Skyward

by Brandon Sanderson

  “This had better not be something to do with rats, Spin,” he said as we landed. “I know you go crazy for them, but…”

  I turned up the light on my light-line, illuminating the ship. As if in coordination with my reveal, M-Bot turned on his dash and running lights. I’d cleared away much of the rubble, and with the lights, the ship didn’t look half bad. Broken, yes, with a bent wing. But distinctly different from anything we had in the DDF.

  Rig gaped at it, his jaw dropping practically to the floor.

  “Well?” I said. “What do you think?”

  In response he sat down on a nearby boulder and—still staring at the ship—pulled off his right boot, then flipped it over his shoulder.

  “Well,” I noted, “I said boots, plural. But I’ll take it.”

  I didn’t get much sleep that night.

  I spent a few hours helping Rig look over M-Bot—he wanted to check each bit of damage. Eventually though, I started to get bleary-eyed. Rig was still going strong, so I rolled out a mat and used Bloodletter for a pillow.

  Every time I dozed off, I’d eventually wake to hear Rigmarole speaking to the ship. “So…you’re a machine, but you can think.”

  “All machines ‘think,’ in that they execute responses to input. I am simply far more complex in my executable responses, and in the inputs I can recognize…”

  More dozing.

  “…can explain to us what is wrong?”

  “My memory banks are faulty, so I cannot offer more than cursory explanations—but perhaps those will be sufficient.”

  I turned over on my side, and dipped back down into sleep.

  “…do not know where I originated, although a fragment of a memory implies I was created by human beings. I am not certain whether other species of sapient life exist. I believe I could answer that once…”

  Around six in the morning, I rubbed my eyes and sat up. Rig lay below an open access panel, fiddling with something underneath the ship. I flopped down next to him, yawning. “So?”

  “It’s incredible,” he said. “Have you told Cobb about it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why delay? I mean, what if this thing can make the difference in fighting the Krell?”

  “Theoretically,” I said, “humans had this thing when they first fought the Krell. It didn’t help then.”

  “I would note,” M-Bot said, “that ‘it’ is listening.”

  “And?” I asked the ship, yawning again.

  “And it’s generally considered bad form for humans to speak of one who is present as if they are not.”

  “I can’t make you out, M-Bot,” Rig said, sitting up. “You say you don’t care about things like that, right?”

  “Obviously I don’t. I’m a logical machine with only a thin veneer of simulated emotions.”

  “Okay,” Rig said. “That makes sense.”

  “It’s still rude,” M-Bot added.

  I looked to Rig, then gestured toward the cockpit. “So, we have a magical talking starship with mysterious technology. Do you wanna help me fix it?”

  “On our own?” Rig asked. “Why?”

  “So we can keep it. And fly it.”

  “You’re in the DDF now, Spin! You don’t need an outdated, broken-down ship.”

  “Still here,” M-Bot noted. “Just saying.”

  I leaned forward. “Rig, I’m not in the DDF. I’m in Cobb’s class.”

  “So? You’ll graduate. I don’t care how few people he passes—you’ll be one of them.”

  “And then?” I asked, feeling cold—expressing a fear that I’d never voiced, but one that had haunted me since that first day. “Cobb says he can let anyone he wants into his class. But if I pass? His authority ends there, Rig.”

  Rig looked down at the wrench in his hand.

  “I’m worried that the admiral will deny me a ship,” I said. “Worried she’ll find some petty reason to kick me out, once Cobb can’t protect me anymore. Worried I’ll lose it, Rig. The sky.” I looked toward the ship, glowing with lights along its side. “This is old, yes, but it’s also my freedom.”

  He still looked skeptical.

  “Think about how fun it would be,” I said. “Poking around inside an ancient ship. Think of what mysteries we could discover! Maybe M-Bot is all outdated technology, but maybe not. Won’t it be fun to at least try to fix him on our own? If it doesn’t work out, we can always turn him in later.”

