“Why not?” Avi no longer looks like a button. More like a ticking time bomb. “You wouldn’t make a very good gunner if you didn’t like shooting. Just like I wouldn’t be a very good pyrotechnician if I didn’t like explosions.” There’s only the slightest pause before she rushes on, “Or a very good spymaster if I didn’t—”
“You’re not our spymaster,” interject the Youvu Hums.
Avi ignores them. Her crystal-blue eyes bore into me. “Haven’t you ever shot anyone?”
I squirm. “Oh, well…”
“You haven’t, have you?” Avi accuses.
My temperature rises. I’m not even sure which way I’m supposed to be defending myself. BothYes, I’m a gunner who’s shot lots of peopleandNo, I’m a gunner who’s never shot anyoneseem like terrible answers. Contrary to popular belief, the Academy curriculum doesn’t focus on training cadets for war. Battling monsters? Sure. Providing backup to planetary authorities? You bet. In those rare instances when battle is necessary, we’re skilled enough—prepared well enough—that the fighting usually ends quickly, in our favor, with little to no loss of life.
“I heard,” starts one of the Youvu Hums, “that Keller can reload a quad-barrel in under four seconds.” She looks at me. “Is that true?”
Her question is an obvious attempt to save me from Avi’s probing, but I’m grateful. “Yeah.”
“And,” says the other Youvu Hum, “you currently hold the record for the Academy’s longest stream of unbroken in-motion target hits.”
“Um, yeah, that’s also true.”
“And the only reason your record wasn’t higher,” they say in unison, “was because you went on hitting targets for so long that your spacecraft ran out of fuel.”
“Actually, it was the ammo that went first.”
The Sixers all exchange glances. “Wicked.”
I shrug, though I’d be lying if I said their praise was unwelcome. I doubt a lot of things about myself, but I don’t doubt this—I’m a good marksman. No matter the size of the weapon, the style, its class, the power source, whether it’s a stunner or a shifter or anything else, if it eats ammo, I can work it. And I never miss.
I look forward to seeing you in action, Jester says.
Another shrug. “If I get the chance.”
“You mean because of Lament?” Vera toys with her empty beaker. “He didn’t mean what he said earlier about not flying together. Or maybe he did mean it, but it’s not like he has the power to reassign you, and Sergeant Forst won’t let him run missions without a gunner.”
“He said he doesn’t need a gunner.”
“Of course he does. Lament isn’t an intelligence officer. If he’s flying, something’s dying.” She winces. “I didn’t mean to make that rhyme.”
It could be his catchphrase, Jester remarks.
“Oh stars, please don’t tell him that.”
I’m thinking T-shirts.
“Anyway,” Vera presses, “Lament can’t do his job without a partner, nor do I think he really wants to. It’s just… these past five months have been hard for him. For all of us, really, but him especially.”
“I heard about the accident.” I don’t want to pry, but I’m hoping for a better understanding of what happened that day. When the news brokethat the Sixth’s gunner had been killed on a mission, the Legion put out a press release that was lengthy yet entirely devoid of details. Since then, they’ve stayed remarkably tight-lipped on the incident.
“Bast and Lament grew up together,” Vera explains. “They’d been flying with each other since they were kids. And they were good partners, you know? A fighter pilot is only as strong as their gunner, and vice versa, but the two of them… it was like they could read each other’s thoughts.” She taps her beaker on the table, an absentminded motion. “The day of the accident, they were running a regular call. There’d been a report of stolen power packs on one of the Upper Planets, which was causing glitches in the Grid. Lament was manning the spacecraft, Bast in the gunner’s seat, just like always. As they approached their destination, they passed through an unidentified, white space mist. We don’t know the details. Lament won’t talk about it. But the mist did something to Bast, and Lament radioed for help. Then the signal went dark, and the next thing we knew, Bast was dead and Lament had crashed on some No Man’s planet way off course. It took us forever to find him—all his tracking systems were down—and by the time we did…” She trails off.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I mean”—she tries for a smile—“of course you’re curious. It’s just… Jester and I were the first to arrive on scene. When we landed, Lament’s spacecraft was nothing but a mangled heap.”
“Really?” That wasn’t in the press release. “But how did Lament survive?”
Vera shrugs. “Luck? A miracle? Your guess is as good as ours.”
“And the mist?”
