Skyward

by Brandon Sanderson

  I sat down and watched in silence. M-Bot’s holoprojector didn’t produce sound. Ships went up in flares of muted death. They flew like gnats without wings or buzz.

  I knew the battle. I’d been taught it, memorized the tactics employed. Watching, however, I felt it. Before, I’d imagined the great maneuvers as, against the odds, forty human fighters faced down two and a half times that many enemies. I’d pictured a bold defense. Bordering on desperation, but always in control.

  Now that I was a pilot though, I could feel the chaos. The haphazard pace of the battle. The tactics seemed less grand—no less heroic, but far more improvised. Which actually raised my opinion of the pilots.

  It went on for quite a while—longer than any of Skyward Flight’s skirmishes had gone—and I picked him out easily. The best fighter in the bunch, the one who led the charges. It felt arrogant to think I could single out my father’s ship from the crowded mess, but there was something about the way he flew…

  “Can you identify the pilots?” I asked.

  Little readouts appeared above each ship, listing callsigns and designations.

  HOPE SEVEN, the ship’s label read. CALLSIGN: CHASER.

  Arrogant or not, I’d called it accurately. Despite myself, I tried again to touch his ship, and found tears in my eyes. Fool girl. I wiped them as my father fell in with his wingmate. Callsign: Mongrel. Cobb.

  Another ship joined them. Callsign: Ironsides. Then two more I didn’t recognize. Callsigns: Rally and Antique. Those five were all that remained of my father’s initial flight of eight. The battle casualties were very high; what had begun as forty ships was now twenty-seven.

  I stood up and walked after my father’s ship as it swooped through the cavern. The First Citizens fought frantically, but their bravery bore fruit as they drove the Krell back. I knew they would—yet still found myself watching breathlessly. Ships exploded as little flashes. Lives spent to found what would become the first stable society and government on Detritus since the Defiant had crashed here.

  That society and government were both flawed. FM was right about how unfair it was, how single-minded and authoritarian. But it was something. It existed because these people—these pilots—had defied the Krell.

  Near the end of the battle, the Krell pulled back to regroup. From my studies, I knew they would make only one more push before finally retreating into the sky. The human battle lines re-formed, flights grouping together, and I could almost hear them making verbal confirmations of status.

  I knew this moment. The moment when…

  One ship—my father’s—broke from the pack. My heart about stopped. My breath caught.

  But he flew upward.

  I leaped onto a rock, then onto M-Bot’s wing, trying to follow my father as he flew higher into the sky. I reached up, and could imagine what he’d seen. I somehow knew what it was—my father had spotted a hole in the debris, like the one he’d pointed out to me. The one I’d only ever seen a second time, flying M-Bot, when the debris had lined up just right.

  I read something into his disappearance. Not cowardice at all. To me, his move—flying upward—was obvious. The battle had been going for an hour. After this desperate stand, with the enemy regrouping for another push, my father had worried the fight would fail.

  So he’d done something desperate. He’d gone to see where the Krell came from. To try to stop them. I felt a chill, watching him fly upward. He was doing what he’d always told me.

  He had tried to aim for something higher.

  His ship vanished.

  “He didn’t run,” I said. I wiped the tears from my eyes again. “He broke formation. He may have disobeyed orders. But he didn’t run.”

  “Well,” M-Bot said, “it—”

  “That’s what they’re covering up!” I said, looking toward M-Bot’s cockpit. “They branded him a coward because he flew up when he wasn’t supposed to.”

  “You might—”

  “Cobb has known all this time. It must have torn him up inside. It’s why he doesn’t fly; guilt for the lies he’s perpetuated. But what did my father see? What happened to him? Did he—”

  “Spensa,” M-Bot said. “I’m jumping ahead a short time. Watch.”

  A speck of light, like a star, dropped down from the top of the cavern. My father’s ship returning? I reached out toward it, and the holographic ship swooped down, passing through my hand. When my father reached the other four ships in his flight, he hit his IMP and brought down their shields.

