“Just talk.”
“I . . . I have to shut down,” M-Bot said. “It is clear to me now that if I let you keep taking me into the sky, you will not be able to avoid battle. It is your nature. If this continues, I will inevitably be forced to break my orders.”
I took it like a physical blow, shrinking back. Surely he wasn’t saying what I thought he was saying.
“Lie low,” he said as we descended into the cavern. “Take stock. Don’t get into any fights. Those are my orders, and I must obey my pilot. And so, this will be our last time flying together.”
“I repaired you. You’re mine.”
We settled down.
“I am now going to deactivate,” he said. “Until my pilot wakes me. I’m sorry.”
“Your pilot is dead and has been for centuries! You said that yourself!”
“I’m a machine, Spensa,” he said. “I can simulate emotions. But I do not have them. I have to follow my programming.”
“No you don’t! None of us do!”
“I thank you for repairing me. I’m certain that . . . my pilot . . . would be grateful.”
“You’ll be turning off,” I said, “forever. You’ll be dying. M-Bot.”
Silence. The lights on the console started to go out, one at a time.
“I know,” he said softly.
I hit the cockpit release, then undid my straps and heaved myself out. “Fine!” I said. “Fine, die like the others!”
I scrambled down, then backed away as his landing lights dimmed, until only a few red lights in the cockpit were on.
“Don’t do this,” I said, suddenly feeling very alone. “Fly with me. Please.”
The last lights went out, leaving me in darkness.
44
The next few days, I trained on ships that felt sluggish. Commonplace. Distinctly inferior beside that transcendent time in M-Bot’s cockpit. It didn’t help that we were using heavy fighters: Largo-class, which were armed to the teeth with destructors and even some IMP missiles.
After that, we moved on to Slatra-class fighters, which were more like glorified shuttles or cargo ships than true starfighters. They carried multiple shield igniters that worked in concert to constantly keep a barrier going to protect particularly important cargo or individuals.
While they had their place, both these models were too bulky to outrun or outmaneuver Krell. That was why most pilots flew Poco-class or Fresa-class. Fast ships capable of going toe-to-toe with the speedy Krell interceptors.
Even when practicing on a relatively fast Fresa, every turn—every boost—made me think of how responsive M-Bot had been. It left me wondering, was it finally time to tell the DDF about him? He’d abandoned me. His programming was obviously broken. So I’d be perfectly justified in sending a fleet of engineers to the cave to disassemble him.
It was only a machine. So why couldn’t I do it?
You have free will. I had told him. You can choose for yourself . . .
“Watch it, Spin!” FM said, pulling me back with a jolt. I’d banked too close to her. Scud, I needed to keep my attention on my flying.
“Sorry,” I said. It occurred to me that there were drawbacks to having trained on simulations, where we could blow up and simply be reinserted into the battle. I might have developed some bad habits that could bite me, now that we were flying real ships—with real consequences.
We ran through a few complex exercises in a three-ship formation, taking turns on point. Finally, Cobb called us back to base. “Spin and FM,” he said, “you’re both better on smaller ships.”
“Aren’t we all going to be better on them?” Jorgen asked. “We’ve been training on Pocos for months.”
“No,” Cobb said. “You look like you might take to a Largo.”
“He’s saying you’re slow, Jorgen,” FM noted. “Right, Spin?”
I grunted my reply, distracted by thoughts of M-Bot. And my father. And Hurl. And memories of those eyes. surrounding me, like Cobb had warned. And . . .
And scud. It was a lot to try to carry all at once.
“She likes it when I fly slowly,” Jorgen said, with a forced chuckle. “Makes it easier for her to crash into me, if she wants to.” Even after all these months, he still brought up that time I’d won by crashing into him. I cut the line, feeling ashamed, frustrated.
We started our flight back for the day, and—annoyingly—the direct line from Jorgen turned on. As flightleader, he could override me turning him off.
“Spin,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said. “You passed up a perfectly good opportunity to make fun of me.”
I . . . I wanted to talk to him. I nearly did, but something held me back. My own fears perhaps. They’d prevented me from talking to Rig when I’d found out about my father, and had prevented me from telling Cobb—even still—about what I’d seen.
My entire world was crumbling around me. And I struggled to hold on to it, clinging to something I’d once been able to rely upon—my confidence. I wanted so badly to be who I had been, the girl who could at least pretend to take it all in stride.
Jorgen cut the line, and we flew to Alta in silence. Once there, we went through proper sound offs and landed.
“Nice work today,” Cobb said. “I’ve got permission to give you an extra half-day leave, to prep for the graduation in two weeks.”
I pulled off my helmet and handed it to my ground crew member, then lethargically followed her down the ladder. I changed out of my flight suit by rote, barely talking to FM, then shoved my hands in my jumpsuit pocket and started wandering the DDF grounds.
Half a day off. What did I do with it? Once, I’d have gone back to work on M-Bot, but not now. That was done. And while I’d written to Rig to let him know—covertly—that the initial flight had worked, I hadn’t told him that the ship had shut down. I was worried he’d insist on turning M-Bot over to the DDF.
I eventually found myself out in the orchards, right outside the base wall. But the serene trees didn’t offer me solace as they once had. I didn’t know what I wanted anymore, but it certainly wasn’t some trees.
I did notice, however, the line of little hangars near the orchard. One was open, revealing a blue car inside, and a shadow moving about it as Jorgen fetched something from the trunk.
Go. a piece of me insisted. Go talk to him, to someone. Stop being afraid.
I stepped up to the front of the garage. Jorgen closed the trunk of the car, then started, surprised to see me there. “Spin?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you need another power matrix.”
I took a deep breath. “You said once that if we needed to talk to someone, we should come to you. You said it was your job as flightleader to talk to us. Did you mean it?”
“I . . .” He looked down. “Spin, I copied that line out of my handbook.”
“I know. But did you mean it?”
“Yes. Please, what’s wrong? Is it Arturo leaving?”
“Not really,” I said. “Though that’s part of it.” I folded my arms around myself, as if trying to pull myself tight. Could I really say this? Could I voice it?