Skyward

by Brandon Sanderson

  But that could be a ruse, right? He said he couldn’t lie, but I had only his word on that. I…

  “Spin?” Cobb asked, stopping near my mockpit. “You aren’t catching that cold too, are you?”

  I shook my head. “This is just a lot to take in.”

  Cobb grunted. “Well, maybe it’s a load of cold slag. Truth is, once we lost the archive, most everything about the old days became hearsay.”

  “Do you mind if we tell Nedd about this?” I asked him. “When he gets back?”

  “He’s not coming back,” Cobb said. “The admiral officially removed him from the cadet rolls this morning.”

  “What?” I said, standing up, surprised. “Did he ask to be removed?”

  “He didn’t report for duty, Spin.”

  “But…his brothers…”

  “Being unable to control your emotions, grief included, is a sign that one is unfit for duty. At least that’s how Ironsides and the other DDF brass see it. I say it’s a good thing Nedd is out. That boy was too smart for all this anyway…” He hobbled out the door.

  I sank back down into my seat. So we really were just six now. And if being unable to control emotions made one unfit for duty…what about me? It was all piling on top of me. The loss of friends, the worry about M-Bot, the voices that whispered deep down inside that I was in fact a coward.

  All my life, I’d fought with a chip on my shoulder, thundering that I would be a pilot and I would be good enough. Where was that confidence now?

  I’d always assumed that when I made it—when I finally got here—I’d stop feeling so alone.

  I dug in my pack and raised my radio. “M-Bot, are you there?”

  “Acclivity ring: functional, but lacking power. Boosters: nonfunctional. Cytonic hyperdrive: nonfunctional.” He paused. “That’s a yes, in case you were confused. I’m here, because I can’t go anywhere.”

  “Were you listening in on our conversation?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And I admit, I was running some calculations on the likelihood of mushrooms growing inside that building, as your conversation was—typical of humans—slightly boring. But not completely! So you should feel—”

  “M-Bot. Are you a Krell?”

  “What? No! Of course I’m not a Krell. Why would you think that I am? How could you think…Wait, calculating. Oh. You think because I’m an AI, and they’re likely AIs, that we must be the same?”

  “You have to admit it’s suspicious.”

  “I’d be offended if I could be offended,” he said. “Maybe I should start calling you a cow, since you have four limbs, are made of meat, and have rudimentary biological mental capacities.”

  “Would you know if you were a Krell?” I asked him. “Maybe you forgot.”

  “I’d know,” he said.

  “You’ve forgotten why you came to Detritus,” I pointed out. “You have only one image of your pilot, if that’s even really him. You can barely remember anything about my species. Maybe you never knew. Maybe your memory bank is filled only with the bits that the Krell know about us, and you invented this entire story.”

  “I’m writing a new subroutine now,” he said. “To properly express my outrage. It’s going to take time to get right. Give me a few minutes.”

  “M-Bot…”

  “Just a sec. Patience is a virtue, Spensa.”

  I sighed, but started packing up my things. I felt hollowed out. Empty. Not afraid, of course. I bathed in fires of destruction and reveled in the screams of the defeated. I didn’t get afraid.

  But maybe, deep down, I was…worried. Nedd dropping out had hit me harder than it should have.

  I threw my pack on my shoulder and clipped the radio to its side. I set it to flash a light if M-Bot or someone else tried to contact me. I didn’t want him talking out of it while I walked the hallways, though I needn’t have worried. The building was empty; Cobb had dismissed us late, and the other flights had already gone to dinner. I didn’t spot any MPs or random support staff as I walked slowly toward the exit, my feet leaden.

  I wasn’t certain I could keep doing this. Getting up early, working all morning on M-Bot. Getting wrung out by lessons each day, then trudging back to my cave at night. Sleeping fitfully, dreaming of the people I’d failed or—worse—having nightmares about running away…

  “Pssst!”

  I stopped, then glanced at the radio strapped to the side of my backpack.

