That bomber’s shield has to be almost out.
I pointed my nose right at the bomber down below, then I hit the overburn.
“Cadet?” Ironsides said. “Pilot, what are you doing?”
“My weapons are gone,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “I have to ram it.”
“Understood,” Ironsides whispered. “Saints’ own speed, pilot.”
“What?” Jorgen said over the line. “What? Ram it? Spin!”
I dove toward the enemy bomber.
“Spin,” Jorgen said, voice barely audible over the blaring warnings and the roar of the air around my cockpit. “Spin, you’ll die.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “But I’ll win anyway.”
I streaked right toward the ship amid a column of enemy fire. Then—at long last, pushed too far—my poor, broken ship had had enough.
The acclivity ring cut out.
My ship pulled into an unexpected dive, and I undershot the bomber, missing it. Pummeled by the winds—and no longer held up by the acclivity ring—my ship started spinning out of control.
Everything became a blur of smoke and fire.
51
You weren’t supposed to be able to think during those moments. It was all supposed to happen in a flash.
My hand moved by instinct toward the eject lever between my legs. My ship was in an uncontrolled spin with no altitude control. I was going to crash.
I froze.
Nobody else was close enough. Without me to stop them, the Krell would fly on unimpeded to destroy Igneous.
If I crashed, that was it.
I slammed my hand back onto the throttle. With my other hand I flipped off my atmospheric scoop, releasing my ship entirely to the whims of the air. Then I rammed the throttle forward, going into overburn.
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.”