Knowledge of my father’s treason bled like a physical wound inside me. The next day, I barely got out of bed. If class had been going on, I’d have missed it.
My stomach responded to my mood, and I felt physically ill. Nauseous, sick. I had to eat though, and eventually forced myself to gather some bland cave mushrooms.
Rig quietly toiled away, welding and tying wires. He knew me enough not to bother me once he saw I wasn’t feeling well. I hated looking sick in front of people.
I couldn’t decide if I wanted to unload my news on him. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to anyone about it. If I didn’t talk about it, perhaps I could pretend I’d never discovered the truth. Perhaps I could pretend my father hadn’t done those awful things.
That night, M-Bot tried multiple (terrible) ways to cheer me up, apparently running down a list of emotional support methods. I ignored him and somehow managed to sleep.
The next morning, I felt a little better physically—but still a wreck emotionally. M-Bot didn’t chatter at me as I skinned some rats, and when I asked what was wrong, he said, “Some humans like to be given time to grieve on their own. I will stop speaking to you for two days, to see if isolation provides the needed support. Please enjoy moving through the stages of grief.”
For the next while … I just kind of existed. Living beneath a looming, ominous truth. Ironsides and Cobb had lied about my father—but they’d lied to make his crime seem less terrible. They’d protected our family. If I’d been treated this poorly as the daughter of a coward, what would have happened to the daughter of a traitor?
Suddenly, everything Ironsides had done to me made sense. My father had killed multiple members of his own flight. Her friends. No wonder she hated me. The remarkable thing was that Cobb didn’t.
Four more hard days passed. I spent them occasionally hunting, but mostly quietly helping Rig with the booster. He prodded a few times about what I was feeling, and I almost told him. But for some reason, I couldn’t. This wasn’t a truth I wanted to share. Not even with him.
Finally, the next morning, I had to make a decision. Our leave was over. Did I return? Could I face Cobb? Could I continue to act like an insubordinate brat, spitting on the admiral’s shoes, now that I knew?
Could I live, and fly, with this shame?
The answer, it turned out, was yes.
I stepped into our training room at 0630, first to class. Of course, there were only four of us left at this point.
The mockpits appeared to have gone through some kind of maintenance during our leave. Though the workers weren’t there currently, the cushions had been removed, and the side of Jorgen’s rig was open, with the internal wires exposed.
FM pushed open the door, wearing a clean jumpsuit and a new pair of boots. Arturo followed, chatting softly with her about the game they’d gone to last night. I got the impression that Nedd liked FM, as he’d gotten them the seats.
“Hey,” FM said when she saw me. She gave me a hug, and patted me on the shoulder, so my grief was apparently still visible. So much for my air of being a strong warrior.
Cobb shoved open the door with a distracted expression, sipping pungent coffee and reading some reports. Jorgen accompanied him, walking with his customary distinguished air.
Wait. When did I start seeing him as “distinguished”?
“Cobb,” Arturo said, poking at one of the mockpits. “Didn’t anyone tell them our leave was ending? How are we going to practice?”
“Holopractice is basically done for you lot,” Cobb said, limping past without looking up. “You only have five weeks left of flight school. From now on, you’ll do most of your time on real machines. We’ll meet at the launchpad in the mornings.”
“Great,” I said with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel.
Cobb nodded toward the door and we hurried out into the hallway. Arturo fell into step beside me.
“I wish I could be more like you, Spin,” he said as we walked.
“Always so straightforward and bold,” he said. “I really do want to fly again. I do. It will be fine.”
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. How did it feel, to nearly die, as he had? To get shot while your shield was down? I tried to imagine his panic, the smoke in his cockpit, the sense of helplessness …
“You are bold,” I said. “You’re getting back in the cockpit—that’s the important part. You didn’t let it frighten you away.”
For some reason, coming from me, that seemed to really strengthen him. How would he feel to hear that my emotions weren’t nearly as “straightforward” or as “bold” as he assumed?
We changed into flight suits, then walked out onto the launchpad, passing our Pocos in a line. Arturo’s spot was empty though, and I found him chatting with Siv, one of the members of the ground crew. She was a tall, older woman, with short white hair.
“You’ll need to take Skyward Six, Amphi,” she was saying to Arturo, then pointed. “We still don’t have your ship running.”
I glanced toward the repair bay, where the nose of a Poco still stuck out.
“What’s the hang-up?” Arturo asked.
“We have the booster fixed,” Siv said, “and we tested the acclivity ring, but we had to rip out the shield igniter. Still waiting for a replacement—should have new ones in a batch next week. So you’ve been assigned to Skyward Six unless you want to fly without a shield.”
Arturo reluctantly walked to Kimmalyn’s former ship. I continued on to Skyward Ten. It was a little hard to think of this as “my” ship, with M-Bot back in the cavern. But Ten had done right by me. She was a good fighter.
Instead of my normal ground crew waiting to help me strap in, I found Cobb standing there, holding my helmet.
“Sir?” I asked him.
“You look like you’re having a rough day, Spin,” he said. “You need more time?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m supposed to report your status to medical. Maybe you should go in and have a chat. Meet one of Thior’s new counselors.”
I lifted my hand, holding out the little case of data I’d taken from the library. The secrets that, it turned out, I really hadn’t wanted to know. “I’m fine, sir.”