  “Psssss­sssss­sssss­sssss­sssss­sssss­ttt! Spensa!”

  I looked up and down the hallway. To my right—was that Kimmalyn there, in a doorway, wearing black? “Quirk?”

  She waved me forward urgently. I frowned, suspicious.

  Then I wanted to kick myself. Idiot. This is Kimmalyn.

  I walked to her. “What are you—”

  “Shhh!” she said, then scrambled down the hallway and peeked around a corner. She waved at me to follow, and more confused than anything else, I did.

  This continued for a couple of turns through empty corridors—we even had to pull into the bathroom and she made me wait with her there, explaining nothing, until we finally reached a hallway lined with doors. The girls’ bunks. Two unfamiliar young women—wearing flight suits and the patch of Stardragon Flight—stood chatting outside one of the rooms.

  Kimmalyn held me there, crouching at the corner until the two girls finally walked off in the other direction. I didn’t miss that Kimmalyn and I had come in the back way, the opposite direction of the mess hall. So was she sick, or not?

  After the two girls left, FM’s head—her short hair clipped back with a glittering barrette—popped out of one of the doors. She gestured with an urgent wave. Kimmalyn dashed down the hall to her, and I followed, ducking into their room.

  FM slammed the door, then grinned. Their small room was as I remembered it, though one of the beds had been removed, when Morningtide died. That left a bunk on the left wall, and a single bed by the right. A pile of blankets lay lumped between them, and the dresser held two trays of food: steaming soup in bowls, with algae tofu and slices of thick bread. Real bread. With real imitation butter.

  My mouth started watering.

  “We asked for extra,” Kimmalyn said, “but they sent soup, because they think we’re sick. Still, ‘You can’t ask for more when you already have it,’ as the Saint said.”

  “They removed the extra bed,” FM said, “so we piled some blankets on the floor. The trick is going to be using the lavatories—but we’ll run interference for you.”

  It finally sank in. They’d pretended to be sick so they could order food into the room—and share it. They’d snuck me to the room, and made a “bed” for me.

  Stars. Gratitude surged up inside me.

  I was going to cry.

  Warriors did not cry.

  “Oh! You look angry,” Kimmalyn said. “Don’t be angry. We’re not implying you’re too weak to walk to your cave! We just thought…you know…”

  “It would be nice to take a break,” FM said. “Even a great warrior can take the occasional break, right, Spin?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Great!” Kimmalyn said. “Let’s dig in. Subterfuge makes me famished.”

  That soup tasted better than the blood of my enemies.

  Considering I’d never actually tasted the blood of my enemies, perhaps that didn’t do justice to the soup.

  It tasted better than soup should. It tasted of laughter, and love, and appreciation. The warmth of it glowed inside me like ignited rocket fuel. I snuggled in the blankets, holding the big bowl in my lap, while Kimmalyn and FM chatted.

  I fought down the tears. I would not cry.

  But the soup tasted of home. Somehow.

  “I told you the costume would make
her come with me,” Kimmalyn was saying as she sat on her bed, cross-legged. “Black is the color of intrigue.”

  “You’re insane,” FM said, wagging her spoon. “You’re lucky nobody saw you. Defiants are all too eager to look for a reason to be offended.”

  “You’re Defiant too, FM,” I said. “You were born here, like the rest of us. You’re a citizen of the United Defiant Caverns. Why do you keep pretending you’re something different?”

  FM grinned in an eager way. It seemed that she liked that sort of question. “Being a Defiant,” she said, “isn’t just about our nationality. It’s always expressed as a mindset. ‘A true Defiant will think this way’ or ‘To be Defiant, you need to never back down,’ things like that. So, by their own logic, I can un-Defiant myself through personal choices.”

  “And…you want to?” I said, cocking my head.

  Kimmalyn handed me another slice of bread. “She thinks you all might be a touch…bellicose.”

  “There’s that word again,” I said. “Who talks like that?”

