speeds to get within range of Alta,” Ironsides said. “We’ll have time to stop it before then. Orders stand.”
“Two hours?” Nedd said. “They’re farther out than I thought.”
“Well, bombers are about half as fast as a Poco,” Arturo said. “So the shipyard is coming down around an hour out from us—which is about how long it took our forces to get out there. It adds up, if you think long enough to calculate it.”
“Why would I have to do that?” Nedd said. “When you’ll do the hard work for me?”
“Does anyone else feel . . . anxious?” Kimmalyn asked.
“They said a lifebuster was out there, potentially coming our way,” Arturo said. “So yeah.”
“Not about that,” Kimmalyn said, looking at me. “About just sitting here, listening.”
“We should be up there,” I whispered. “This is it. A battle like the Battle of Alta. They need everyone . . . and here we are. Listening. Sipping sodas.”
“They’ve scrambled every battle-worthy ship,” Arturo said. “If we were back at the DDF, we’d only be sitting around there and listening.”
“We’ve got it on the run,” one of the flightleaders said. “I confirm, bomber has veered away from the salvage target. But Admiral, it is trying to break toward Alta.”
“This bomber is fast,” Cloak said. “Faster than most.”
“Scout contingents,” Ironsides said, “move to intercept. Everyone else, don’t get distracted. Stay on that shipyard! This could be a decoy.”
“I’m down to three ships,” a flightleader said. “Requesting support. They’re swarming us, Flight Command. Scud, it—”
Silence.
“Valkyrie flightleader is down,” someone else said. “I’m going to absorb their remaining ships. Flight Command, we’re taking a beating out here.”
“All ships,” Ironsides said, “full offensive. Drive them back. Don’t let them reach the shipyard.”
“Yes, sir,” a chorus of flightleaders said.
The battle continued for some time, and we listened, tense. Not just because of the pilots dying trying to claim the shipyard, but because each moment of the battle, that bomber was drawing closer and closer to Alta.
“Scout ships,” Ironsides eventually said. “Do you have an update on that lifebuster?”
“We’re still on it, sir!” Cloak said. “But the bomber is well defended. Ten ships.”
“Understood,” Ironsides said.
“Sir!” Cloak said. “It is going faster than ordinary bomber speed. And it just sped up. If we aren’t careful, it will get within blast range of Alta.”
“Engage them,” Ironsides said.
“With only scouts?”
“Yes,” Ironsides said.
I felt so powerless. As a child, listening to war stories, my head had been full of drama and excitement—glory and kills. But today, I could hear the strain in the voices as flightleaders watched their friends die. I heard explosions over the channel, and winced at each one.
Jorgen and FM were out there somewhere. I should be helping. Protecting.
I closed my eyes. Without really intending to, I performed Gran-Gran’s exercise, imagining myself soaring among the stars. Listening for them. Reaching . . .
A dozen spots of white light appeared inside my eyelids. Then hundreds. I felt the attention of something vast, something terrible, shift toward me.
I gasped and opened my eyes. The pinpricks of light vanished, but my heart thundered in my ears, and all I could think of was that inescapable sensation of things seeing me. Unnatural things. Hateful things.
When I finally managed to put my attention back on the battle, Cloak was reporting a full-on conflict with the lifebuster’s guard ships. Arturo turned a few frequencies and found their flight chatter—twelve scouts had been unified in a single flight for this battle.
Arturo switched back and forth between the scout channel and the flightleader channel. Both battles raged, but finally—at long last—some welcome news came in.
“Bomber destroyed!” Cloak said. “The lifebuster bomb is in free fall, heading toward the ground. All scouts, pull out! Over-burn! Now!” Her channel wavered and fuzzed.
We waited, anxious. And I thought I could hear the sequence of three explosions—in fact, I was sure of it—echoing in the near distance. Scud. That had been close to Alta.
“Cloak?” Ironsides asked. “Nice work.”
“She’s dead,” a soft voice said on the line. That was FM. “This is callsign: FM. Cloak died in the blast. There are . . . sir, there are three of us left in the scout flight. The others died in the fighting.”
“Confirmed,” Ironsides said. “Stars accept their souls.”
“Should we . . . return to the other battle?” FM asked.
“Yes.”
“All right.” She sounded rattled.
I looked toward the others, frustrated. Surely there was something we could do. “Arturo,” I said, “doesn’t your family have some private ships?”
“Three fighters,” he said. “Down in the deep caverns. But as a