  “Fine,” Rig said. “All right, stop giving me the hard sell. I’ll try, Spin.”

  I grinned at him.

  Rig looked at the ship. “I worry this is beyond what we can do. Those boosters are ruined. We can’t just weld something like that back together. I’m sure there will be other parts that will need to be replaced, or fixed using tools we don’t have.” He thought for a moment. “Though…”

  “What?” I asked.

  “One of my job offers,” he said. “It’s from the elite Engineering Corps, the people who oversee repairing the starfighters—and the people who develop new designs. They’ve got the best labs, the best equipment…”

  I nodded, eager. “That sounds perfect.”

  “I was thinking of taking their offer anyway,” he said. “They told me I could come in these next two months, intern with them, learn my way around the shops…They were very impressed with my test scores, and with my understanding of schematics and advanced engineering.”

  “Rig. That. Is. Awesome.”

  “I’m not promising anything,” he said. “But, well, maybe if I bring them the right questions, I can get them to show me how to fix certain pieces of M-Bot. I’ll have to do it without making them suspicious. Regardless, we’ll still need spare parts. At least one full-size booster.”

  “I’ll find us one, somehow.”

  “Just don’t tell me where you get it,” he noted. “Maybe, when this whole thing blows up in our faces, I can claim I didn’t know about any possible thefts you might be up to.”

  “A small decal on that power matrix reads ‘property of the Weight family,’ ” M-Bot said helpfully. “It looks to have been ripped, quite crudely, from a small chassis. Blue finish, judging by the scratched-off paint on the corner.”

  Rig sighed. “Jorgen’s car? Really?”

  I plastered on a smile.

  “The internship will take a chunk of each day,” he said, rubbing his chin. “But I should be able to dedicate the rest to this, if I need to. I’ll have to tell my parents something.”

  “Tell them the internship is super demanding,” I suggested. “And that it will take the majority of your time.”

  “But,” M-Bot said, “that’s not true, is it?”

  “Nah,” I said. “But who cares?”

  “I care,” the machine said. “Why would you say something that isn’t true?”

  “You can simulate emotions,” I said, “but not lies?”

  “I appear…to be missing some code,” M-Bot said. “Curious. Oh, what an interesting fungus!”

  I frowned, then glanced to the side, to where Doomslug had crawled up on a rock.

  “Scud,” Rig said. “There’s some weird stuff up here close to the surface.” He shivered. “Can you…do something about that thing?”

  “That thing is named Doomslug,” I said, “and she’s my mascot. Don’t hurt her while I’m away.” I walked over, grabbing my pack. “I need to get to class. You going to head below?”

  “Nah,” Rig said. “I suspected I might not be back for a while, so I left a note for my parents, saying I was going to an employment meeting. They’ll just assume I got up before them. I can head down later—I want to have a look at his wiring first.”

  “Great,” I said. “If you’re still here when I get back from class each day, I’ll join you in the repairs. If not, leave me
notes telling me what I can do to help.” I hesitated. “Remember, I’m kind of a dunderhead at this. So you might want to give me the easy—but annoying—tasks.”

  Rig smiled once more, settling down on a rock, looking at M-Bot. There was a light in his eyes, one I remembered from back when we started planning to become pilots. In that moment, seeing Rig like that again, I had my first real impression that this might work. Somehow, this plan might just work.

  “Wait,” M-Bot said. “You’re leaving me with him?”

  “I’ll be back tonight,” I promised.

  “I see. Could you come to the cockpit so we can speak in private?”

  I looked at the ship, frowning.

  “I don’t want to explain in public why I like you better than the engineer,” M-Bot added. “If he heard me go on—at length—regarding his irresolvable flaws, he might feel belittled or despondent.”

  “Well, that part is going to be lovely,” Rig said, rolling his eyes. “Maybe we can find a way to shut off the personality.”

