“She got herself killed.”

“The one shot that mattered. That’s the one I missed.”

“There were two ships chasing her. One shot, even if it had hit, might not have been enough.”

She smiled, squeezed my hand, then left.

I felt my world collapsing. First Hurl, now Kimmalyn. I looked toward Jorgen. Surely he could stop this. Couldn’t he?

He stood stiffly, tall, with that too-handsome face. He stared straight ahead, and I thought I could see something in his eyes. Guilt? Pain?

He’s watching his flight break apart around him too.

I had to do something. Make some kind of sense out of this disaster, and of my pain. But no, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop Kimmalyn. At least… at least she’d be safe this way.

Hurl though…

“Arturo,” I said, picking up my pack, “about how far out was that battle, would you say?”

“Pretty close to our original position, beyond the AA guns. Say, eighty klicks.”

I shouldered my pack. “Great. I’ll see you all in a week.”

“Where are you going?” FM asked.

“I’m going to find Hurl,” I said, “and give her a pilot’s burial.”

34

I trudged across the dry, dusty ground. My compass kept me on the right heading, which was important, because everything looked the same out here on the surface.

I tried not to think. Thinking was dangerous. I’d barely known Bim and Morningtide, and their deaths had left me shaken for weeks. Hurl had been my wingmate.

It was more though. She’d been like me. At least, like I pretended to be. She was usually one step ahead of me, leading the charge.

In her death, I saw myself.

No. No thinking.

That didn’t stop the emotions. The hole inside, the pain of a wound rubbed raw. After this, nothing could ever be the same. Yesterday hadn’t just marked the death of a friend. It marked the death of my ability to pretend this war was—in any way—glorious.

My radio was blinking. I hit the switch.

“Spensa?” M-Bot asked. “Are you certain this journey is wise? I am not capable of worry, mind you, but—”

“I’d rather be alone,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow or something.” I clicked the radio off and stuffed it inside my backpack, where I’d stashed some rat meat and water for the journey. If it wasn’t enough, I could go hunting. Maybe I’d vanish into the caverns, never to return. Become a nomad, like my clan before the founding of Alta.

And never fly again?

Just walk, Spensa. I told myself. Stop thinking and walk.

This was simple.

This I could do.

I was about two hours outside Alta when a sound broke the quiet and I turned to see a hovercar approaching. It flew three meters off the ground and towed a wake of dust behind. Had someone warned the admiral? Had she sent MPs with some made-up reason why I couldn’t be out here?

No… As it got closer I realized I recognized that blue car. It was Jorgen’s. He must have gotten the power matrix replaced.