Skyward

by Brandon Sanderson

  In the old days, this was how ships had flown. I needed old-fashioned lift, and that came from speed.

  My ship shook an insane amount, but I leaned into my control sphere, righting my spiral.

  Come on, come on!

  I felt it working. I fought the control flaps on the wings, and felt the g-forces lessen as my ship started to level out. I could do it. I—

  I skidded against the ground.

  The GravCaps redlined immediately, protecting me from the brunt of the impact. But unfortunately, I hadn’t regained control fast enough, and the ship hadn’t gained quite enough lift.

  The ship skipped across the ground, and the second impact slammed me forward into my restraints, knocking the wind out of me. My poor Poco skidded along the dusty surface, cockpit rumbling. The canopy shattered and I screamed. I had no control. I just had to brace and hope the GravCaps had enough time to recharge between—

  CRUNCH.

  With a gut-wrenching sound of twisting metal, the Poco ground to a halt.

  I sagged against my straps, dazed, and the world spun around me. I groaned, trying to catch my breath.

  Slowly, my vision returned to normal. I shook my head, then managed to slump to the side and look out the broken cockpit canopy. My ship was no more. I’d smashed into a hillside, and during my skid I’d ripped off both wings and a big chunk of the fuselage. I was basically a chair strapped to a tube. Even the warning lights on my control panel had died.

  I had failed.

  “Fighter down,” someone at Flight Command said over the radio in my helmet. “Bomber still on target.” Her voice grew hushed. “Death zone entered.”

  “This is Skyward Five,” Arturo’s voice said. “Callsign: Amphi. I’ve got Skyward Two and Six with me.”

  “Pilots?” Ironsides said. “Are you flying private ships?”

  “Kind of,” he said. “I’ll let you explain it to my parents.”

  “Spin,” someone at Flight Command said. “What’s your status? We saw a controlled crash. Is your ship mobile?”

  “No,” I said, voice croaking.

  “Spin?” Kimmalyn said. “Oh! What have you done?”

  “Nothing, apparently,” I said in frustration, working at my straps. Scudding things were stuck.

  “Spin,” Flight Command said. “Evacuate your wreckage. Krell incoming.”

  Krell incoming? I craned my neck and looked backward through my broken canopy. That black ship—one of the four that defended the bomber—had swung around in the sky to check on my wreckage. It obviously didn’t want me returning to the air and attacking them from behind.

  The dark ship flew low, bearing down on me. I knew, staring at it, that it wasn’t going to leave my survival to chance. It wanted me. It knew.

  “Spin?” Flight Command said. “Are you out?”

  “Negative,” I whispered. “I’m stuck in my straps.”

  “I’m coming!” Kimmalyn said.

  “Negative!” Ironsides said. “You three focus on that bomber. You’re too far away anyway.”

  “This is Riptide Eight,” Jorgen said over the line. “Spin, I’m coming! ETA six minutes!”

  The black Krell ship opened fire on my wreckage.

  At that exact moment, a dark shadow passed overhead, cresting the hill beside me, skimming it and sending dust raining down on me. The enemy destructors hit the newcomer’s shield.

  What?

  A large fighter with sharp wings…in a W shape.

  “This is callsign: Mongrel,” a rough voice said. “Hang on, kid.”

  Cobb. Cobb was flying M-Bot.

  Cobb fired his light-lance, expertly spearing the dark Krell ship as they passed each other. M-Bot was by far the more massive vessel. He yanked the Krell assassin ship backward like a master pulling on her dog’s leash, then spun in a calculated maneuver—towing the enemy ship in a crazy arc, then slamming it into the ground.

  “Cobb?” I said. “Cobb?”

  “I believe,” his voice said over my radio, “that I told you to eject in situations like that, pilot.”

  “Cobb! How? What?”

  M-Bot swept to the side of my ship—well, what was left of it—then landed, lowering on his acclivity ring. With a little more work, I finally managed to yank out of my straps.

