I settled back down in my blankets, then tried the cake.
It was so, so much better than rat. I couldn’t help but let out a little groan of delight, at which Kimmalyn grinned. She sat on the side of Hurl’s bed, which hadn’t been made in the morning. Kimmalyn’s bed was the neatly made top bunk above, with the immaculate corners and the frilled pillowcase. FM’s was on the other side, with the stack of books on the shelf near the headboard.
“So . . .,” I said, licking my fingers, “what do you guys do all night?”
“Sleep?” Hurl asked.
“For twelve hours?”
“Well, there’s PT,” FM said. “We do laps in the pool usually, though Hurl prefers the weights. And target practice with sidearms, or extra time in the centrifuge . . .”
“I still haven’t thrown up in that,” Hurl said, “which is, in my opinion, completely inappropriate.”
“Hurl taught us wall-ball,” Kimmalyn said. “It’s fun to watch her play the boys. They always take it as an invigorating challenge.”
“By which she means it’s satisfying to watch Nedd lose,” FM said. “He seems so befuddled every time . . .” She trailed off, perhaps realizing that they’d never get to see him play again.
My stomach twisted. Swimming. Target practice. Sports? I’d known what I was missing, but hearing it like that . . .
“We won’t be expected to do any of that tonight,” Kimmalyn said. “Since we’re sick. It will be fun, Spin! We can stay up all night talking.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Normal things,” FM said, shrugging.
What was normal? “Like . . . guys?”
“Stars, no,” Hurl said, sitting up and pulling something off her headboard. She held up a sketchbook filled with little drawings of ships going through patterns. “Flight strategies!”
“Hurl keeps trying to name new moves after herself,” FM noted. “But we figure the ‘Hurl maneuver’ really ought to have several loops in it or something. Like the one here.”
“I hate loops,” Hurl said. “We should call that the Quirk maneuver. It’s flowery.”
“Don’t be silly,” Kimmalyn said. “I’d somehow end up crashing into myself if I had to do that many loops.”
“A Quirk maneuver would involve complimenting the enemy while you shoot them,” FM said, grinning. “ ‘Oh! You make lovely sparks when you die! You should feel very proud of yourself. Good job!’ ”
My tension bled away as the girls showed off the maneuvers they’d designed. The names were consistently terrible, but the chatter was fun, engaging, and . . . well, just so very welcome. I took a turn sketching an obscenely complex maneuver into the book, something between an Ahlstrom loop and a double switchback with a sidewind.
“Crazy thing is,” FM said, “she could probably pull that off.”
“Yeah,” Kimmalyn said. “Maybe we could rename taking off the Quirk maneuver. That’s the only thing I can manage consistently.”
“You’re not nearly as bad as that,” Hurl said to her.
“I’m the worst pilot in the flight.”
“And the best shot.”
“Which matters zero if I die before I can fire back.”
I grunted, hand still on Hurl’s notebook. I turned to another page. “Quirk is a great sniper, and Hurl, you’re excellent at chasing down Krell ships. FM, you’re excellent at dodging.”
“I can barely hit the broad side of a mountain though,” FM said. “I guess if you somehow mashed us all together, you’d have one good pilot.”
“Couldn’t we try something like that?” I said, sketching. “Cobb says that the Krell are always on the lookout for pilots who distinguish themselves. He says that if they find someone they think might be flightleader, they concentrate all fire on that person.”
“Yeah?” Hurl said, sitting up on her bed. “What are you saying?”
“Well, if they really are machines, maybe they’ve got this mandate to hunt down our leaders. Maybe it’s stuck in their machine brains, to the point that they follow that command to ridiculous ends.”
“That seems like a stretch,” FM said.
I glanced at my pack, and the portable radio on the side. The light was flashing. M-Bot had tried to call me, probably with another request for mushrooms.
“Look,” I said, returning to my sketch. “What if we encouraged the Krell to focus on specific members of our flight? If they concentrated fire on FM, who is best at dodging, they might leave the others alone. Quirk could set up and pick them off. Hurl could hang back, and then chase after any who decided to try to bring down our gunner.”
The others leaned in close. Hurl nodded, though FM shook her head. “I’m not sure I could survive that, Spin. I would end up with dozens of tails. I’d be shot down for sure. But . . . maybe you could manage it.”
“You’re our best pilot,” Quirk agreed. “And you’re not frightened of anything.”
My pen stilled, and I looked at the half-drawn flight plan, with Quirk’s ship sitting at the perimeter sniping down Krell. I’d drawn a dozen ships chasing after a single pilot.
What would it feel like to be in the seat, knowing you had heat from a dozen enemies? Immediately my daydreaming took over, imagining it as an incredible, dramatic fight. Explosions, and excitement, and glory!
But now there was another voice inside me. A quiet, solemn one that whispered, That’s not reality, Spin. In reality, you’d be terrified.
“I . . .” I licked my lips. “I don’t know if I could do it either. I . . .” Force it out. “I get scared sometimes.”
FM frowned. “So?”
“So some of what I say . . . it’s kind of . . . bravado. In reality, I’m not that confident.”
“You mean you’re human?” Kimmalyn said. “Blessed stars. Who would have thought?”
“You sound like you’re making some big confession,” FM agreed. “ ‘Guys, I have emotions. They’re terrible.’ ”
I blushed. “It’s a big deal for me. I spent my childhood dreaming of the days when I could fly and fight. Now that I’m here, and I’ve lost friends, I . . . It hurts. I’m weaker than I thought I was.”
“If that makes you weak,” FM said, “I must be useless.”
“Yeah,” Kimmalyn said. “You’re not crazy, Spin. You’re a person.”
“Albeit,” FM added, “one who has been thoroughly indoctrinated by a soulless system designed only to spit out willing, jingoistic, obedient thralls. No offense.”
I couldn’t help noticing that Hurl had grown quiet at this conversation. She was lying back on her bed and looking at the bunk above.
“You can admit these things to us,” Quirk said. “It’s all right. We’re a team.” She leaned in toward FM and me. “Since we’re being honest here . . . can I tell you something? Truth is, I make up most of those quotes I say.”
I blinked. “Really? Like, the Saint never said all those things?”