Set your sights on something higher . . .
I lifted the radio to my head as I walked out of the base, a mess of conflicting emotions—but mostly relieved. “M-Bot. Play that song fragment for me a few times more, please.”
25
I settled into my Poco, wearing my pressure suit and helmet—my first time in a real cockpit since Bim and Morningtide had died.
That immediately made something inside me hurt. Would it be like this every time, from now on? Would I always have this quiet worry at the back of my mind? The one that whispered, “Which of your friends won’t make it home from this mission?”
Today was supposed to be something more routine though. Not a battle. I powered on the Poco and felt that wonderful hum—the one the simulation couldn’t imitate.
I gripped the control sphere in my right hand, the throttle in my left, then lifted off and climbed into the sky alongside the other six fighters. Jorgen counted us off with confirmations, then called Cobb.
“Skyward Flight ready. Orders, sir?”
“Go to 304.16-1240-25000,” Cobb said.
“Flight, set coordinates,” Jorgen said. “I’ll take point. In case of a Krell ambush, I’ll fall back with Arturo and FM. Nedd, you’re with Quirk in the middle formation. Spin and Hurl, I want you in the rear prepared to spray covering fire.”
“There won’t be an ambush, cadet,” Cobb said, sounding amused. “Just get to the indicated location.”
We flew, and stars . . . it felt good. The ship trembled as it moved, responding to my commands. Wind currents were so much more alive than the simulation made them seem. I wanted to swoop back and forth, fly low and skim the crater-marked surface, then soar up high and buzz the debris field at the very edges of space.
I kept myself under control. I could do that.
Eventually, we approached a large group of fighters flying way up higher. There were a good five flights up there.
“Nearing coordinates,” Jorgen said to Cobb. “What’s going on? A training exercise?”
“For you, yes,” Cobb said. Overhead, a few streaks of light marked smaller bits of debris breaking into the atmosphere. I watched, concerned.
“Hey, know-it-all,” Cobb said.
“Yes, sir?” Arturo answered immediately.
“What causes debris falls?” Cobb asked.
“Various things,” Arturo said. “There are a lot of ancient mechanisms up there, and though many still work, their power matrixes are slowly running out, so their orbits decay and they fall. Other times, collisions happen.”
“Right,” Cobb said. “Well, that’s what we’re facing here. There was some kind of collision between two enormous chunks of metal above, and that’s making some debris lose its orbit. We can expect a Krell incursion, and those fighters are here to watch. But you’re here for another reason: a little target practice.”
“On what, sir?”
Several large chunks of debris dropped out of the sky, burning past the flights above us.
“The debris,” I guessed.
“I want you flying in pairs,” Cobb said. “You’re going to practice formations and do careful runs. Pick a larger piece of debris, follow it for a few seconds, then tag it for salvage to investigate. Your destructors have been outfitted to fire beacons if you pull the rate control dial out until it clicks.”
“That’s it?” Hurl said. “Tagging pieces of space junk?”
“Space junk can’t dodge,” Cobb said, “doesn’t have shields, and accelerates predictably. I figure that’s right about your skill level. Besides, you’ll often be ordered to tag salvage during debris falls, while waiting to see if the Krell attack. It’s good practice—so don’t complain, or I’ll stuff you back in the simulations for another month.”
“We’re ready and willing, sir,” Jorgen said. “Hurl included. Thank you for this opportunity.”
Hurl made a few gagging noises into a private line to FM and Kimmalyn—the lights on the console under the ship numbers showed me who was listening—and she didn’t leave me off. Which seemed like maybe a step forward?
Jorgen arranged us into pairs and set us to work. When larger chunks of debris fell from the sky, we’d swoop down behind them and match speed—like we’d been taught—before shooting a radio beacon into them. The most useful debris were the ones that glowed blue with acclivity stone. We could salvage that to make ships.
I let myself enjoy the work. It wasn’t actual fighting, but the feel of the dive, the thrill of targeting and firing . . . I could imagine the chunks of space debris as Krell ships.
“Are you ignoring me again?” M-Bot asked in my ear. “I think you’re ignoring me again.”
“How can I ignore you,” I said with a grunt, tagging another chunk of debris, “if I don’t know you’re listening?”
“I’m always listening.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little creepy?”
“Nope! What are you doing?”
I pulled out of my dive, with Hurl on my wing, and settled back into formation to wait for my next turn. “I’m shooting space junk.”
“What did it do to you?”
“Nothing. It’s just practice.”
“But it can’t even shoot back!”
“M-Bot, it’s space junk.”
“As if that were an excuse.”
“It . . . It actually is,” I said. “It’s a really good excuse.”
Kimmalyn took a run, Arturo at her wing. She did pretty well, for her, though Jorgen still found reason to nitpick. “Pull in tighter,” he told her as she swooped down. “Now don’t ride it too close—if you were using real destructors to shoot it, chunks might fly back and hit you. Make sure you don’t squeeze too hard when you fire . . .”
“Not to complain,” she said, sounding tense, “but I do believe I should focus right now.”
“Sorry,” Jorgen snapped. “I’ll try to be less helpful in the future.”
“Dear, I think you’ll find that difficult.” She tagged the chunk of debris, then sighed in relief.
“Nice work, Quirk,” Jorgen said. “Nedder, you take next run with FM on wing.”
Kimmalyn fell into line as, up above, several chunks of space debris fell at once. The regular fighters moved out of the way, letting them pass. We were flying relatively high, to give us time for good dives, so the ground was far below—though we were still very far from the rubble belt itself, the lowest layers of which flew three hundred kilometers above the surface of the planet.
Nedd picked one of the chunks and fell in behind it, ignoring the other three. So Kimmalyn charged her destructors for long range and then sniped all three pieces, tagging one right after another, without missing a single time.
“Stop showing off, Quirk,” Cobb said.
“Sorry, sir.”
I frowned, then called Cobb in private. “Cobb? Do you ever wonder if we’re doing this wrong?”
“Of course you’re doing it wrong. You’re cadets.”
“No,” I said. “I mean . . .” How could I explain? “Quirk, she’s a really good shot. Isn’t there a better way to use her? She feels like a failure in most of our exercises, because she’s the worst pilot. Maybe she could just snipe for us?”