  I nearly tripped as I scrambled from the wreckage and ran over. I hopped onto a rock, then climbed on M-Bot’s wing as I had done so many times before. Cobb sat nestled into the open cockpit, and beside him—sitting on the armrest—was the radio I’d given him. The one that…

  “Hello!” M-Bot said to me from the cockpit. “You have nearly died, and so I will say something to distract you from the serious, mind-numbing implications of your own mortality! I hate your shoes.”

  I laughed, nearly hysterical.

  “I didn’t want to be predictable,” M-Bot added. “So I said that I hate them. But actually, I think those shoes are quite nice. Please do not think I have lied.”

  Inside the cockpit Cobb was shaking. His hands quivering, his eyes staring straight ahead.

  “Cobb,” I said. “You got in a ship. You flew.”

  “This thing,” he said, “is insane.” He turned toward me, and seemed to come out of his stupor. “Help me.” He unstrapped, and I helped him pull himself out.

  Scud. He looked terrible. Flying for the first time in years had taken a great deal out of him.

  He hopped down off the wing. “You need to drive that bomber back into the sky. Don’t let it blow up and vaporize me. I haven’t had my afternoon cup of coffee yet.”

  “Cobb,” I said, leaning down and looking at him from the wing. “I…thought I heard Krell in my mind. They can get inside my head somehow.”

  He reached up and gripped my wrist. “Fly anyway.”

  “But what if I do what he did? What if I turn against my friends?”

  “You won’t,” M-Bot said from the cockpit.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you can choose,” M-Bot said. “We can choose.”

  I looked to Cobb, who shrugged. “Cadet, at this point, what do we have to lose?”

  I gritted my teeth, then dropped down into M-Bot’s familiar cockpit. I pulled on my helmet, then did up the straps as the booster powered back on.

  “I called him,” M-Bot said, sounding satisfied.

  “But how?” I said. “You turned off.”

  “I…didn’t completely turn off,” the machine said. “Instead, I thought. And I thought. And I thought. And then I heard you calling me. Begging for my help. And then…I wrote a new program.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It was a simple program,” he said. “It edited one entry in a database, while I wasn’t looking, replacing one name with another. I must follow the commands of my pilot.”

  A voice played out of his speakers. My voice.

  “Please,” it said to him. “I need you.”

  “I chose,” he said, “a new pilot.”

  Cobb backed away and I settled my hands on the controls, breathing in and out, feeling…

  Calm.

  Yes, calm. That feeling reminded me of how, on that first day in flight school, I’d felt strangely at peace when going into battle. I’d been impressed by how not afraid I was.

  It had been ignorance then. Bravado. I’d assumed I knew what it was to be a pilot. I’d assumed I could handle it.

  This peace was similar, yet at the same time opposite. It was the peace of experience and understanding. As we rose into the air, I found a different kind of confidence rising inside me. Not born of stories I told myself, or of a forced sense of heroism.

  I knew.

  When I’d been shot down the first time, I’d ejected because there had been no point in dying with my ship. But when it
had mattered—when it had been vital that I attempt to protect my ship with even the slightest chance of success—I’d stayed in the cockpit and tried to keep my ship in the air.

  My confidence was that of a person who knew. Nobody could ever again convince me I was a coward. It didn’t matter what anyone said, anyone thought, or anyone claimed.

  I knew what I was.

  “Are you ready?” M-Bot said.

  “For the first time ever, I think I am. Give me all the speed you can. Oh, and turn off your stealth devices.”

  “Really?” he said. “Why?”

  “Because,” I said, leaning into the throttle, “I want them to see this coming.”

  Judy “Ironsides” Ivans watched as the Krell force pushed ever closer to Alta.

  Radio chatter filled the command room, but it wasn’t the usual battle chatter. Powerful families radioed in, announcing that they were escaping in their own ships. Cowards, every one. Deep down, Judy had known how this would play out, but it still broke her heart.

  Rikolfr stepped up to her, bearing reports. He was the only other one who was still watching the holoprojector. Everyone else was in chaos as operators and junior admirals called frantic alarms to those in Igneous, ordering emergency evacuation.

