Not for long.
I slammed the throttle forward, going into overburn. The GravCaps protected me for three seconds, and then I slammed back in my seat. I could take g-forces like these though, pushing me straight backward. It wasn’t pleasant, but I didn’t risk blacking out. I just had to get to speed, then carefully climb—using the acclivity ring.
I quickly reached Mag-10—which was the upper speed threshold for a Poco, at least safely. Even this was stretching the limits. The atmospheric scoops—which pushed air away around the ship in a bubble, preventing me from ripping off my own wings during tight maneuvers—were overwhelmed, and my ship rattled from the motion. The friction of air resistance made my normally invisible shield start to glow.
I climbed upward as well—but carefully, slower, as the g-forces in that direction threatened to knock me out. Going up forced my blood down into my feet. I did the stomach-clenching exercises we’d been taught in centrifuge training, but still, darkness started to creep around the outsides of my vision.
I held on, pressed down at six times my normal weight. Though the flight would only take a short while, I had to listen to my friends in battle all the way.
“Careful, Hurl. Not too eager.”
“One’s on me! I’ve got one on me!”
“Dodge, FM!”
“Dodging! Dodging! Scud, who was that?”
“Nightstorm Six. That’s my brother, guys! Callsign: Vent. FM, you owe me some fries or something.”
“To your right! Arturo, look up!”
“Looking! Stars, what a mess.”
Finally my dash beeped, indicating I was approaching my desired coordinates. I let off on the altitude lever, then performed a rapid deceleration. In a Poco with atmospheric scoops, that meant spinning my ship in the air—the GravCaps kicking in—then firing my booster backward to slow me down.
I came out of it after slowing to Mag-1, standard dogfighting speed. I spun my Poco around, facing toward the battlefield, where distant lights flashed in the dark morning sky. Debris fell as red streaks.
“I’m here,” I said to the others.
“Get in and help Morningtide!” Jorgen shouted at me. “Can you spot her?”
“Looking!” I said, frantic, scanning my proximity sensor screen. There. I hit overburn, accelerating her direction.
“Guys,” I said, glancing at the scanner. “Morningtide has picked up a tail!”
“I see it,” Jerkface said. “Morningtide, you read?”
“Trying. Trying dodge.”
My ship screamed toward the battlefield. I could now see the individual fighters—a swirling mess mixed with destructor bolts and the occasional lightlance. Morningtide’s Poco pulled upward into a loop—trailed by three Krell ships.
Almost there. Almost there!
The Krell destructors flared. Hit. Hit again. And then . . .
A burst of light. A spray of sparks.
And Morningtide died in a massive explosion. She didn’t have a chance to eject.
Kimmalyn screamed—a high-pitched, panicked, pained sound.
“No!” Jerkface said. “No, no, no!”
I arrived, flying at Mag-3—too fast for normal dogfighting maneuvers—but still managed to spear one of the Krell ships with my lightlance. But it was too late.
The fiery sparks that had been Morningtide went out as they fell.
I spun and reversed my thrust, letting go of the lightlance and flinging the Krell ship to the side. Another of our fighters came in after it, shooting and managing to blast it down.
I fell in beside Jerkface, silently smothering my own screams. He’d lost his wingmate. Where was Arturo?
I couldn’t make out anything tactical in the fray. My flight zipped in all directions, drawing fire—yes—but also adding to the confusion. A few larger classes of DDF fighters wound through it all, mixing with some dozen Krell ships, each trailing wires in that same unfinished way.
I was crying. But I set my jaw and kept on Jorgen’s wing. He expertly speared a Krell ship with his lightlance, and it tried to break away, so I speared it as well.
“That debris, Jorgen,” I said. “Coming down at your two, falling slowly.”
“Right.” We both hit our throttles, as Cobb had taught us, and pulled the enemy ship toward the debris. At the last minute, we cut our lines and split to the sides, slamming the Krell ship into the debris in a fiery explosion.
“What are you two doing?” Cobb said over the line. “You were ordered into defensive postures.”
“Cobb!” I said. “Morningtide—”
“Keep your head, girl!” he shouted. “Grieve when the debris rests. Right now, obey orders. Defensive. Postures.”
I gritted my teeth, but didn’t argue, following Jorgen as he wound through the smoke trails left by falling chunks of debris. That looked to be Arturo and Nedd to my right, leapfrogging each other with quick accelerations and decelerations, to keep the enemy from focusing on either one of them. That kind of technique could confuse the Krell, much like overwhelming them with targets.
Morningtide . . .
“Quirk?” Jorgen said. “What are you doing?”
I realized I could still hear Kimmalyn’s soft whine of pain over the radio. I searched the scanner, then spotted a single Poco—without a wingmate—hovering near the perimeter of the fight.
“Quirk, move!” Jorgen said. “You’re a clear target. Get in here.”
“I . . .,” Kimmalyn said. “I was trying to line up a shot. I was going to save her . . .”
“Join the fight!” Jorgen shouted. “Cadet, hit your throttle and get in here!”
“I’ll cover her,” I said, moving to break off as we zoomed past two Krell coming the other way. So many sparks and destructor shots lit the sky, I almost felt I was down in Igneous, swallowed up by a forge.
“No,” Jorgen said to me. “You see Bim? At your eight? Cover him. I’ll deal with Kimmalyn.”
“Understood.” I zipped down and to my left, the GravCaps covering the g-forces of the sharp turn. As I moved, however, a spot on my dash lit up: a bright violet warning light near my proximity sensors.
I’d picked up a tail.
Though we’d barely touched on dogfighting, Cobb’s training snapped into my mind. Trust the scanner. Don’t waste time trying to get a visual. Keep your focus on flying.
“Spin!” FM said. “You’ve got a tail!”
I was already pulling my ship into an evasive loop, counting on the GravCaps to handle the g-force. Something clicked immediately in my head. The training, the way my face grew cold, the way my mind snapped into focus despite the fatigue, the stress, and the grief. It was almost like it didn’t matter if a Krell was following me. In that moment, it was just me and the ship. Extensions of one another.
I pulled out of my loop into a straight dive, then cut to the side and launched a perfect lightlance hook into a slowly falling chunk of debris. I didn’t go quite fast enough, and when my GravCaps cut, the g-forces rammed me down in my seat. I saw black at the corners of my vision, but held on.
I spun around sharply and buzzed another chunk of debris—trailing its smoke in my wake—then zoomed right between two Krell ships coming the other direction. My tail lost me in the turn—and I caught a flashing explosion behind me as one of the full pilots picked it off while it was trying to catch up to me.