“Well, I suppose you could call it a mutiny,” Gran-Gran continued. “We didn’t use that word. But there was a disagreement. The scientists and the engineers against the command staff and the marines. The thing is, none of them could make the engines work. Only Mother could do that.
“She chose this place and brought us here. Detritus. But it was too far. Too difficult. She died from the effort, Spensa. Our ships were damaged while landing, the engines broken, but we also lost her. The soul of the engines themselves.
“I remember crying. I remember Father carrying me from the rubble of a ship, and I screamed, reaching back to the smoking hulk—my mother’s tomb. I remember demanding to know why Mother had left us. I felt betrayed. I’d been too young to understand the choice she’d made. A warrior’s choice.”
“To die?”
“To sacrifice. Spensa. A warrior is nothing if she has nothing to fight for. But if she has everything to fight for . . . well, then that means everything, doesn’t it?”
Gran-Gran strung a bead, then began to tie off the necklace. I felt . . . strangely exhausted. Like this story was a burden I hadn’t been expected to bear.
“This is their ‘defect,’ ” Gran-Gran said. “They call it that because they’re afraid of our ability to hear the stars. Your mother always forbade me from speaking of this to you, because she did not believe it was true. But many in the DDF believe in it—and to them it makes us alien. They lie, saying that my mother brought us here because the Krell wanted us here. And now that they no longer need us to work the ship engines—because there aren’t any—they’ve hated us even more.”
“And Father? I saw him turn against his flight.”
“Impossible,” Gran-Gran said. “The DDF claims our gift makes us monsters, so perhaps they constructed a scenario to prove it. It’s convenient for them to tell a story of a man with the defect empathizing with the Krell and turning against his teammates.”
I sat back, feeling . . . uncertain. Would Cobb have lied about this? And M-Bot said the record couldn’t have been faked. Who did I trust?
“But what if it’s true, Gran-Gran?” I asked. “You mentioned the warrior’s sacrifice before. Well, what if you know this is in you . . . that it might cause you to betray everyone? Hurt them? If you think you might be a coward, wouldn’t the right choice be to . . . just not fly?”
Gran-Gran paused, hands frozen. “You’ve grown,” she finally said. “Where is my little girl, who wanted to swing a sword and conquer the world?”
“She’s very confused. A bit lost.”
“Our gift is a wonderful thing. It lets us hear the stars. It let my mother work the engines. Don’t fear it.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t help feeling betrayed. Shouldn’t someone have told me about all this before now?
“Your father was a hero,” Gran-Gran said. “Spensa? Do you hear me? You have a gift, not a defect. You can—”
“Hear the stars. Yes, I’ve felt that.” I looked up, but the ceiling of the cavern was in the way.
Honestly, I didn’t know what to think anymore. Coming down here had only made me more confused.
“Spensa?” Gran-Gran said.
I shook my head. “Father told me to claim the stars. I worry that they claimed him instead. Thank you for the story.” I rose and walked to the ladder.
“Spensa!” Gran-Gran said, this time with a forcefulness that froze me on the ladder.
She looked toward me, milky-white eyes focused right on me, and I felt—somehow—that she could see me. When she spoke, the tremble was gone from her voice. Instead there was an authority and command to it, like a battlefield general’s.
“If we are ever to leave this planet,” Gran-Gran said, “and escape the Krell, it will require the use of our gift. The space between stars is vast, too vast for any ordinary booster to travel. We must not cower in the dark because we’re afraid of the spark within us. The answer is not to put out the spark, but to learn to control it.”
I didn’t reply, because I didn’t know what my answer to that should be. I climbed down, made my way to the elevators, and returned to the base.
46
“Verbal confirmations, in ascending order,” said Nose—the flightleader of Nightmare Flight. “Newbies first.”
“Skyward One, ready,” Jorgen said, then hesitated. He sighed. “Callsign: Jerkface.”
Nose chuckled. “I feel your pain, cadet.”
FM sounded off, then I followed. Skyward Flight—what was left of it—was flying with Nightmare today on their maneuvers.
I hadn’t made any decisions about what to do with the information Gran-Gran had given me. I was still deeply troubled, uncertain. For now though, I had decided to do what Jorgen told me, and keep flying. I could avoid what had happened to my father, right? I could be careful?
I flew through the maneuvers that Nightmare flightleader instructed, letting the familiar motions distract me. It was nice to be back in a Poco-class ship after several weeks of testing other designs. It felt like settling into a familiar easy chair, imprinted with just the right dents from your backside.
We flew in a wide formation—Jorgen paired with a member of Nightmare Flight—down at 10k altitude. We were spotting the ground for wrecks, trails of ships in the dust, and anything else suspicious. It was akin to scouting during a battle, but—if possible—even more monotonous.
“Unidentified signature at 53-1-8008!” said one of the men from Nightmare Flight. “We should—”
“Cobb warned us about the 8008 trick,” Jorgen said flatly. “And about the ‘get the green pilot to evacuate his ship’s septic’ trick. And about the ‘prepare for inspection’ joke.”
“Scud,” said one of the other pilots. “Old Cobb really is no fun, is he.”
“Because he doesn’t want his cadets getting hazed?” Jorgen said. “We are supposed to be watching for signs of Krell, not engaging in juvenile initiation rituals. I expected better of you men and women.”
I glanced out my cockpit toward FM, who shook her head. Oh, Jorgen.
“Jerkface, eh?” said one of the pilots. “I can’t imagine where you’d get a name like that . . .”
“Enough chitchat,” Nose said, cutting off individual channels. “Everyone make for 53.8-702-45000. Home radar shows some turbulence in the debris field above that point.”
A few grumbles met that, which I found curious. I’d imagined full pilots as being . . . well, more dignified. Maybe that was Jorgen’s influence on me.
We flew the indicated heading, and ahead, a large-scale debris fall began to occur. Chunks of metal rained down, some as bright lines of fire and smoke, others—with acclivity rings or still-charged acclivity stone—hovering down more slowly. We carefully approached the edge of the debris fall.
“All right,” Nose said. “We’re supposed to be showing these cadets some maneuvers. While we watch for Krell, let’s do some runs through the debris. If you spot a good acclivity ring, tag it with a radio beacon for salvage. Bog and Tunestone, you’re up first. Local heading eighty-three. Take the two cadets on your tail. Sushi and Nord, you take heading seventeen, and take Jerkface. Maybe he can lecture you on proper procedure. Stars know, you boneheads could use it.”