“Besides, FM,” Arturo added, “you’ve still crashed fewer times than the rest of us, total.”

“I won’t hold that record for long, if I keep this up,” FM said.

“You’re just trying to be subversive by crashing today,” Hurl said, “because nobody expects it from you. You rebel you.”

FM chuckled softly.

“You could all do what nobody expects,” Jorgen said on the group line, “and actually line up straight for once. Amphi, I’m looking at you.”

“Right, right,” Arturo said, hovering his ship into place. “Though I guess technically Jorgen has crashed less than you, FM. He’s flown half as often. It’s hard to blow up when all you do is sit around complaining and giving orders.”

“As the Saint always said,” Kimmalyn added again in a solemn voice, “true failure is choosing to fail.”

Jorgen didn’t defend himself, though I thought I heard a quick intake of breath from him. I grimaced. It was true that Jorgen tended to hang back and watch us run exercises, offering instruction rather than flying himself. But maybe the others would act differently if they knew he spent late nights practicing on his own afterward.

I felt ashamed, suddenly. Jorgen’s callsign, and the way the others treated him, were partially my fault. He didn’t deserve all that. I mean, he could be insufferable, but he was trying to do his best.

As Cobb sent us in for another round of dogfighting, Rig’s words floated up from the back of my mind.

What about me? Am I a coward, Spensa?

I was certain he wasn’t. But I’d lived my childhood clinging to a simple rule, reinforced by Gran-Gran’s stories. Good people were brave. Bad people were cowards. I knew my father had been a good person, so it was obvious to me that he couldn’t have run away. End of story. Close the book.

It was getting harder to hold to that particular black-and-white line. I’d promised Hurl I wouldn’t be a coward. But did any coward intend to turn and run? I’d never felt like fleeing a battle, but I was still surprised by the real emotions of being a pilot. By how much it had hurt to lose Bim and Morningtide, by how overwhelmed I sometimes felt.

Was it possible that something similar, for a brief moment, had caused my father to retreat? And if he had, could I really promise that I wouldn’t someday do the same?

I dodged around a chunk of debris, but almost clipped Hurl’s wing.

“Come on, Spin,” she said. “Head in the game. Eye on the ball.”

“The ball?”

“Sorry. League metaphor.”

“I didn’t get to go to many games.” Workers got tickets as rewards for exemplary merits. But it would be good to talk about something, to get my thoughts off my worries. “I barely know what you did. Something about hoverbikes? Did you fly?”

“Not quite,” Hurl said as we dodged back and forth, a Krell ship—as per the exercise—coming in behind us. “The Digball League gets acclivity rings that are too small to fly ships. Our bikes could go full three-D in little bursts, but each bike is allotted a fixed amount of air time. Part of the strategy is knowing when to use it.”