He studied me, then took the data case. He handed me my helmet, which I inspected, finding the sensors inside.
“Yes,” Cobb said, “they’re still monitoring your brain.”
“Have they … found anything important?” I still didn’t know what to make of all this, but the idea of medical spying on my brain while I flew made me uncomfortable.
“I’m not at liberty to say, cadet. Though I get the impression that they’re eager to start testing all new cadets, using data they’ve collected on you.”
“And you really want me to go in and meet with their counselors? So they can run more weird tests on me?” I grimaced. I had enough problems without wondering why medical was worried about my brain.
“You shouldn’t be so afraid of medical,” he said, tucking the case into his front shirt pocket and pulling something from it. A folded sheet of paper. “Dr. Thior is a good person. Take this, for example.”
Curious, I took the sheet of paper and read it.
Authorization for release of restrictions on Cadet Spensa Nightshade. it read. Full cadet privileges instated. Memo #11723.
It was signed by Admiral Judy Ivans.
“What … ?” I asked. “Why?”
“After your visit to medical, someone sent Dr. Thior a tip, explaining that you were living in the wilderness and being forced to catch your own food. The doctor raised an enormous fuss about you being isolated from your flight, and the admiral finally backed down. You can sleep and eat in the school building now.”
I felt a sudden, almost overwhelming relief. Oh, stars. Tears crept to the corners of my eyes.
Scud, as good as this news was, it was the wrong time. I was already in a fragile emotional state. I just about lost it right there on the launchpad.
“I …,” I forced out. “I wonder who sent that tip to Dr. Thior.”
“A coward.”
“Cobb, I—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he said, and pointed toward the cockpit. “Get strapped in. The others are all ready.”
He was right, but I had to ask. “Cobb? Is it … true? What happened in that holorecording of the Battle of Alta? Did my father … did he do that?”
Cobb nodded. “I got a good look at him, while we were dog-fighting. We passed close enough that I could see straight into his cockpit. It was him, Spensa. The angry snarl on his face has haunted me ever since.”
“Why, Cobb? Why would he do that? What happened up there, in the sky? What did he see?”
Cobb didn’t answer. He gestured for me to climb up the ladder, so I pulled myself together and climbed. He followed up the ladder and stood there, in the ground crew spot, as I settled into the cockpit.
I again inspected the helmet, with the strange sensors inside. “They really think they can tell from my brain?” I asked. “They think they can determine if I … if I’ll do what my father did?”
Cobb gripped the edge of the cockpit, leaning in. “You don’t know it, kid, but you’re at the center of an argument that goes back generations. Some people say that your father proves that cowardice is genetic. They think there’s some … defect inside you.”
Cobb’s expression grew grim, his voice softer. “I think that’s utter nonsense. I don’t know what happened to your father—I don’t know why my friend tried to kill me, or why I was forced to shoot him down. Killing him has haunted me; I don’t think I could ever fly again. But one thing I can’t believe is that someone is destined to be a coward or a traitor. No, I can’t accept that. I could never accept that.”
He pointed toward the sky. “But Ironsides does believe it. She is certain you’ll inevitably turn into either a coward or a traitor. You prove her wrong by getting back into the sky and becoming a model pilot—one so scudding perfect everyone feels embarrassed to have ever questioned you.”
“And … what if they’re right? What if I am a coward, or what if I do end up—”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, cadet! Strap in! Your flight is ready!”
“Yes, sir!” I said immediately, strapping in. As I raised my helmet to my head, Cobb took hold of my arm.
“Sir?” I asked.
He considered for a moment. He looked one way, then the other. “Do you ever see anything … strange, Spin?” he asked. “In the darkness?”
“Like what?”
“Eyes,” he said softly.
I shivered, and my cockpit felt suddenly colder.
“Hundreds of small eyes,” he said, “opening up in the blackness, surrounding you. As if the attention of the entire universe has suddenly focused on you and you alone.”
Hadn’t M-Bot said something … about eyes?
“Your father said things like that before the incident,” Cobb said, visibly shaken. “And he’d say … he’d say he could hear the stars.”
Like Gran-Gran said. I thought. Like he said right before he flew up to them. Had he just been talking about the old exercise that Gran-Gran had taught, the one of imagining you were flying among the stars? Or was there more?
There had been a couple of times when … when I’d thought for certain I could hear them up there …
“I can tell from your horrified expression,” Cobb said, “that you think I’ve suddenly started raving like a madman. It does sound silly, doesn’t it?” He shook himself. “Well, never mind that. If you for some reason see anything like I described, tell me. Don’t talk to anyone else, not even your flightmates, and never say anything about it over the radio. Okay, Spensa?”
I nodded, numb. I almost told him about what I’d heard, but stopped myself. Cobb was the only real ally I had, but in that moment I panicked. I knew that if I told him I thought I heard the stars, he’d yank me out of the cockpit.
So I held my tongue as he climbed down the ladder. He’d told me to talk to him if I saw anything, not if I heard something. And I’d never seen anything like he said. Eyes? Hundreds of small eyes, opening up in the blackness, surrounding you …
I shivered again, but pulled on my helmet. Perhaps I wasn’t in the best of shape today. Shaken, sickened by news, and now thoroughly confused. But I knew that if I didn’t get back into the air, I’d go crazy for certain.
So when Jorgen called for us to take off, I did so.
