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 flight-leader 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.”
FM and I followed the full pilots, who did a very cautious—and somewhat unengaging—pass through the debris. We didn’t even use our light-lances. Bog—the man who had made fun of Jorgen earlier—shot a few radio beacons at some larger chunks of debris. “Is your flightleader always like that?” he asked us. “Talking like he’s got his joystick rammed up his backside?”
“Jorgen is a great flightleader,” I snapped. “You shouldn’t resent someone just because he expects you to do your best.”
“Yeah,” FM said. “If you’re going to swear to a cause, no matter how fundamentally flawed, then you should try to uphold your office.”
“Scud,” Bog said. “You hearing this, Tunestone?”
“I hear a bunch of yapping puppies on the line,” Tunestone replied. Her voice was high-pitched and dismissive. “They keep drowning out the cadets, unfortunately.”
“You should be careful,” I said, my anger rising. “Next week we’ll be full pilots, and I’ll be competing with you for kills. Good luck making ace once that happens.”
Bog chuckled. “A few days from full pilot? My, how grownup you are.” He hit his booster and darted back into the falling debris, Tunestone