Machines that can think.
Machines with advanced communications technology.
I suddenly felt cold. The room seemed to fade, and I stood there beside my mockpit, hearing the others talk as if from far away.
“That’s crazy,” Hurl said. “A piece of metal can’t think, any more than a rock can. Or that door. Or my canteen.”
“More crazy than the idea that they can read minds?” Arturo asked. “I’ve never heard anything like that.”
“There are obviously wonders in this galaxy that we can barely comprehend,” Cobb said. “After all, the Defiant and other ships could travel between stars in the blink of an eye. Thinking machines would explain why so many Krell cockpits we investigate are empty, and why the ‘armor’ we recover never seems to have any bodies in it.”
Machines that can think.
Cobb called the end of the day then, and we all gathered our things to leave for dinner. Kimmalyn and FM both complained that they had a cold—one had been going around—so Cobb suggested they go back to their room and rest. He said he’d have an aide send dinner to their bunks.
I heard all of this, but didn’t really. Instead, I sat down in a daze. M-Bot. A ship that could think, and could infiltrate our communications with apparent ease. What if . . . what if I was repairing a Krell? Why hadn’t I ever bothered to think about that? How could I be so blind to what seemed like an obvious possibility?
He has a cockpit. I thought, with English writing. Facilities for a pilot. And he says he can’t fly the ship himself.
But that could be a ruse, right? He said he couldn’t lie, but I had only his word on that. I . . .
“Spin?” Cobb asked, stopping near my mockpit. “You aren’t catching that cold too, are you?”
I shook my head. “This is just a lot to take in.”
Cobb grunted. “Well, maybe it’s a load of cold slag. Truth is, once we lost the archive, most everything about the old days became hearsay.”
“Do you mind if we tell Nedd about this?” I asked him. “When he gets back?”
“He’s not coming back,” Cobb said. “The admiral officially removed him from the cadet rolls this morning.”
“What?” I said, standing up, surprised. “Did he ask to be removed?”
“He didn’t report for duty, Spin.”
“But . . . his brothers . . .”
“Being unable to control your emotions, grief included, is a sign that one is unfit for duty. At least that’s how Ironsides and the other DDF brass see it. I say it’s a good thing Nedd is out. That boy was too smart for all this anyway . . .” He hobbled out the door.
I sank back down into my seat. So we really were just six now. And if being unable to control emotions made one unfit for duty . . . what about me? It was all piling on top of me. The loss of friends, the worry about M-Bot, the voices that whispered deep down inside that I was in fact a coward.
All my life, I’d fought with a chip on my shoulder, thundering that I would be a pilot and I would be good enough. Where was that confidence now?
I’d always assumed that when I made it—when I finally got here—I’d stop feeling so alone.
I dug in my pack and raised my radio. “M-Bot, are you there?”
“Acclivity ring: functional, but lacking power. Boosters: nonfunctional. Cytonic hyperdrive: nonfunctional.” He paused. “That’s a yes, in case you were confused. I’m here, because I can’t go anywhere.”
“Were you listening in on our conversation?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I admit, I was running some calculations on the likelihood of mushrooms growing inside that building, as your conversation was—typical of humans—slightly boring. But not completely! So you should feel—”
“M-Bot. Are you a Krell?”
“What? No! Of course I’m not a Krell. Why would you think that I am? How could you think . . . Wait, calculating. Oh. You think because I’m an AI, and they’re likely AIs, that we must be the same?”
“You have to admit it’s suspicious.”
“I’d be offended if I could be offended,” he said. “Maybe I should start calling you a cow, since you have four limbs, are made of meat, and have rudimentary biological mental capacities.”
“Would you know if you were a Krell?” I asked him. “Maybe you forgot.”
“I’d know,” he said.
“You’ve forgotten why you came to Detritus,” I pointed out. “You have only one image of your pilot, if that’s even really him. You can barely remember anything about my species. Maybe you never knew. Maybe your memory bank is filled only with the bits that the Krell know about us, and you invented this entire story.”
“I’m writing a new subroutine now,” he said. “To properly express my outrage. It’s going to take time to get right. Give me a few minutes.”
“M-Bot . . .”
“Just a sec. Patience is a virtue, Spensa.”
I sighed, but started packing up my things. I felt hollowed out. Empty. Not afraid, of course. I bathed in fires of destruction and reveled in the screams of the defeated. I didn’t get afraid.
But maybe, deep down, I was . . . worried. Nedd dropping out had hit me harder than it should have.
I threw my pack on my shoulder and clipped the radio to its side. I set it to flash a light if M-Bot or someone else tried to contact me. I didn’t want him talking out of it while I walked the hallways, though I needn’t have worried. The building was empty; Cobb had dismissed us late, and the other flights had already gone to dinner. I didn’t spot any MPs or random support staff as I walked slowly toward the exit, my feet leaden.
I wasn’t certain I could keep doing this. Getting up early, working all morning on M-Bot. Getting wrung out by lessons each day, then trudging back to my cave at night. Sleeping fitfully, dreaming of the people I’d failed or—worse—having nightmares about running away . . .
“Pssst!”
I stopped, then glanced at the radio strapped to the side of my backpack.
“Pssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssttt! Spensa!”
I looked up and down the hallway. To my right—was that Kimmalyn there, in a doorway, wearing black? “Quirk?”
She waved me forward urgently. I frowned, suspicious.
Then I wanted to kick myself. Idiot. This is Kimmalyn.
I walked to her. “What are you—”
“Shhh!” she said, then scrambled down the hallway and peeked around a corner. She waved at me to follow, and more confused than anything else, I did.
This continued for a couple of turns through empty corridors—we even had to pull into the bathroom and she made me wait with her there, explaining nothing, until we finally reached a hallway lined with doors. The girls’ bunks. Two unfamiliar young women—wearing flight suits and the patch of Stardragon Flight—stood chatting outside one of the rooms.
Kimmalyn held me there, crouching at the corner until the two girls finally walked off in the other direction. I didn’t miss that Kimmalyn and I had come in the back way, the opposite direction of the mess hall. So was she sick, or not?