Cobb froze. Then he kind of . . . deflated. He sank down into the seat by his desk. He didn’t seem wise, or even grizzled. Just . . . old, tired, and sad.
I immediately felt embarrassed. Cobb didn’t deserve that; he hadn’t done anything wrong in ejecting, and even the DDF didn’t blame him. And Hurl, well, I’d told her to eject. I’d practically begged her to.
But she hadn’t. And we had to respect her choice, didn’t we?
“You’re all on medical leave for a week,” Cobb said. “Dr. Thior has been pushing to give more leave to flights once they lose members, and it looks like she’s started to get her way.” He stood up and stared right at me. “I hope you enjoy being a hero when your corpse is rotting like your friend’s, alone in a wasteland, forgotten and ignored.”
“She’ll be given a pilot’s burial,” I said. “Her name will be sung for generations.”
He snorted. “If they had to sing the name of every fool cadet who died on her way to pilot, we’d never have time for anything else. And Hurl’s corpse isn’t going to be recovered for at least several weeks. The scouts confirmed that the crash destroyed her ship’s acclivity ring beyond recovery. There’s nothing on that Poco worth salvage priority, not considering that big wreck we’re still working on.
“So your heroic friend will be left out there—another dead pilot buried by the slag of her own explosion. Scud. I have to go write a letter to her parents and explain why. I can’t trust what Ivans will say.”
He hobbled toward the door, but stopped and turned toward Kimmalyn. I hadn’t noticed that she’d stood up. She saluted him, eyes teary. Then she dropped something on her seat.
Her cadet’s pin.
Cobb nodded. “Keep the pin, Quirk,” he told her. “You’re dismissed with whatever honors matter to you.”
He turned and left.
Dismissed? Dismissed? “He can’t do that to you!” I demanded, turning toward Kimmalyn.
She wilted. “I asked for it after the battle. He told me to think about it overnight. And I did.”
“But . . . you can’t . . .”
Jorgen stepped up beside me, confronting Kimmalyn. “Spin is right, Quirk. You’re an important member of this flight.”
“The weakest member,” Kimmalyn said. “How many times has one of you had to pull out of a fight to come and save me? I’m putting you all in danger.” Contrary to what Cobb had said, she left her pin on her seat as she walked toward the door.
“Kimmalyn,” I said, feeling helpless. I rushed after her and took her hand. “Please.”
“I got her killed, Spin,” she whispered. “You know that as well as I do.”
“She got herself killed.”
“The one shot that mattered. That’s the one I missed.”
“There were two ships chasing her. One shot, even if it had hit, might not have been enough.”
She smiled, squeezed my hand, then left.
I felt my world collapsing. First Hurl, now Kimmalyn. I looked toward Jorgen. Surely he could stop this. Couldn’t he?
He stood stiffly, tall, with that too-handsome face. He stared straight ahead, and I thought I could see something in his eyes. Guilt? Pain?
He’s watching his flight break apart around him too.
I had to do something. Make some kind of sense out of this disaster, and of my pain. But no, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop Kimmalyn. At least . . . at least she’d be safe this way.
Hurl though . . .
“Arturo,” I said, picking up my pack, “about how far out was that battle, would you say?”
“Pretty close to our original position, beyond the AA guns. Say, eighty klicks.”
I shouldered my pack. “Great. I’ll see you all in a week.”
“Where are you going?” FM asked.
“I’m going to find Hurl,” I said, “and give her a pilot’s burial.”
34
I trudged across the dry, dusty ground. My compass kept me on the right heading, which was important, because everything looked the same out here on the surface.
I tried not to think. Thinking was dangerous. I’d barely known Bim and Morningtide, and their deaths had left me shaken for weeks. Hurl had been my wingmate.
It was more though. She’d been like me. At least, like I pretended to be. She was usually one step ahead of me, leading the charge.
In her death, I saw myself.
No. No thinking.
That didn’t stop the emotions. The hole inside, the pain of a wound rubbed raw. After this, nothing could ever be the same. Yesterday hadn’t just marked the death of a friend. It marked the death of my ability to pretend this war was—in any way—glorious.
My radio was blinking. I hit the switch.
“Spensa?” M-Bot asked. “Are you certain this journey is wise? I am not capable of worry, mind you, but—”
“I’d rather be alone,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow or something.” I clicked the radio off and stuffed it inside my backpack, where I’d stashed some rat meat and water for the journey. If it wasn’t enough, I could go hunting. Maybe I’d vanish into the caverns, never to return. Become a nomad, like my clan before the founding of Alta.
And never fly again?
Just walk, Spensa. I told myself. Stop thinking and walk.
This was simple.
This I could do.
I was about two hours outside Alta when a sound broke the quiet and I turned to see a hovercar approaching. It flew three meters off the ground and towed a wake of dust behind. Had someone warned the admiral? Had she sent MPs with some made-up reason why I couldn’t be out here?
No . . . As it got closer I realized I recognized that blue car. It was Jorgen’s. He must have gotten the power matrix replaced.
I grunted, then turned forward and kept walking. He pulled up beside me and lowered his car so that his head was barely a meter above mine.
“Spin? Are you really planning to walk eighty klicks?”
I didn’t reply.
“You realize it’s dangerous out here,” Jorgen said. “I should order you back. What if you get caught in a debris fall?”
I shrugged. I’d been living near the surface for months, and had only really been in danger that one time—when I’d discovered M-Bot’s cave.
“Spensa,” Jorgen said. “For the North Star’s sake, get in. I’ll drive you.”
“Don’t you have some fancy rich-person event you need to be attending?”
“My parents don’t know about the medical leave yet. For a little while, I’m as free as you are.”
Me? Free? I wanted to laugh in his face.
Still, he had a car. This would transform a multiday trip into one that would last a few hours. I resented him for giving me the option, as I’d wanted to be on my own. To suffer, perhaps. But a part of me knew I wouldn’t reach Hurl’s body with what I had in my pack. I’d probably be forced to turn back after a day of hiking.
“I want to go with you,” Jorgen said. “It’s a good idea. Hurl . . . deserves this. I brought some materials for the pyre.”
Stop being right, Jorgen. I thought. But I walked around the car and climbed into the passenger side. I had dust up to my thighs, which I smeared all over the car’s interior, but he didn’t seem to notice.