  I pulled myself up into the cockpit. The canopy moved down and sealed with a whoosh. “It’s all right,” I said to M-Bot. “Rig is good people. He’ll take care of you.”

  “I am, of course, simply emulating the way humans play irrational favorites over one another. But could you not go?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go learn to fight the Krell.” I frowned at the tone in the robot’s voice. “What’s wrong? I told you, Rig is a good—”

  “I am willing to accept that he is until evidence proves otherwise. This is a problem: I appear to have lost my master.”

  “I can be your new master.”

  “I cannot change masters without proper authentication codes,” he said. “Which I just realized I do not remember. The problem, however, is larger than this mere fact. I do not remember my mission. I do not know where I came from. I do not know my purpose. If I were human, I would be…scared.”

  How did I respond to that? A frightened starship?

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll give you a new purpose—destroying the Krell. You’re a fighter, M-Bot. I’m sure that name stands for something exciting. Murderbot…mayhembot. Massacrebot. That’s it, I’m sure. You’re a frightening, all-powerful death ship designed to fry the Krell and save humanity.”

  “I do not feel very frightening,” he said. “I do not feel like a death ship.”

  “We’ll deal with that,” I promised. “Trust me.”

  “And can I trust that those words are not…a falsehood? Like the one to tell the engineer’s parents?”

  Well. That came back to bite me faster than I’d expected.

  “I must ask you,” M-Bot said more softly, “not to tell any others about me. I assumed you’d understood this earlier, when I explained my orders. I am supposed to ‘lie low,’ which is a colloquialism for remaining inconspicuous. You should not have told the engineer.”

  “And how would we repair you, otherwise?”

  “I do not know. Spensa, I am an artificial intelligence—a computer. I must obey my orders. Please. You can’t turn me over to your DDF. You must not even speak of me to anyone else.”

  Well, that was going to present a problem. I wanted to get this thing flying, and once I did, that would mean flying it to help in the fight against the Krell. And if we couldn’t fix it…well, I’d need to turn it over. Regardless of what I thought of Ironsides, I couldn’t just sit on this ship forever. Not if it could mean the difference between the survival and extinction of humanity.

  I had opened my mouth to argue with M-Bot further when a set of lights started flashing on the dashboard.

  “Multiple atmospheric incursions have been detected by my short-range sensors,” M-Bot said. “Debris has begun falling toward the planet, with forty-three ships following.”

  “Forty-three?” I said, glancing at his sensor readout. Short range for him was apparently still pretty long, by our standards. “Wow. You can spot them, even in a debris fall?”

  “Easily.”

  Proof already that the DDF could use this technology. Our scanners weren’t as accurate as that. That knowledge immediately made me uncomfortable.

  Still, forty-three Krell? The maximum they ever fielded was a hundred ships, so this was an impressive force. I hit the button to open the canopy, then hauled myself out and hopped off onto a rock.

  “Krell,” I said to Rig. “A big flight.”

  “Are we in danger here?”

  “No, they’re coming from the other direction. But the cadets have been training long enough now that Ironsides has started sending them up for real, as support units, during combat. Firestorm Flight went two days ago.”

  “So…”

  “So I’d better get going. Just in case.”

  I started running.

  A sense of anxiety built in me as I heard the distant sound of debris hitting. I somehow knew that Ironsides would send my flight up for this attack. She liked testing cadets in real combat experience, and we were far enough in our training that Cobb had warned we’d soon be sent into some real battles.

  It was our turn. The time had come. So I forced myself into a jog—then a dash—across the dusty ground.

  Sweat pouring down the sides of my face, I felt a horrible inevitability as I approached the base, where warning klaxons blared. Not fear, really, but dread. What if I was too late? What if the others went into battle without me?

  I entered the base, then rounded the outside wall toward our launchpad. A single ship sat there, alone. I had been right.

  I reached my ship in a sweaty mess, pushing my own ladder into place as several members of the ground crew noticed me and started yelling.