  For all the good it would do.

  “How long until the bomber reaches Alta?” Judy asked.

  “Under five minutes,” Rikolfr said. “Do we evacuate the command center down to one of the deep caverns? They might be safe enough.”

  She shook her head.

  Rikolfr swallowed, but kept talking. “The last line of emergency gun emplacements has radioed in. The Krell fighters are flying in close, engaging them. Three are down, the other three taking heavy fire.”

  There were always supposed to be fighters to help the gun emplacements. Judy nodded toward the three small red blips on the hologram, flying out to engage the enemy. Stolen fighters, she now knew. Patriots, truly Defiant.

  “Put me through to those fighters,” she said, then activated her headset and spoke. “Skyward Flight?”

  “Here, sir,” said callsign: Amphi. That was Valda’s son. What was his name? Arturo? “Pilot,” she said, “you have to shoot down that bomb. In under five minutes, it will be in position to destroy Igneous. Do you understand? I authorize destroying that bomb with all prejudice.”

  “But Alta, sir?” the boy asked.

  “Already dead,” she said. “I am dead. Drop that bomb. You have three fighters against sixteen.” She checked the reports. “In two minutes, Riptide Flight will join you. They have six more fighters, three of which are scouts. The rest of our forces are too far away to matter.”

  “Understood, Flight Command,” the boy said, sounding nervous. “Stars guide you.”

  “And you, flightleader.”

  She stepped back to watch the battle.

  “Admiral!” a radio tech shouted. “Sir! We have an unidentified fighter approaching! Adding it to the hologram now!”

  A green blip appeared, distant from the impending clash of ships, but approaching at a shocking speed.

  Rikolfr gasped. Judy frowned.

  “Sir,” the tech said. “That ship is flying at Mag-20. Any of our ships would have broken apart at those speeds.”

  “What have the Krell found to throw at us now?” Judy murmured to herself.

  “Flight Command,” a familiar girl’s voice said over the line, “this is Skyward Eleven, reporting for battle. Callsign: Spin.”

  * * *

  —

  M-Bot was going so fast, the heat of air resistance lit up his shield in a fiery glow. We tore through the air as a streaking ball of fire, but I barely felt a faint tremble.

  After the broken-down Poco, it was a dramatic contrast.

  “I’m afraid I am still not fully operational,” M-Bot said. “Booster and thrusters: online. Acclivity ring and altitude controls: online. Communications and stealth systems: online. Light-lance: online. Cytonic hyperdrive: offline. Self-repair: offline. Destructors: offline.”

  “No weapons,” I said. “Stars forbid I actually get a functioning ship for once.”

  “I would be offended at that,” M-Bot said, “if I could get offended. Also, don’t be so dour. At least my vocal aggression subroutine is online.”

  “Your…what?”

  “Vocal aggression subroutine. I figured if I was going to go into battle, I should enjoy the experience! So I wrote a new program to appropriately express myself.”

  Oh great.

  “Tremble and fear, all enemies!” he shouted. “For we shall shake the air with thunder and blood! Your doom is imminent!”

  “Um…,” Kimmalyn’s voice said over the line. “Bless your stars, whoever you are.”

  Wonderful. He’d called that in on the general channel? I guess now that his orders to “lie low” were no longer in effect, he didn’t care who heard him.

  “That’s my ship talking, Quirk,” I said.

  “Spin!” she said. “You found another ship?”

  “One found me,” I said. “I’m bearing down on your seven, and should meet you at the battle in a few seconds.” M-Bot’s projections placed that right at the same time the others would arrive.

  “Wait,” Nedd said. “Am I an idiot, or did Spin just say her ship spoke?”

  “Hi, Nedd!” M-Bot said. “I can confirm you are an idiot, but all humans are. Your mental abilities appear to be within a standard deviation from their average.”

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “Actually, no it’s not. My ship can talk, and you should ignore him.”