  “People who are erudite,” Kimmalyn said, sipping her soup.

  “I refuse to be trapped by bonds of autocracy and nationalism,” FM said. “To survive, our people have become necessarily hardened, but alongside it we have enslaved ourselves. Most people never question, and doggedly go through the motions of an obedient life. Others have increased aggression to the point that it’s hard to have natural feelings!”

  “I have natural feelings,” I said. “And I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”

  FM eyed me.

  “I’d insist on swords at dawn,” I said, eating the bread. “But I’ll probably be too full of bread to get up. Is this seriously what you all get to eat every day?”

  “Well, what do you eat, dear?” Kimmalyn said.

  “Rats,” I said. “And mushrooms.”

  “Every day?”

  “I used to put pepper on the rats, but I ran out.”

  The two of them shared a look.

  “It’s an embarrassment to the DDF, what the admiral has done to you,” FM said. “But it’s a natural outgrowth of the totalitarian need for absolute power over those who resist her—the very example of the hypocrisy of the system. Defiance is not ‘Defiant’ to them unless it doesn’t actually defy anything.”

  I shot a glance at Kimmalyn, who shrugged. “She’s extremely passionate about this.”

  “We are propping up a government that has overreached its bounds in the name of public safety,” FM said. “The people must speak up and rise against the upper class who holds them enslaved!”

  “Upper class, like you?” I asked.

  FM looked down at her soup, then sighed. “I’d go to the Disputer meetings, and my parents would just pat me on the head and explain to everyone else that I was going through a counterculture phase. Then they signed me up for flight school, and…well, I mean, I get to fly.”

  I nodded. That part I understood.

  “I figure, if I become a famous pilot, I can speak for the little guys, you know? I’m more likely to be able to change things here than down in the deep caverns, wearing ball gowns and sitting primly next to my sisters. Right? Don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” I said. “That makes perfect sense. Right, Quirk?”

  “I keep telling her that,” Kimmalyn said to me, “but I think it will mean more from you.”

  “Why me?” I asked. “FM, didn’t you say people like me have unnatural emotions?”

  “Yes, but you can’t help being a product of your environment!” FM said. “It’s not your fault you’re a bloodthirsty ball of aggression and destruction.”

  “I am?” I perked up. “Like, that’s how you see me?”

  She nodded.

  Awesome.

  The door to the little room suddenly opened, and by instinct I hefted the bowl, figuring that the still-warm soup might make a good diversion if flung in someone’s face.

  Hurl slipped in, her lean form silhouetted by the hallway’s light. Scud. I hadn’t even thought about her. The other two had brought me in while she was away at dinner. Had they cleared this little infraction with her?

  She met my eyes, then hurriedly shut the door. “I brought desserts,” she said, lifting a small bundle wrapped in a napkin. “Jerkface caught me taking them as he stopped by. I think he just does that to glare at us before he goes off to be with more important people for dinner.”

  “What did you tell him?” Kimmalyn said.

  “I said I wanted a midnight snack. Hopefully he doesn’t suspect anything. The hallway looked clear, no MPs or anything. I think we’re good.” She unwrapped the napkin, revealing some chocolate cake that was only mildly squashed by the transportation.

  I watched her, thoughtful, as she gave us each a piece, then flopped onto her bed, stuffing the last chunk into her mouth in one go. This was a girl who had barely spoken to me over the last few weeks. Now she brought me cake? I was certainly relieved that she wasn’t going to turn me in, but I didn’t know what to make of her otherwise.

  I settled back down in my blankets, then tried the cake.

  It was so, so much better than rat. I couldn’t help but let out a little groan of delight, at which Kimmalyn grinned. She sat on the side of Hurl’s bed, which hadn’t been made in the morning. Kimmalyn’s bed was the neatly made top bunk above, with the immaculate corners and the frilled pillowcase. FM’s was on the other side, with the stack of books on the shelf near the headboard.

  “So…,” I said, licking my fingers, “what do you guys do all night?”

