I power the thrusters and align my fingers with the blue dots on the track pad, then slide my index finger sideways. The Molter zooms forward and arcs to the right. The Embassy slides into view, its tiny towers glinting in the sunlight. A thin line—the Main Throughway—connects to Horizon Tower’s outpost in the southeast, disappears under the city, then emerges again on the western edge and runs all the way to Shield Tower’s military installation. Elsewhere in the sky, the other two transports hover in place, each carrying a set of Recruits.

I move my thumb to test the guidance system. The Molter dips toward the ground, then rises straight up. I slide my index and middle finger to the right—and immediately regret it. The Molter spins 180-degrees, flattening my body against the seat and making my brain go fuzzy. Nausea bubbles in my stomach. Saliva drenches my mouth. Weakness numbs my arms. I take several controlled breaths, suppressing the urge to throw up. I will never spin this thing again.

Ever.

For some reason, I can’t coordinate my fingers. My thumb slides down, my middle finger slides left. The Molter strafes the wrong way. I slide my middle finger back into place, and my pointer finger shifts with it.

I speed up, slow down, hover, and strafe. All haphazardly, all unintentionally. Why is this so difficult? The simulation wasn’t like this at all. I grit my teeth, frustrated. Why won’t this thing listen to me?

“How’s it coming along?” my instructor asks.

“I guess all right.”

“Certainly looks like that way.”

I can almost hear the grin behind his words. He must be watching me from his work panel. Apparently my inadequate piloting abilities amuse him.

Yeah, what a great game.

I stop flying and search around the cockpit for any controls I might have missed. As I’m doing that, a new voice comes through the headset.

“Arman, can you hear me?”

It’s Glacia. How is she contacting me? I search for any icon I may have missed in the simulation, feel for a switch on the headset. Nothing.

“How do I talk to people?” I ask the instructor.

“Tap your headset,” he says. “A list will pop up. Touch the name of whoever you want to talk to and you’ll be good.”

I tap my headset and a new hologram expands between two others. I reach out and touch Glacia Haverns. Her name rises to the top corner of the window.

“What do you want?”

“Geez, are you flying that thing drunk?”

I ignore her comment, even as my Molter rocks haphazardly when I fail—yet again—to complete a smooth turn.

A new Molter flies up to me. Inside is Glacia, all geared up in her headset and tendril gloves, hands spread on the guidance display. She maneuvers gracefully around me as if she’s been flying military-grade aerial vehicles her entire life.