  Wait. What?

  As I watched, the Krell returned in a surging, final assault. My father spun in a perfect loop and unleashed his destructors, destroying one of his own flightmates.

  It…it can’t be…

  Callsign: Rally died in a flash of fire. My father swooped around, joining the Krell, who didn’t fire on him—but supported him as he attacked another member of his former flight.

  “No,” I said. “No, it’s a lie!”

  Callsign: Antique died trying to run from my father.

  “M-Bot, that’s not him!” I yelled.

  “Life signs are the same. I cannot see what happened above, but it is the same ship, with the same pilot. It’s him.”

  He destroyed another ship in front of my eyes. He was a terror on the battlefield. A disaster of steel and fire.

  “No.”

  Ironsides and Mongrel fell in together, tailing my father. He shot down someone else. That was four of the First Citizens he’d killed.

  “I…” I felt empty. I slumped to the ground.

  Mongrel fired. My father dodged, but Mongrel stayed on him—hunting him. Until finally he scored a hit.

  My father’s ship exploded in a tiny inferno, the pieces spiraling down before me, raining as burning debris.

  I barely watched the rest of the battle. I just stared at the spot where my father’s ship had vanished. Eventually, the humans were victorious. The remaining Krell fled in defeat.

  Fourteen survivors.

  Twenty-five dead.

  One traitor.

  The hologram vanished.

  “Spensa?” M-Bot said. “I can read your emotional state as dazed.”

  “You’re sure this data couldn’t be faked?”

  “The plausibility of this record being falsified without my ability to detect? Considering your people’s technology? Highly improbable. In human terms, no, Spensa. There’s no way this is fake. I’m…sorry.”

  “Why?” I whispered. “Why would he do that? Was he one of them all along? Or…or what did he see up there?”

  “I have no data that could help answer those questions. I have voice recordings of the battle, but my analysis considers it normal battle chatter—at least until your father saw the hole in the sky.”

  “Play that,” I said. “Let me listen to it.”

  “I can hear the stars.”

  I’d asked for it, but hearing my father’s voice again—after all these years—still hit me with a wave of emotion. Pain, love. I was a little girl again, in that moment.

  “I can see them too, Cobb,” my father said. “Like I saw them earlier today. A hole in the debris field. I can get through.”

  “Chaser!” Ironsides said. “Stay in ranks.”

  “I can get through, Judy. I’ve got to try. I’ve got to see.” He paused, then his voice grew softer. “I can hear the stars.”

  The line was silent for a short time. And then Ironsides spoke. “Go,” she said. “I trust you.”

  The audio cut out.

  “After that,” M-Bot said, “your father flew up out of the debris field. The sensors don’t record what happened up there. Then, approximately five minutes and thirty-nine seconds later, he returns and attacks.”

  “Does he say anything?”

  “I have only one little clip,�
�� M-Bot said. “I assume you want to hear it?”

  I didn’t. But I had to anyway. Tears streaming down my face, I listened as M-Bot played the recording. The open channel, with many voices talking in the chaos of the battle. I distinctly heard Cobb shouting at my father.

  “Why? Why, Chaser?”

  Then, almost inaudible over the chatter, my father’s voice. Soft. Mournful.

  “I will kill you,” he said. “I will kill you all.”

  The cavern fell silent again.

  “That is the only time I can find where he spoke after returning,” M-Bot said.

  I shook my head, trying to make sense of it. “Why wouldn’t the DDF publicize this? They had no problem condemning him as a coward. Why hold back the truth when it’s worse?”

  “I could try to guess,” M-Bot said. “But I’m afraid without further information, I’d merely be making things up.”

  I stumbled to my feet, then climbed into M-Bot’s cockpit. I hit the Close button, sealing the canopy, then turned off the lights.

  “Spensa?”

  I curled up into myself.

  And lay there.

  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 needed to fly.

  * * *

  —

  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.

  “Like me?”

  “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 dogfighting. 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?”