Starsight

There, I thought. Starsight is over there. I knew, instinctively, the direction toward the platform. During our jumps between the delver maze and the city, my mind had been injected somehow with that knowledge. Each time the imprint seemed to last longer, to the point where it was firm in my mind now—and no longer fading.

If I had to, I knew I could hyperjump back to Starsight on my own. In fact, I was increasingly certain I could now find my way back to Starsight from anywhere. That didn’t do me any good at the moment though. I already had transportation to Starsight.

My concentration receded as my problems seized my brain. Steal the Superiority’s hyperdrive technology. Rescue Brade. Figure out what was up with Vapor—not to mention the weapon the Superiority was developing. And that didn’t even get into the subtleties of whatever political situation was going on among Cuna, Winzik, and the Krell. It was all just so overwhelming.

Spensa . . . A voice seemed to speak from out there, among the stars. Spensa. Soul of a warrior . . .

I snapped my eyes open, gasping. “Gran-Gran?” I said. I pushed my feet down against my seat, pressing myself against the window of my canopy, looking frantically out among the stars.

Saints and stars. That had been her voice.

“Gran-Gran!” I shouted.

Fight . . .

“I will fight, Gran-Gran!” I said. “But what? How? I . . . I’m not right for this mission. It isn’t what I trained for. I don’t know what to do!”

A hero . . . does not choose . . . her trials, Spensa . . .

“Gran-Gran?” I asked, trying to pinpoint the location of the words.

She steps . . . into the darkness, the voice said, fading. Then she faces what comes next . . .

I searched desperately for my home among the thousands of stars. But it was hopeless, and whatever it was I thought I’d heard did not return.

Just that lingering phantom echo in my mind.

A hero does not choose her trials.

I drifted for a long moment, hair floating in a mess around my face. Finally, I pushed myself down and buckled back into my seat. I tucked up my hair, then pulled on my helmet and strapped it in place.

When further cytonic reaching didn’t do anything, I sighed and focused on my flight. I should probably be evaluating their performances anyway; Vapor might ask.

Brade and Vapor were both doing well, as could be expected. They were the two best pilots of the group, excluding me. But Hesho and his kitsen were also performing admirably. During this week of training, they’d really learned how to cover a wingmate and how to blend their role as a gunship with the need to sometimes just be a fighter, dogfighting like any other ship.

Morriumur, though . . . Poor Morriumur. It wasn’t their fault that they were the weakest pilot in our group. They were only a few months old, after all—and even if they’d inherited some skill from one of their parents, that smidgen of combat experience only made their mistakes more obvious. As I watched, they pulled too far ahead of Hesho and left the kitsen to be swarmed by enemies. Then, when trying to compensate and come back, Morriumur’s shots missed the enemy—and nearly brought down the kitsen ship’s shields.

I winced and opened a comm channel to chew out Morriumur. I immediately heard a string of curses that my translator helpfully interpreted for me. And scud, even Gran-Gran hadn’t been able to swear that eloquently.

“Which parent did you get that from?” I asked over the channel.

Morriumur immediately cut off. I could practically hear the blush in their voice as they replied, “Sorry, Alanik. I didn’t know you were listening.”

“You’re trying too hard,” I advised them. “Overcompensating for your lack of skill. Relax.”

“It’s easy to say that,” they replied, “when you have an entire life to live. I’ve only got a few months to prove myself.”

“You’ll prove nothing if you shoot down a wingmate,” I told them. “Relax. You can’t force yourself to become a better pilot through sheer determination. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

They acknowledged, and I think they did better during the next run, so hopefully my advice was working. Soon the practice runs ended, the embers pulling back to the delver maze. My four flightmates joined me in a line.

In the distance, I could see other flights practicing. To my amusement, it seemed that several others had pulled back from doing runs through the maze, and were now practicing their dogfighting as well. I suspected we’d had a good influence on them.