Defiant (Skyward, #4)

by Brandon Sanderson

“Rig,” I declared to him, “I need science.” “You need therapy.”

“What kind of ‘science’ do you need, Spensa? This isn’t like when you asked if I could turn your stuffed bear into a remote-controlled assassin device?” “Not as awesome as that, I’m afraid.” “Who were you going to assassinate, anyway?” he asked. “You were ten.”

“I’ll need you to bring the brooding down to, say, half as much. If you don’t we’ll be over quota, and Jorgen used up all of our supply last month. Scud, even Arturo has been doing too much lately. I think I’m the only one in this entire flight who hasn’t been draining our brooding quota.” “And me?” Kimmalyn asked. “You pontificate,” he said. “That’s brooding, but fancier.”

“So…this mustache. How—” “It’s awful,” Kimmalyn said. He blinked in surprise, and I’ll admit I did a double take myself. Had…had Kimmalyn just said that? “Did you say—” Nedd began. “It’s awful.” Kimmalyn put both hands in front of her mouth, as if trying to hide how much she was smiling. “It’s terrible, Nedd. It’s like someone glued a rat to your face, then ripped it off really quickly, leaving a few hairs behind! It’s like you shaved off a real mustache, but missed a few spots. It’s truly terrible.” She let out a little squeal of delight. “I’ve been waiting to tell you! I can’t believe I did.” “I…can’t believe it either,” he said. “You’re usually, uh, more…subtle.” “The mustache doesn’t deserve subtlety, Nedd,” she said. “It deserves a mercy killing.” “Oh. Uh, well then.” He looked to me, as if for support. “I’ve got a knife,” I said, reaching for the one I wore strapped to my leg. “Hold still and—”

Doomslug fluted softly on my shoulder. She felt…as intimidated as I did. She didn’t want to go into the room either. Because…well, scud. She was shy. I’d always assumed she had been with M-Bot because she’d gotten lost, or maybe she’d been the descendant of his original hyperdrive. But recently I was getting the feeling that she was the slug equivalent of an introvert. She hadn’t wanted to be completely alone, which was why she’d sought out M-Bot and his dormant cytonic processor. But she wasn’t the type who enjoyed hanging out in a cavern full of fluting slugs.

I love Doomslug being an introvert, I feel ya girl!

I couldn’t help but grin. I knew this cavern. I’d hunted in it—and it seemed that in my absence the rats had been on a rampage and fed freely on the fungus here. “Fear not,” I announced to them, “though I have returned, I come not for your blood! Turns out I prefer peanut butter. Enjoy your respite, fell beasts.”

“If I go and get a little help,” I said, “will you get out of my seat and let me continue?” “Am I in your seat?” Gran-Gran said. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m an old blind woman, and I get disoriented sometimes.” “Gran-Gran, you’re the most stubborn little ball of fire I know. Don’t give me lines like that.” She chuckled. “Just trying to let you know how others feel when dealing with you, dear. It’s the least I can do, considering the genes I handed you. Go, do as you—so wisely—suggested. I’ll be gone when you return.”

Kimmalyn insisted we get Arturo. “Two is a coincidence,” she explained, “but the Saint said three is a party.” “The Saint threw parties?” I asked, skeptical. “She was very progressive,” Kimmalyn said. “We need Arturo. Whatever you’re planning, I’ll feel better with three.”

“Commodore Nightshade,” he said, “I don’t think you quite understand the purpose of appointments.” “I called ahead,” I snapped. “The rule book says to call ahead. Book the appointment, Rikolfr, or I’ll push you out an airlock.” He paled. “I’d put you in a space suit first,” I said, rolling my eyes. “What do you think I am, a monster?”

Another visual winked into existence: a shot of the Defiant’s bridge as Brade accepted the communication. There, seated in a captain’s chair, was an old woman wearing a crisp white uniform. Milky-white eyes. A small figure, yet somehow still strong. Gran-Gran? She stood up, holding on to the armrests of the chair. “Superiority forces,” she said in a firm voice, “I am Captain Rebecca Nightshade of the starship Defiant. Eighty years ago, you drew my people into your war. You obliterated the ship we called home, stole our heritage, and tried to annihilate us. “As the last living member of the original Defiant’s crew, I’ve been granted my rightful commission as commander of this new vessel. I am of Clan Motorskaps, the people of the engines. You picked a fight with us that we did not want, but then you foolishly failed to exterminate us. And so, we are back. I am back. The blood of my ancestors demands that I seek vengeance upon you. “This is your only warning. Return to us the captives you’ve taken. Turn away from your path of tyranny. Or I will see each and every ship that raises arms against us burned to slag, and your ashes will be abandoned to drift in the eternal expanse of darkness. Forever frozen, without home or memorial, lamented by your kin, never again to hear the voices or feel the touch of those you have loved. I swear it by the stars, the Saints, and the souls of a thousand warriors who have come before me. I will have your blood.” The room fell still, the Super...

“Captain Nightshade,” he said, bringing Gran-Gran up on a side monitor. “You have authorization to move forward and engage. Be warned, we’ll soon have to speak via radio communications and not cytonics, and there’s a much greater chance that the enemy will be able to listen in on us.” “Understood and thanks,” she said. “If you’re listening in, you bastards, I hope you’ve bidden your families farewell. If not, I’ll try to record your screams as you die. For posterity.”

“Thank you, Gran-Gran,” he said, his voice growing more confident. “Let’s go end this.” “Excellent,” she said, settling back into her seat. “I’m almost ninety, you know. I was starting to think I wouldn’t get to tear down any galactic empires in my lifetime, which would have been positively tragic.”

The dust settled onto a shining black ship, vaguely W-shaped. With enormous boosters and a full complement of destructors. His ship. His old ship, but made new. Fitting his growth and what he’d become. Oh, stars and Saints. “Hi!” he said through a speaker on the front. “I’ve been resurrected! Do I start a religion now, or do I wait for you to do it for me? That part has always confused me.”

I love M-Bot so much!

I leaped up, Doomslug in hand, and climbed into the waiting cockpit. Hesho flew down, and found—with an “ooo”—that M-Bot had made him a battle station with copilot controls. Doomslug had her own cushioned box. I helped her inside, then strapped in, and the canopy closed over me. Finally, I put my hands on the controls. So familiar. So inviting. Not the ship I’d repaired in that cavern, but somehow still the same. If not better. “I’m okay flying you?” I said to M-Bot. “Please,” he said. “You’ve seen my attempts. You can be my chauffeur, mortal. That will leave me to the contemplation of various more important things, such as the nature of mushrooms.”