“You’re using historical battles for our simulations?” I asked, trying to push through my stupor.
“Of course I am,” Cobb said. “You think I have time to make up these simulations?”
Something about that struck me, but I was too exhausted to put my finger on it. I climbed out of my mockpit, tossed my helmet onto my seat, and stretched. Scud, I was hungry, but I didn’t have any dinner with me—the next batch of jerky was curing back at my cave.
I had a long, tired, hungry walk ahead of me. I grabbed my pack, slung it over my shoulder, and started out.
Hurl caught up to me in the hallway, then nodded in the direction of the nearby dorm section. I could read her expression. They could pretend to be tired, bring food back to their rooms . . .
I shook my head. It wasn’t worth riling the admiral.
Hurl gave me a raised fist. “Badass,” she whispered. I found energy for a smile, raised my own, then we parted.
I trudged toward the exit. The other classrooms were dark, save one, where the instructor was lecturing another flight of cadets. “The best pilots can steer a ship out of an uncontrolled fall,” a woman’s voice said, echoing in the hallway. “Your first reaction might be to eject, but if you want to be a real hero, you will do whatever you can to save your acclivity ring. A Defiant protects the people, not the self.”
It was basically the opposite of what Cobb had taught us.
On my way through the orchard outside the base, I noticed my radio blinking. M-Bot wanted to talk with me. I had persuaded him, with effort, to stop breaking into my line while I was training. It just seemed too likely that someone would overhear us.
“Hey,” I said into the line. “Bored?”
“I can’t get bored.” He paused. “But I’ll have you know that I can think at thousands of times the speed of a human brain—so twelve hours to you is by relative measure a long time to me. A really long time.”
I smiled.
“Reeeeaaaaalllly long,” he added.
“What did you think of the training today?”
“I took some careful notes for further review,” he said. Most nights, I went over with M-Bot what I’d done wrong. His programs offered excellent analysis of my flying. While he offered commentary that could sometimes be unflattering, the nightly debriefings had proved effective in helping me tweak my flying—and I felt I was doing better than ever.
We hadn’t gone into the air again. Rig had taken out the ship’s GravCaps and shields to disassemble and document them. It was work beyond my ability to help with, but I didn’t mind, as I had the practices to keep me busy.
“You really do need help against bombers,” M-Bot said to me. “You died or destroyed the city seventeen times today, while you were completely successful only twice.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“I try to be helpful. I realize human memories are flawed and inconsistent.”
I sighed and walked out of the orchard, starting the more boring part of the trek home.
“The battles were interesting,” M-Bot said. “I’m . . . very glad that you lived through some of them.”
One foot after the other. Who would have thought that sitting in a box, moving only your hands, could be so tiring? My brain felt like it had been ripped out, clubbed to death by a barbarian, then stuffed back in upside down.
“You are very attractive and intelligent,” M-Bot said. “Spensa? Is my moral support subroutine functioning? Um, you’re quite bipedal. And very efficient at converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, an essential gas for plant life to—”
“I’m just tired, M-Bot. I’ve been through a lot today.”
“Nineteen battles! Though four of them were the same battle turned on a different axis and presented with a few distinct movement seeds for enemies.”
“Yeah, those are historical fights,” I said. “Like Cobb said . . .”
I halted.
“Spensa?” he asked. “I hear no more footfalls? Have you temporarily stopped being bipedal?”
“Historical battles,” I said, realizing something I should have put together long ago. “They have recordings of past battles?”
“They track all of their ships,” he said, “and have scanner records of enemy movements. I suspect they recreate these three-dimensional models for training and analysis.”
“Do you suppose . . . they have a record like that of the Battle of Alta? The fight where . . .”
Where my father had deserted.
“I’m sure they do somewhere,” M-Bot continued. “It’s the most important battle in the history of your people! The foundation of . . . Oh! Your father!”
“You can think at a thousand times the speed of a human brain,” I said, “but it took you that long to put together a simple fact?”
“I underclock conversations. If I focus my full efforts, it takes you several minutes in relative time to speak a single syllable.”
I supposed that made sense. “The record of my father’s battle. Can you . . . grab it? Show it to me?”
“I can only intercept what they’re actively broadcasting,” he said. “It seems that the DDF tries to minimize wireless communication, so as to not attract the attention of the eyes.”
“The what?” I asked.
“The eyes. I . . . I have no idea what that is. There’s a hole in my memory banks there. Huh.” The ship sounded genuinely confused. “I remember this quote: ‘Use physical cords for data transfer, avoid broadcasting, and put shielding around faster processors. To do otherwise risks the attention of the eyes.’ But that’s it. Curious . . .”
“So maybe our communications aren’t as primitive as you always say. Maybe they’re just being careful.” I started walking again. My pack felt so heavy, it could have been filled with spent shell casings.
“Either way,” M-Bot said, “I would guess there’s an archive somewhere on base. If they have a recording of the Battle of Alta, that would be the first place to check.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure whether to feel excited, or further bowed down, by the knowledge that I could theoretically watch my father’s last battle. See for myself if he’d actually deserted, and have . . . what? Proof?
I trudged onward, trying to decide if I was hungry enough to eat when I got to the cave, or if I was just going to collapse. As I neared the cavern, I saw the light flashing on my radio again.
I lifted it to my head. “I’m almost back, M-Bot. You can—”
“—general call to arms,” an operator said. “The admiral has called all pilots—cadets included—to base for possible deployment. Repeat: a seventy-five-ship Krell invasion has breached the debris field at 104.2-803-64000. All active pilots are instructed to assemble for a general call to arms. The admiral has called all pilots . . .”
I froze. I’d almost forgotten the original reason Cobb had given me a radio. But today? Of all days?
I could barely walk.
Seventy-five ships? Three-quarters of the Krell maximum flight capacity? Scud!
I pivoted, looking at the long hike back to Alta. Then, lethargically, I pushed myself into a jog.