Two weeks later, I was feeling a little more stable as I flew my Poco through a sequence of valleys, skimming the surface of the planet.
“I don’t see anything,” I said over the flight channel.
“Me neither,” FM said. She was flying at my wing.
“The trick is to remain alert on a long patrol,” a female voice said in our helmets. “Being a good scout isn’t about being able to see well; it’s about being able to give your attention to a monotonous job. It’s about not letting your mind wander into daydreams.”
Well, I’m in trouble. I thought.
“If you end up in a scout team,” said the woman, callsign: Blaze, “you’ll get a Val-class ship, which has traded its 138 Stewart destructors for a single 131, with far less firepower. But your sensor systems are better, longer-range, with more detail. It’s still tricky to catch enemy Krell who are flying under the radar—but fortunately, they often use the same tactic of trying to sneak up on AA guns. Since you know what they’re going to do, you can anticipate their moves.”
That same old adage. If you knew what the enemy would do, you had an advantage. I’d tried that, in the battle where Hurl had died. I’d saved Kimmalyn, but I’d left my wingmate alone.
Nobody blamed me; it had been the right move to break off and protect Kimmalyn. It still gnawed at me though.
And … I was already not paying attention. I tried to snap my focus back to the search for Krell, but I knew I wasn’t meant for this sort of duty. I needed something that engaged me, that consumed me, like a good firefight.
Blaze kept giving us tips. How to spot the wake of a low-flying ship from the patterns in the dust. How Krell move around hills when trying to hide from scanners. How to tell if something in the distance is a ship or an optical illusion. It was good stuff, and important. Even if it wasn’t for me, I was glad Cobb had us trying out different combat roles. It expanded my experience, made abstract tactics like “flanking flights,” “reserve ships,” and “scouting parties” into real things.
I heard a pop in the sky. Our training with the scouts was happening during an actual battle.
“How do you deal with … the emotions of it?” Arturo asked over the line. “Of scouting, when … you know …”
“When everyone else is fighting, maybe dying?” Blaze asked.
“Yeah,” Arturo said. “Every instinct I have says I should be flying toward that battle. This feels … cowardly.”
“We’re not cowards!” Blaze said, her voice rising. “We fly ships with a fraction of the armament of even a Poco. And if we intercept Krell, we might have to fight and slow them on our own to buy time for—”
“Sorry!” Arturo stopped her. “I didn’t mean it like that!”
Blaze breathed out. “We’re not cowards. The DDF makes it very clear that we’re not. But you might have to deal with a … a look now and then. It’s part of the sacrifice we all make to see that the Defiant Caverns are kept safe.”
I banked through a careful sequence of swerves, trying to use the time to practice my low-elevation maneuvers. Eventually, the debris fall behind us stopped, and Cobb called us in.
We fell into formation, did verbals, and flew back to base and landed. While waiting for the ground crew, I happened to glance at the mess hall, and a hint of a smile crept to my lips. I remembered crashing through its hologram on my first day.
A wave of guilt erased my smile. It had only been three weeks since Hurl’s death. I shouldn’t feel happy.
Siv climbed up the ladder, so I hit the cockpit release and pulled off my helmet, which I handed to her.
“Nice landing,” she said to me. “Anything we should look at on the ship today?”
“Control sphere feels like it’s grinding somewhere,” I said. “It seems to tug back at me when I move it.”
“We’ll give the mechanism a good greasing tonight,” she said. “How’s that receiving button working? Still sticking? We …” She trailed off as, on a nearby platform, a Camdon-class fighter landed with smoke pouring from the left side of its fuselage. Siv cursed and slid down the sides of the ladder, then went running with several other ground crew members.
Feeling sick at the sight of that poor ship, I climbed down, joining Jorgen, who was standing at the edge of our launchpad. We stared across at the fire. Several other fighters landed nearby, and one seemed—remarkably—in even worse shape. Scud. If these were the survivors, how many pilots had we lost?
“Were you listening to the flightleader radio channel?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Jorgen said. “They got flanked, then targeted with a double flight of enemy ships. Like the Krell were specifically trying to bring down these fighters, ignoring everyone else.”
I breathed out as Arturo and FM joined us, all watching silently as ground crew pulled the barely conscious pilot from the burning ship, saving her life. Others hosed the ship down with foam.
“Spin, you were right the other day,” Arturo said. “When you said the DDF was losing this war.”
“We’re not losing,” Jorgen said. “Don’t talk like that.”
“They vastly outnumber us,” Arturo said. “And it’s getting worse. I can show you the stats. The Krell keep replenishing, and we can’t keep up.”
“We’ve survived for years,” Jorgen said. “It’s always felt like we’re on the edge of doom. Nothing’s changed.”
Arturo and I shared a look. Neither of us believed that.
Eventually, Jorgen called for us to fall in for the after-battle debriefing with Cobb. We walked to the training building, and—oddly—we found Cobb standing right outside. He was chatting with some people at the entrance.
Arturo stopped in place.
“What?” I asked him.
“That’s my mom,” Arturo said, pointing at the woman talking to Cobb. She was wearing a military uniform. “Scud.”
