Eventually, we all managed to make five trips up and down without crashing. As Cobb sent us up again, I leveled at five hundred on the altimeter, then stopped myself there. I released a breath, leaning back as the other cadets joined me in a line.
Jerkface zoomed past and did a little flip before settling in. Show-off.
“All right, flightleader,” Cobb said. “Call your flight roll and get a verbal confirmation of readiness from each member. You’ll do this before every engagement, to verify that nobody is having mechanical or physical troubles. Flight, if you are experiencing troubles, tell your flightleader. If you fly into battle knowing something is wrong with your ship, then you are responsible for the damage you might cause.”
“Sir,” Bim asked over the line, “is it true that if we crash a real ship while in training, we can’t graduate?”
“Usually,” Cobb said, “if a cadet crashes their starfighter, it’s a sign of some kind of negligence, the type that indicates they shouldn’t be trusted with that kind of equipment.”
“And if we eject?” Bim said. “I’ve heard that cadets do training in real combat situations. If we get shot down and eject, does it mean we’re out? As a cadet, I mean?”
Cob was silent for a moment. “There’s no hard-and-fast rule,” he said.
“But it’s tradition, right?” Bim asked. “A cadet who ejects and scuttles their ship stays grounded from then on.”
“It’s because they’re looking for cowards,” Hudiya said. “They want to kick out cadets who are too eager to eject.”
I felt a jolt of adrenaline, as I always did when someone mentioned the word coward. But it wasn’t in reference to me, and never would be. I would never eject.
“Real pilots,” said one of Jerkface’s cronies, “the best of the best? They can steer a crashing ship into a salvageable landing, even if they’ve been shot. Acclivity rings are worth so much that pilots have to protect them, because the pilot isn’t worth as much as—”
“That’s enough, Arturo,” Cobb cut in. “You’re spreading stupid rumors. Both pilots and ships are valuable. You cadets ignore that talk—you might hear it from other flights—about steering your ship into a controlled landing. You hear me? If you’re shot down, you eject. Don’t worry about the consequences, worry about your life. If you’re a good enough pilot it won’t impact your career, tradition or no tradition.”
I frowned. That wasn’t what I’d heard. Full pilots who got shot down, they were given second chances. But cadets? Why graduate someone who had been shot down when you were looking for only the very best?
“Stupid pilot pride,” Cobb grumbled. “It’s cost us more than the Krell have, I swear. Flightleader, weren’t you going to call roll?”
“Oh, right!” Jorgen said. “Cadet Flight B! Time to—”
“Cadet Flight B?” Cobb said. “You can come up with a better name than that, flightleader.”
“Er. Yes, sir. Um . . .”
“Skyward Flight,” I said.
“Skyward Flight,” Jerkface said, jumping on the name. “Roll call and confirmation of readiness, in order of dashboard ship identification!”
“Skyward Two,” said the taller of the two cronies. “Callsign: Nedder. Confirmed.”
“Skyward Three,” said Hudiya. “Callsign: Hurl. Confirmed.”
“Seriously?” Jerkface asked. “Hurl?”
“Memorable, isn’t it?” she asked.
Jerkface sighed.
“Skyward Four,” said Rig. “Um . . . Callsign: Rigmarole. Wow, it sounds good to say that. And, um, confirmed.”
“Skyward Five,” said Arturo, the shorter of the two cronies. “Callsign: Amphisbaena.”
“Amphi-what?” Hurl asked.
“It’s a two-headed dragon,” Arturo said. “It’s an extremely fearsome animal from mythology. Confirmed.”
“Skyward Six,” Kimmalyn said. “So . . . callsign. I need one of those, eh?”
“Saint,” I suggested.
“Oh, stars no,” she replied.
“You can pick one later,” Cobb said. “Just use your first name for now.”
“No, no,” she said. “Just call me Quick. No need to procrastinate my choice; the Saint always said, ‘Save time and do that job now.’ ”
“How,” Arturo said, “does doing something ‘now’ save you any time? Theoretically, the indicated job will take the same amount of time now as it would later.”
“Tangent, Amphi,” Jerkface said. “Skyward Seven?”
“Skyward Seven,” said an accented girl’s voice I didn’t think I’d heard before. “Callsign: Morningtide. Confirmed.”
Wait. Who was that? I wracked my brain. The Vician girl with the tattoo on her lower jaw. I realized. The one who brushed me off earlier.
“Skyward Eight,” said Bim. “Bim. That’s my name, not my callsign. I’ll get back to you on that later. I don’t want to screw it up. Confirmed, by the way.”
“Skyward Nine,” said Freyja, the tall blonde girl. “Callsign: FM. Confirmed.” She’d launched her ship the first time without crashing, the only one who had done that except for Jerkface and his cronies. Her expensive clothing and those golden clasps on her boots made me think she must be from the lower caverns too. Her family obviously had enough merits for fancy requisitions.
“Skyward Ten,” I said. “Callsign: Spin. Confirmed.”
“What a bland callsign,” Jerkface said. “I’ll be Jager. It means hunter in one of the old—”
“Can’t be Jager,” Cobb said. “We’ve already got a Jager. Nightmare Flight. Just graduated two months ago.”
“Oh,” Jerkface said. “I . . . er. I didn’t know that.”
“How about Jerkface?” I said. “It’s what I’ve been calling you in my head. We can call you that.”
“No. We. Can’t.”
I heard a number of snickers—including one I was pretty sure came from Nedd “Nedder” Strong, the taller of Jerkface’s cronies.
“All right,” Cobb said, ignoring us. “Now that you’ve done that, maybe we can talk about how to actually move somewhere.”
I nodded, eager, though I realized nobody could see me.
“Hold the throttle with a light touch,” Cobb directed. “Nudge it forward slowly, until the dial says point-one.”
I did so, timid—extra worried that I’d repeat my embarrassment from earlier—and I let out a breath as my ship moved forward at a modest boost.
“Good,” Cobb said. “You’re now going point-one Mag. That’s a tenth of Mag-1, which is normal combat speed. Even-numbered designations, you lower yourselves three hundred feet. You’d be more used to saying a hundred meters, but it’s tradition to use feet for altitude, for some scudding reason, and you’ll get used to it. Odd-numbered designations, you go up three hundred. That will give you some space to try very slight moves to the left and right as you fly.”