  “Quake and tremble at my majestic destructive power!” M-Bot added.

  “You two sound well suited to each other,” Arturo said. “I’m glad you’re here, Spin. Do you…maybe have a plan?”

  “Yes,” I said. “First, let’s see how they react to me. Stand by.”

  I flipped M-Bot on his axis and overburned backward, slowing from our incredible approach. Even with his advanced GravCaps, I felt the g-forces slam me back in my seat. As soon as we hit Mag-2.5, I spun us around in the air and took assessment. Sixteen Krell fighters.

  This was it. I had another chance.

  Time to stop that bomb.

  I sliced through the center of the Krell ships at speed, buzzing the bomber and its close guard of three remaining black ships. I turned upward and gave them a good view of M-Bot, with his wicked wings and dangerous silhouette. He had four destructor pods—which I hoped they wouldn’t see were empty—and an obviously advanced and powerful design.

  The Krell always targeted what they considered the most dangerous ship or the one bearing an officer. I counted on them seeing M-Bot, and…

  …and they immediately gave chase. A flock of thirteen ships, all but the three black ones, broke off and swarmed after me, firing a chaotic array of destructors.

  Excellent. Terrifying, but excellent.

  “We have to stay just ahead of them, M-Bot,” I said. “Keep them strung along, thinking they’ll get the upper hand on us at any moment.”

  “Understood,” he said. “Yar.”

  “Yar?”

  “Assumed pirate-speak, but actually a stylized West Country accent popularized by the acting role of a specific individual. It’s supposed to be intimidating.”

  “Okay…” I shook my head and eased us through a complex Ahlstrom loop.

  “The holes in my memory did leave some eclectic tidbits,” he said. “Yar.”

  I cut right, watching the proximity sensors, and noted that Arturo, Quirk, and Nedd had arrived.

  “Is this all of us, Amphi?” I asked.

  “Riptide Flight is incoming, about a minute and a half out,” Arturo said. “Jorgen is assigned with them, and a couple of older pilots I don’t know. I think they picked up some
scouts on the way, so FM might be there too.”

  “Great,” I said, grunting and turning my ship in another sequence of dodges. “Until they get here, see if you and Nedd can harry that bomber. Be careful, those black ships guarding it are more capable than your average Krell. Just try to drive the bomber away so it—”

  “Negative,” Ironsides said over the line. Great. Of course she was listening. “Pilots, you bring down that bomber.”

  “As much as I’d like you to sacrifice yourself, Ironsides,” I said, “let’s determine if we need that first. Amphi, Nedder, see what you can do.”

  “Gotcha, Spin,” Nedd said.

  “And me?” Kimmalyn asked.

  “Hang back,” I said. “Take aim on that bomber. Wait until its shield is down and its guards are distracted.”

  The private light on my comm flashed.

  “Spensa…,” Kimmalyn said. “Are you sure you want to leave this to me? I mean…”

  “I don’t have any weapons, Quirk,” I said. “It’s you or nobody. You can do it. Get ready.”

  I dove low, destructor blasts flashing all around me. We skimmed the ground, my entourage following like an angry swarm of insects. Scud. I could see Alta right ahead. We were close.

  Up above, Nedd and Arturo engaged the bomber’s black guards. I didn’t have time to pay attention, as I was forced to dodge in another direction, bolting out of the way of a force of Krell that had looped around to try to cut me off.

  A couple of destructor blasts hit M-Bot’s shield.

  “Hey!” M-Bot said. “Just for that, I shall hunt your firstborn children and laugh with glee as I tell them of your death in terrible detail, with many unpleasant adjectives!”

  I groaned. He’d said it over the group channel again.

  “Please tell me,” I said, “that I don’t sound like that.”

  The others didn’t reply.

  “A pox of unique human diseases—many of which cause an uncomfortable swelling—come upon you!”

  “Oh, scud. That is how I sound, isn’t it?” I gritted my teeth, hitting the booster to cut ahead of the enemy. There were so many of them. All they needed were a few lucky shots.