  “Sleep?” Hurl asked.

  “For twelve hours?”

  “Well, there’s PT,” FM said. “We do laps in the pool usually, though Hurl prefers the weights. And target practice with sidearms, or extra time in the centrifuge…”

  “I still haven’t thrown up in that,” Hurl said, “which is, in my opinion, completely inappropriate.”

  “Hurl taught us wall-ball,” Kimmalyn said. “It’s fun to watch her play the boys. They always take it as an invigorating challenge.”

  “By which she means it’s satisfying to watch Nedd lose,” FM said. “He seems so befuddled every time…” She trailed off, perhaps realizing that they’d never get to see him play again.

  My stomach twisted. Swimming. Target practice. Sports? I’d known what I was missing, but hearing it like that…

  “We won’t be expected to do any of that tonight,” Kimmalyn said. “Since we’re sick. It will be fun, Spin! We can stay up all night talking.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “Normal things,” FM said, shrugging.

  What was normal? “Like…guys?”

  “Stars, no,” Hurl said, sitting up and pulling something off her headboard. She held up a sketchbook filled with little drawings of ships going through patterns. “Flight strategies!”

  “Hurl keeps trying to name new moves after herself,” FM noted. “But we figure the ‘Hurl maneuver’ really ought to have several loops in it or something. Like the one on page fifteen.”

  “I hate loops,” Hurl said. “We should call that the Quirk maneuver. It’s flowery.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Kimmalyn said. “I’d somehow end up crashing into myself if I had to do that many loops.”

  “A Quirk maneuver would involve complimenting the enemy while you shoot them,” FM said, grinning. “ ‘Oh! You make lovely sparks when you die! You should feel very proud of yourself. Good job!’ ”

  My tension bled away as the girls showed off the maneuvers they’d designed. The names were consistently terrible, but the chatter was fun, engaging, and…well, just so very welcome. I took a turn sketching an obscenely complex maneuver into the book, something between an Ahlstrom loop and a double switchback with a sidewind.

  “Crazy thing is,�
�� FM said, “she could probably pull that off.”

  “Yeah,” Kimmalyn said. “Maybe we could rename taking off the Quirk maneuver. That’s the only thing I can manage consistently.”

  “You’re not nearly as bad as that,” Hurl said to her.

  “I’m the worst pilot in the flight.”

  “And the best shot.”

  “Which matters zero if I die before I can fire back.”

  I grunted, hand still on Hurl’s notebook. I turned to another page. “Quirk is a great sniper, and Hurl, you’re excellent at chasing down Krell ships. FM, you’re excellent at dodging.”

  “I can barely hit the broad side of a mountain though,” FM said. “I guess if you somehow mashed us all together, you’d have one good pilot.”

  “Couldn’t we try something like that?” I said, sketching. “Cobb says that the Krell are always on the lookout for pilots who distinguish themselves. He says that if they find someone they think might be flightleader, they concentrate all fire on that person.”

  “Yeah?” Hurl said, sitting up on her bed. “What are you saying?”

  “Well, if they really are machines, maybe they’ve got this mandate to hunt down our leaders. Maybe it’s stuck in their machine brains, to the point that they follow that command to ridiculous ends.”

  “That seems like a stretch,” FM said.

  I glanced at my pack, and the portable radio on the side. The light was flashing. M-Bot had tried to call me, probably with another request for mushrooms.

  “Look,” I said, returning to my sketch. “What if we encouraged the Krell to focus on specific members of our flight? If they concentrated fire on FM, who is best at dodging, they might leave the others alone. Quirk could set up and pick them off. Hurl could hang back, and then chase after any who decided to try to bring down our gunner.”

  The others leaned in close. Hurl nodded, though FM shook her head. “I’m not sure I could survive that, Spin. I would end up with dozens of tails. I’d be shot down for sure. But…maybe you could manage it.”

  “You’re our best pilot,” Quirk agreed. “And you’re not frightened of anything.”