now. And if being unable to control emotions made one unfit for duty . . . what about me? It was all piling on top of me. The loss of friends, the worry about M-Bot, the voices that whispered deep down inside that I was in fact a coward.
All my life, I’d fought with a chip on my shoulder, thundering that I would be a pilot and I would be good enough. Where was that confidence now?
I’d always assumed that when I made it—when I finally got here—I’d stop feeling so alone.
I dug in my pack and raised my radio. “M-Bot, are you there?”
“Acclivity ring: functional, but lacking power. Boosters: nonfunctional. Cytonic hyperdrive: nonfunctional.” He paused. “That’s a yes, in case you were confused. I’m here, because I can’t go anywhere.”
“Were you listening in on our conversation?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I admit, I was running some calculations on the likelihood of mushrooms growing inside that building, as your conversation was—typical of humans—slightly boring. But not completely! So you should feel—”
“M-Bot. Are you a Krell?”
“What? No! Of course I’m not a Krell. Why would you think that I am? How could you think . . . Wait, calculating. Oh. You think because I’m an AI, and they’re likely AIs, that we must be the same?”
“You have to admit it’s suspicious.”
“I’d be offended if I could be offended,” he said. “Maybe I should start calling you a cow, since you have four limbs, are made of meat, and have rudimentary biological mental capacities.”
“Would you know if you were a Krell?” I asked him. “Maybe you forgot.”
“I’d know,” he said.
“You’ve forgotten why you came to Detritus,” I pointed out. “You have only one image of your pilot, if that’s even really him. You can barely remember anything about my species. Maybe you never knew. Maybe your memory bank is filled only with the bits that the Krell know about us, and you invented this entire story.”
“I’m writing a new subroutine now,” he said. “To properly express my outrage. It’s going to take time to get right. Give me a few minutes.”
“M-Bot . . .”
“Just a sec. Patience is a virtue, Spensa.”
I sighed, but started packing up my things. I felt hollowed out. Empty. Not afraid, of course. I bathed in fires of destruction and reveled in the screams of the defeated. I didn’t get afraid.
But maybe, deep down, I was . . . worried. Nedd dropping out had hit me harder than it should have.
I threw my pack on my shoulder and clipped the radio to its side. I set it to flash a light if M-Bot or someone else tried to contact me. I didn’t want him talking out of it while I walked the hallways, though I needn’t have worried. The building was empty; Cobb had dismissed us late, and the other flights had already gone to dinner. I didn’t spot any MPs or random support staff as I walked slowly toward the exit, my feet leaden.
I wasn’t certain I could keep doing this. Getting up early, working all morning on M-Bot. Getting wrung out by lessons each day, then trudging back to my cave at night. Sleeping fitfully, dreaming of the people I’d failed or—worse—having nightmares about running away . . .
“Pssst!”
I stopped, then glanced at the radio strapped to the side of my backpack.
“Pssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssttt! Spensa!”
I looked up and down the hallway. To my right—was that Kimmalyn there, in a doorway, wearing black? “Quirk?”
She waved me forward urgently. I frowned, suspicious.
Then I wanted to kick myself. Idiot. This is Kimmalyn.
I walked to her. “What are you—”
“Shhh!” she said, then scrambled down the hallway and peeked around a corner. She waved at me to follow, and more confused than anything else, I did.
This continued for a couple of turns through empty corridors—we even had to pull into the bathroom and she made me wait with her there, explaining nothing, until we finally reached a hallway lined with doors. The girls’ bunks. Two unfamiliar young women—wearing flight suits and the patch of Stardragon Flight—stood chatting outside one of the rooms.
Kimmalyn held me there, crouching at the corner until the two girls finally walked off in the other direction. I didn’t miss that Kimmalyn and I had come in the back way, the opposite direction of the mess hall. So was she sick, or not?
After the two girls left, FM’s head—her short hair clipped back with a glittering barrette—popped out of one of the doors. She gestured with an urgent wave. Kimmalyn dashed down the hall