Cytonic (Skyward #3)(71)

Changing shape? I’d never done anything like that.

“A cytonic talent,” Chet said. “Projecting illusions into the minds of others—making oneself appear different, even feel different. It works on anyone in here, though I’ve heard that in the somewhere it only works on other cytonics.”

Actually… I felt a chill. I had heard of that happening. Someone had done it to my father—making him see the wrong things. I was coming to understand more and more that different cytonics…they could do different things. I could hear the stars and teleport. Chet could extend his life span and “see” great distances with his powers.

Peg dropped off the line, and M-Bot had a chance to speak. “Why didn’t the delvers grab one of the members of your team and turn them into a glowing-eyed thing?” he asked. “Peg and Maksim were closer to you than that heklo.”

“Gathering a large number of people together repels them,” Chet said. “Particularly if those people see themselves as a group. My theory is that the delvers need someone who is as alone as possible, and someone who doesn’t view themselves as belonging.”

I dwelled on what we’d seen, and found it more difficult to make sense of it all this time. In fact, I had to admit that—as we neared home—I was glad when a more mundane danger cropped up: an emergency announcement that a group of starfighters from an enemy faction was approaching the Broadsider base at high speed.





As soon as our base came into view, I hit my overburn and pulled ahead of the others. I could see the destructor fire spraying through the nowhere, beautiful and bright. My body came alive, and my mind—which had been reeling from what I’d experienced—snapped to full alert.

This was what I’d been made for.

“Hang on, Chet,” I said, and we screamed into the fight, flying to the sound of wind on wings and boosters roaring. It had taken us precious minutes to arrive, and I counted three of our fighters already locked up, drifting aimlessly. Scud. With ten total fighters, and the five of us gone, the remaining two stragglers were facing overwhelming odds.

M-Bot highlighted enemy ships, friendlies, and downed friendlies on my proximity display. By the markings on the enemy fighters, these were from the Jolly Rogers. The faction led by Peg’s son Gremm—and the one she’d expected to send a raid to test my abilities.

Excellent.

M-Bot suggested a few targets—circling starfighters that were flying slower than the others and one that had just taken a hit to its shield. As much as I wanted a challenge—and to go for the stronger enemies first—that could lead to my team getting overwhelmed.



So, steeling myself, I took one of M-Bot’s suggestions and swooped in behind a pair of fighters that were tailing Gibsey, one of our pilots from Flintlock Flight. The two enemy pilots barely responded to my arrival. One swung a little to the side so that if I fired, I’d risk my stray shots hitting my ally.

For a brief second, I was confused. That was it?

I’m used to fighting Superiority ships that recognize me as an enemy ace, I realized. They highlight me in battle, devoting extra resources to me. But this was my first time fighting rival pirates. They had come to test me, but they didn’t seem to expect too much.

Time to send them my calling card. I sniped the one who had moved to the side, each of my shots landing with precision. The pilot belatedly panicked, pulling up—and slammed square into my next shot. You always want to pull up. It’s instinct, even in space when there’s no ground below.

I buzzed around the now-frozen enemy ship, firing at the second ship tailing Gibsey—which was the ship that M-Bot had highlighted as having a weakened shield. My shots rattled the enemy pilot, who broke off and dodged to the right.

“You,” I whispered, “shall know the taste of my steel. And I shall know the taste of your blood.”

Yes, those kinds of phrases still slipped out now and then. No, I wasn’t embarrassed. They helped me focus.

I wove after the ship as they dodged around the fragment. They crossed underneath, with me tight behind them, then came up around the other side on a pivot. I could sense their increasing panic as I used my light-lance to swing around more quickly, my GravCaps easily compensating for the g-forces.

My prey cut one direction, then the other. It was an ostensibly smart move—if they jerked around randomly, I couldn’t anticipate where they’d be. Except, as with pulling up, people who think they’re acting randomly rarely are. Cobb had drilled this into my brain time and time again. Instead of “random” motions, we practiced sequences of maneuvers deliberately designed to frustrate enemies.



Training always trumped haphazardness. My prey jerked back and forth, and I’m sure it felt random to them—but I picked them off with three expert shots anyway. Chet let out a whoop, and I left the enemy ship frozen and swerved into the firefight. Here, I got in an admittedly lucky shot on a ship that M-Bot highlighted, but I wasn’t going to complain. Three “kills” in under five minutes?

Scud, it felt good to be back in the cockpit. Fighting alongside friends again. Doing what I was meant to do.

Nearby, I noticed some of the enemy ships forming up into a proper flight. “Cutlass Flight,” I said, “track my position. I’m about to give you a group of juicy targets.”

The four enemy ships spun around, orienting toward me. Working together was a good idea, but these obviously hadn’t drilled on ideal ship distance. As I’d recently taught the Broadsiders, when you flew in a formation, you wanted to be just far enough away from one another to protect against IMP blasts.