Gran-Gran’s stories even before he was shot down, but what happened certainly didn’t help. When everyone looks at you as the coward’s daughter—not a coward’s daughter, but the singular Coward’s Daughter—you develop an attitude.”
“Well, bless you for standing up straight,” she said, then put up her fists. “Pride is a virtue in those who make it one.”
“Said the Saint.”
“She was a very wise woman.”
“You realize none of us have any idea which Saint you’re talking about.”
Kimmalyn patted me on the head. “It’s okay, dear. You can’t help being a heretic. The Saint forgives you.” From someone else that might have been offensive, particularly with the head pat. From Kimmalyn it was just … well, somehow comforting.
By the end of the day, I was feeling a ton better. So much so, in fact, that I felt only mild nausea when they left me for dinner. So that was good.
Outside, I spotted Jerkface getting into a long, black hovercar that had a driver wearing white gloves. Poor boy. Looked like he had to get a ride home now.
I walked back to my cave with a spring in my step, chewing on some smoked rat. I would eventually have to pay some kind of vengeance bill to Jorgen, but I could do that. Bring it on. For now, I appeared to have gotten away with a serious crime. One starfighter-size power matrix, ready to go.
I grinned as I arrived at my crevice, then lowered myself on my light-line into the cavern. It was a silly thing to have risked my future over; this ship was so old, it wasn’t like getting lights working was going to do any good. But it was also my secret, my discovery.
My ship.
Broken, worn out, with a bent wing … it was still mine.
I hauled the matrix into position beside the ship’s access hatch. The plugs were the same, so I didn’t have to worry about hot-wiring it. I glanced at Doomslug—who inched over along the wing toward me—then grinned and plugged it in.
The lights sprang to life on the diagnostic panel and—judging by the glow from up front—on the dash inside the cockpit. The low humming tone from before started up again, then sped up, warping until it … until it became words.
“… MMMEERGENCY BOOTUP PROCEDURES INITIATED,” a masculine voice said from the cockpit. It spoke with a strange, old-timey accent, like I’d heard on the broadcasts of famous speeches from the days before we’d founded Alta. “SEVERE DAMAGE TO STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY AND DATA BANKS DETECTED.”
Was it a recording? I scrambled over to the cockpit.
“Hello!” the voice said to me, growing less … mechanical. “I assume from your clothing and attitude that you are a native of this locale. Would you kindly categorize yourself—stating your national affiliations and the names of your ancestors—so I might place you in my data tables?”
“I …” I scratched my head. “What in the stars?”
“Ah,” the voice said. “Excellent. Minimal linguistic deviation from Earth Standard English. Forgive the slowness of my processing—which doesn’t quite seem up to normal benchmarks—but you are human, yes? Could you tell me … where am I?”
The words were lost on me. I simply knelt there, on the wing by the cockpit, trying to put together what was happening.
My ship was talking to me.
