Starsight

“He disobeyed orders!” Jorgen said. “He failed in his most fundamental duty.” He kneaded his dough more furiously, pressing it against the base of the wide, shallow bowl.

“Indeed,” Gran-Gran said. “His will was tested, however, as the computer reported another launch. Larger this time, though still suspiciously small. He debated. He knew that his duty was to send his people to launch their retaliation. To send death to their enemies while still able. The man and the soldier warred inside him.

“In the end, he declared the computer’s report to be a false alarm. He waited, sweating . . . until no missiles arrived. That day, he became the only hero of a war that never happened. The man who prevented the end of the world.”

“He still disobeyed,” Jorgen said. “It wasn’t his job to make the decision he did. It belonged to his superiors. The fact that he was right makes the story justify him in the end, but if he’d been wrong, then he would be remembered as a coward at best, a traitor at worst.”

“If he’d been wrong,” Gran-Gran whispered, “he wouldn’t have been remembered. For nobody would have lived to remember him.”

Jorgen sat back and opened his eyes. He looked down at the firm dough in his hands, then started working it harder, folding it and pushing it, feeling angry for reasons he couldn’t explain. “Why are you telling me this story?” he demanded of Gran-Gran. “Spensa said you always told her stories of people cutting off the heads of monsters.”

“I told her those stories because she needed them.”

“So you think I need a story like this? Because I like following orders? I’m not an emotionless machine, Gran-Gran. I

helped Spensa rebuild her spaceship. At least, I didn’t tell anyone what she was doing when she brought Hurl’s booster back. Against protocol.”

Gran-Gran didn’t reply, so Jorgen kept working the dough, smashing it over and over, folding it like the old swordsmiths used to fold metal.

“Everyone thinks that just because I like a little structure, a little organization, I’m some kind of alien! Well excuse me for trying to see that structure exists. If everyone were like this Stanislav, then the military would be chaos! No soldier would fire his gun, out of fear that maybe the order he’d been given was a false alarm! No pilot would fly, because who knows, maybe your sensors are wrong and there is no enemy!”

He slammed the dough down and sat back against the wall.

Gran-Gran grabbed his dough, pressing it between her fingers. “Excellent,” she said. “Finally some good kneading out of you, boy. That will be some bread.”

“I—”

“Close your eyes,” Gran-Gran said. “Humph.”

Jorgen wiped his brow with his sleeve. He hadn’t realized how worked up he’d gotten. “Look, maybe I was right to tell Spensa to go. But maybe I shouldn’t have. I’m not—”

“Close your eyes, boy!”

He thumped his head back against the wall, but did as she asked.

“What do you hear?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Don’t be daft. You hear the machinery outside, the apparatus crashing and thudding?”

“Well yes, obviously. But—”

“And the people on the street, clamoring home after shift change?”

“I guess.”

“And your heartbeat? Do you hear that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try.”

He sighed, but did as instructed, trying to listen. He could hear it thumping inside him, but probably only because he’d let himself get worked up.

“Stanislav wasn’t a hero because he disobeyed orders,” Gran-Gran said. “He was a hero because he knew when to disobey orders. I learned that from my mother, who brought us here—one of her last acts. I think she felt something here. Something we needed.”

“Then I shouldn’t be looking toward the stars,” Jorgen said, still frustrated. “We should be looking at the planet beneath us.”

“I always wanted to return to the stars,” Gran-Gran said.

“I like flying,” Jorgen said, his eyes still closed. “Don’t mistake my meaning. At the same time, this is my home. I don’t want to escape it, I want to protect

it. And sometimes when I’m lying quietly in bed in the deep caverns, I swear that I . . .”

“You what?” Gran-Gran asked.

Jorgen snapped his eyes open. “I do hear something. But it’s not up above us. It’s down below.”

30

I yanked open my backpack, letting a dione soldier inspect the contents.

The inside didn’t look suspicious at all. Just the large, clear plastic food container that I normally brought my lunches in. It looked perfectly innocent. For all the fact that it was a drone in disguise.

The guard shined a small flashlight in at the contents. Would they see how worried I was? Was I sweating too much? Would one of the nearby security drones sense my racing pulse?

No. No, I could do this. I was a warrior, and sometimes that required craftiness and stealth. I stood there an excruciatingly long moment. Then, bless the stars, the guard waved me forward.

I zipped up the pack and shouldered it, hurrying across the shuttle bay of the Weights and Measures. I tried to exude both confidence and lack of concern.