He walked faster, practically running, as he approached Cobb and his mother. I hurried to catch up, but Jorgen took me by the shoulder and slowed me.
“What?” I hissed. “What’s happening?”
Ahead, Cobb saluted as Arturo arrived. Like, he actually saluted Arturo. I glanced at Jorgen, and his lips had drawn to a line. I stepped forward, but he pulled me back again.
“Give them some space,” he said. FM stopped beside the two of us, watching, not speaking. She seemed to know what was happening too.
Cobb handed something to Arturo. A pin?
Arturo gazed down at the pin, then went to slam it into the ground, but his mother caught his arm. Gradually, Arturo relaxed, then reluctantly saluted Cobb. Arturo looked back at us, then saluted us as well.
His mother stepped away, and Arturo slowly turned and followed, trailed by two men in suits.
Cobb limped over to us.
“Will someone please tell me what just happened?” I demanded. “Come on. Throw me a hint at least? Should I be worried for Arturo?”
“No,” Jorgen said. “His parents pulled him out of the DDF. This has been building for a few weeks—ever since he almost got shot down. They’ve been panicking. Off the record, of course. Nobody would admit to being afraid for their son.”
“Strings were pulled,” Cobb said. “The admiral compromised. Arturo gets a pilot’s pin but doesn’t graduate.”
“How does that work?” FM asked.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I agreed. “He didn’t graduate, but he gets to be a full pilot?”
“He’s been retired honorably from service,” Cobb said. “Officially, it’s because he was needed for supervising cargo flights for his family—if we’re ever going to get enough igniter parts, we’ll need those shipments from other caverns. Come on, you three. Let’s get to your debriefing.”
Cobb walked off, and FM and Jorgen joined him. Those two seemed resigned, as if this sort of thing was expected.
I didn’t follow. I felt indignant on Arturo’s behalf. His parents just yanked him out like that?
Jorgen is expecting the same thing to happen to him. I remembered. Maybe all of them were ready for this. The ones from highly merited families, at least.
Standing there, outside the school, I realized for the first time that I was the only ordinary person in the flight who had made it this far. That made me irrationally angry. How dare his parents shelter him, now that it was getting dangerous? Particularly against his own obvious desires?
Jorgen stopped in the doorway ahead, while the others continued on inside. “Hey,” he said, looking back at me. “You coming?”
I stalked up to him.
“Arturo’s parents were never going to let him fly permanently,” he said. “I’m honestly surprised that it took them this long to get spooked.”
“Will the same happen to you? Will your father come for you tomorrow?”
“Not yet. Arturo’s not going into politics, but I am. I’ll need to have a few battles under my belt as a real pilot before my parents pull me out.”
“So a little danger, then you’ll be protected. Coddled. Kept safe.”
He winced.
“You realize the only ones who died on our team were the common ones,” I snapped. “Bim, Morningtide, Hurl. Not a single deep caverner among them!”
“They were my friends too, Spin.”
“You, Arturo, Nedd, FM.” I poked him in the chest with each name. “You had training ahead of time. A leg up, to keep you alive, until your coward families could stick some medals on you and parade you around as proof that you’re so much better than the rest of us!”
He grabbed my arms to stop me from poking him, but I wasn’t mad at him. In fact, I could see in his eyes that he was just as frustrated as me. He hated that he was boxed in like this.
I grabbed hold of his flight suit by the front, gripping it with two fists. Then I quietly rested my forehead against his chest. Frustrated and—yes—even afraid. Afraid of losing more friends.
Jorgen tensed, then finally let go of my shoulders and—likely uncertain what else to do—wrapped his arms around me. It should have been awkward. Instead, it was actually comforting. He understood. He felt the loss like I did.
“I barely got to be a real part of the flight,” I whispered, “and it’s being ripped apart again. A piece of me is glad he’s safe, and will stay safe, but another piece of me is angry. Why couldn’t Hurl have been kept safe, or Bim?”
Jorgen didn’t respond.
“Cobb told us, on that first day, that only one or two of us would make it,” I said. “Who dies next? Me? You? Why, after decades, don’t we even know what we’re fighting or why we’re doing it?”
“We know why, Spensa,” he said softly. “It’s for Igneous, and Alta. For civilization. And you’re right, the way we do things isn’t fair. But these are the rules we play by. They’re the only rules I know.”
“Why is everything about rules, to you?” I asked, my forehead still resting against his chest. “What about emotion, what about feelings?”
“I … I don’t know. I …”
I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and held on. I thought about the DDF, about Alta and Igneous, and about the fact that I didn’t have anything to defy any longer. I’d spent my life fighting against the things they said about my father.
Now what did I do?
“I do feel things, Spin,” he finally said. “Like right now, I feel incredibly awkward. I didn’t ever think you were the hugging type.”
I released the front of his flight suit, causing him to drop his arms. “You grabbed me first,” I said.
“You were attacking me!”
“Lightly tapping your chest for emphasis.”
He rolled his eyes, and the moment was over. Strangely though—as we joined FM and walked toward our new classroom—I realized something. I did feel better. Just a little, but considering how my life had been going lately, I was willing to take what I could get.