  One got there in time to stabilize my ladder. “Where have you been, cadet!” she shouted at me. “The rest of your flight went up twenty minutes ago!”

  I shook my head, sliding into the cockpit, too exhausted to speak.

  “No pressure suit?” the ground crewer said.

  “No time.”

  “All right. Don’t make any sharp ascents then. You have clearance to go. Call in to your flightleader, then move.”

  I nodded, then pulled on my helmet. This one—like the one in the training room—had the strange lumps inside, to measure whatever it was they wanted to measure about me. I flipped on the flight radio band as the canopy lowered.

  “—don’t let your nerves get the best of you,” Jerkface was saying over the radio. “Stay focused, watch your wingmate. You heard Cobb. We don’t have to fire. Just focus on keeping yourselves from being turned to slag.”

  “What?” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Spin?” Jerkface asked. “Where have you been?”

  “In my cave! Where else would I be?” I engaged my acclivity ring and launched my ship upward. G-forces hit me, and my stomach felt like it was trying to escape through my toes. I slowed the ascent. “Repeat that part to me. You’re going into battle? You’re not staying at the edge of combat?”

  “The admiral finally wants to let us fight!” Bim said, eager.

  “Contain yourself, Bim,” Jerkface said. “Spin, we’re at 11.3-302.7-21000. Get here as fast as you can. Ironsides has ordered us into a small firefight alongside a flight of full pilots. We’re there to confuse the enemy and hopefully split their attention.”

  In other words, we’re being sent in as targets, I thought, wiping my hand on my jumpsuit, my heartbeat thrumming, sweat making my hair stick to my face. Or they are. Without me.

  Not for long.

  I slammed the throttle forward, going into overburn. The GravCaps protected me for three seconds, and then I slammed back in my seat. I could take g-forces like these though, pushing me straight backward. It wasn’t pleasant, but I didn’t risk blacking out. I just had to get to speed, then carefully climb—using the accli
vity ring.

  I quickly reached Mag-10—which was the upper speed threshold for a Poco, at least safely. Even this was stretching the limits. The atmospheric scoops—which pushed air away around the ship in a bubble, preventing me from ripping off my own wings during tight maneuvers—were overwhelmed, and my ship rattled from the motion. The friction of air resistance made my normally invisible shield start to glow.

  I climbed upward as well—but carefully, slower, as the g-forces in that direction threatened to knock me out. Going up forced my blood down into my feet. I did the stomach-clenching exercises we’d been taught in centrifuge training, but still, darkness started to creep around the outsides of my vision.

  I held on, pressed down at six times my normal weight. Though the flight would only take a short while, I had to listen to my friends in battle all the way.

  “Careful, Hurl. Not too eager.”

  “One’s on me! I’ve got one on me!”

  “Dodge, FM!”

  “Dodging! Dodging! Scud, who was that?”

  “Nightstorm Six. That’s my brother, guys! Callsign: Vent. FM, you owe me some fries or something.”

  “To your right! Arturo, look up!”

  “Looking! Stars, what a mess.”

  Finally my dash beeped, indicating I was approaching my desired coordinates. I let off on the altitude lever, then performed a rapid deceleration. In a Poco with atmospheric scoops, that meant spinning my ship in the air—the GravCaps kicking in—then firing my booster backward to slow me down.

  I came out of it after slowing to Mag-1, standard dogfighting speed. I spun my Poco around, facing toward the battlefield, where distant lights flashed in the dark morning sky. Debris fell as red streaks.

  “I’m here,” I said to the others.

  “Get in and help Morningtide!” Jorgen shouted at me. “Can you spot her?”

  “Looking!” I said, frantic, scanning my proximity sensor screen. There. I hit overburn, accelerating her direction.

  “Guys,” I said, glancing at the scanner. “Morningtide has picked up a tail!”

  “I see it,” Jerkface said. “Morningtide, you read?”