Cytonic (Skyward #3)(51)

“Got wounded,” I said, “but escaped. I can talk to him with cytonics. He’s recovering, and will be glad to hear that you and I have made contact.”

“Are you certain?” he said. “He still thinks I’m an abomination.”

“He’s getting better about that.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t be,” M-Bot said. He already kept his voice very soft when talking to me, but something seemed even more…hushed about this question. “The way the pirates checked to make sure there wasn’t an AI in me—going so far as to inject scrubbing software—indicates Chet might be right. What if I am an abomination?”

“People think humans are abominations too,” I said, getting a big chunk of the gunk free. “They consider that as verifiable as military protocol or personnel records. But it’s flat-out wrong.”

“The rumors about AIs must have started somewhere.”

“Sure,” I said. “Like the rumors about humans. I mean, we apparently tried to conquer the galaxy three times. Doesn’t mean we’re monsters. Just inefficient tyrants.”



It was growing increasingly difficult to reconcile what my ancestors had done with the stories Gran-Gran told me. It was easy to think of yourself as the hero when you were fighting back against a vengeful enemy bent on extermination. But what about when you were the ones conquering? How many people like Morriumur—ordinary diones trying to prove themselves—had died in the wars my people had started?

It made me uncomfortable. I quoted Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan because when faced with annihilation, we needed that kind of courage. Yet both of those men—confirmed by M-Bot’s databases—had been mass murderers on a terrible scale.

My life had been so much simpler when I’d been fighting the nebulous “Krell” and not real people.

“Spensa,” M-Bot said, hovering in close. “Thank you. For continuing to be my friend. Despite the potential danger.”

“Thank you in return,” I said. “I mean, think about it realistically. If one of the two of us is going to end up being responsible for the other’s death, who’s it going to be? The fiddly little robot who loves mushrooms? Or the meter-and-a-half-tall terror who once tried to get her best friend to agree to be scalped so she could put her first notch on her toy hatchet?”

“Oh dear,” M-Bot said.

“In my defense,” I said, “Gran-Gran didn’t explain well, so I thought scalping someone meant cutting their hair real short, but while using a sword or an axe. It sounded pretty cool.”

M-Bot fell silent as Nuluba came walking by with a tablet, tapping away. I muttered to myself, talking as if to the black gunk while M-Bot sprayed solvent.

Eventually he spoke again, very quietly. “Spensa, something is odd about this destructor.”

“Other than the fact that it seems to have been fossilized in a tar pit?”

“Other than that, yes. Those two boxes installed on the sides of the weapon? They’re output modifiers. Normally you’d use something like that to increase the heat of a weapon for, say, cutting through metal shielding. Or maybe to modify it to lower shot intensity for training.”



“And what do these do?”

“There’s no way to tell,” M-Bot said. “They’ve been completely fried by the overuse. But haven’t you noticed how the Broadsiders have never lost a ship?”

“I’ve noticed,” I said. “But maybe the Broadsiders are just lucky. They’ve only been out on a couple of sorties since we arrived here.”

“I suppose that’s true… Huh.”

“What?” I asked.

“I just counted the number of sorties I’ve observed. I came up with ten.”

“Impossible,” I said. “Ten fights in four or five days?”

“Yeah, strange… Oh.”

“…Oh?”

“I just reconciled my internal chronometer,” he said. “We’ve been with the Broadsiders for nearly two weeks, Spensa.”

My cleaning rag dropped from my fingers. I blinked, trying to remember… How many times had I slept? It kind of blurred together…

“Scud,” I said. “How did you not notice?”

“I have no idea,” he said, his voice small. “I guess I’m more alive than I thought, and am experiencing some of the same effects you are. Indeed, a lack of time awareness would seem to fit with what we know of delvers.”

Well, that would explain why the others trusted me with M-Bot “so soon.” It wasn’t soon.

Nevertheless, my brain struggled to make sense of it. With an effort that felt almost painful, I thought back over the repairs I’d done. Stripping down the landing gear on all four ships. Doing booster maintenance. Light wing repairs…

I immediately reached out to Chet.

Have you contacted the AI? he asked.



Yes, but…Chet, how many days do you think I’ve been in here, captured?

Six? he guessed. I’ve been sleeping off my wound a lot though. So maybe seven or eight?

Fourteen, I said.

He was silent for a moment. Then I felt the emotional equivalence of a sigh.

It is dangerous to stay in one place long, he said. This happens, Spensa. I’m sorry.