Cobb paused the simulation with a gesture. He stepped forward, focusing on my ship—frozen in the air amid a spectacular show of destructors, falling streaks of light, and exploding ships. Then he rewound the simulation and played it through again, watching my maneuver.

“I almost blacked out,” I noted from the doorway. “I didn’t have control of my speed, and didn’t cut the turn before the GravCaps overloaded.”

“It was still quite the maneuver,” he said. “Particularly for a cadet. Remarkable, almost unbelievable.”

“Jerkface is better than I am.”

“Jorgen is an excellent technical pilot, but he doesn’t feel it like you do. You remind me of your father.” He seemed… grim as he said it.

I suddenly felt awkward, so I crossed to my simulator and grabbed my canteen. Cobb played out the rest of the battle, and I forced myself to watch as my ship and Bim’s chased the Krell bomber. Cobb froze the simulation again as the four strange guard ships broke off the enemy bomber—the ones who would, momentarily, shoot down Bim.

“What are they?” I asked.

“Something new. They haven’t altered their tactics in over a decade. What changed now?” He narrowed his eyes. “We survive by being able to anticipate the Krell. Anytime you can guess what your enemy is going to do, you have an advantage. No matter how dangerous they are, if you know their next move, you can counter it.”

Huh. That struck me, and I found myself nodding.

Cobb shut down the hologram and hobbled back toward his desk. “Here,” he said, sliding a box off the top and handing it to me. “I forgot to give this to you earlier.”

A personal radio?

“Normally, we only give these to full pilots who get off-duty time down in Igneous. But since you live off base, I figured you should have one. Keep it on you at all times. You’ll get a general warning call when the Krell attack.”

I took the device, which was rectangular and boxy, maybe the size of a small one-handed training weight. My father had carried one of these.

Cobb waved to dismiss me, then settled down in his seat and started looking through his papers.

I lingered though, a question on my mind. “Cobb?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you fly with us? The other flight instructors go up with their cadets.”

I braced myself for anger or reprimand. Cobb just patted his leg. “Old wounds, Spin. Old wounds.” He’d been shot down, soon after the Battle of Alta. His leg had clipped the side of the canopy as he’d ejected.

“You don’t need your leg to fly.”

“Some wounds,” he said softly, “aren’t as obvious as a twisted leg. You found it hard to get into the cockpit today, after watching your friends die? Try doing it after you shoot down one of your own.”

I felt a sudden and striking coldness wash through me, like I’d ejected at high altitude. Was he saying…

Was he saying he was the one who had shot down my father?