Skyward

You get to choose who you are. Legacy, memories of the past, can serve us well. But we cannot let them define us. When heritage becomes a box instead of an inspiration, it has gone too far.

People need stories, child. They bring us hope, and that hope is real. If that's the case, what does it matter whether people in them actually lived?

It has always seemed to me that a coward is a person who cares more about what people say than about what is right. Bravery isn't about what people call you, Spensa. It's about who you know yourself to be.

Sometimes, the answers we need don't match the questions we're asking." He looked up at me. "And sometimes, the coward makes fools of wiser men.

And the warrior’s way was not to run from failure, but to own up to it and do better.

So . . . ," I said. "You're saying that by the end of our training, you expect us to be able to use grappling hooks made of energy to smash our enemies with flaming chunks of space debris?" "Yes." "That . . . ," I whispered, "that's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.

You have large twin destructor emitters on each wing, along with a light-lance turret underneath. That’s as much firepower as our larger ships. You’re a warship.” “Clearly not,” M-Bot said. “I’m here to categorize fungi. Didn’t you listen to my last orders? I am not supposed to get into fights.” “Then why do you have guns?” “For shooting large and dangerous beasts who might be threatening my fungus specimens,” M-Bot said. “Obviously.

We must not cower in the dark because we’re afraid of the spark within us. The answer is not to put out the spark, but to learn to control it.

Is anything fair?" He smiled. "Death is. He treats us all the same.

You," he said, "are amazing. Everything about my life has been planned out. Careful. It makes sense. I understand it. Then there's you. You ignore my authority. You follow your feelings. You talk like some Valkyrie from a scudding ballad! I should hate you. And yet..." He squeezed my shoulder. "And yet, when you fly, you are amazing. You're so determined, so skillful, so passionate. You're a fire, Spin. When everyone else is calm, you're a burning bonfire. Beautiful, like a newly forged blade." .

Good night, sweet prince,” M-Bot whispered as the junk crashed to the ground. “Or princess. Or, most likely, genderless piece of inanimate space junk.

Hello?’ M-Bot said. ‘Spensa? Are you dead?’ ‘Maybe.’ ‘Oooh. Like the cat!’ ‘...What?’ ‘I’m not sure, honestly,’ M-Bot said. ‘But logically, if you’re speaking to me then possibility has collapsed in our favor. Hurray!

I’d be offended if I could be offended,” he said. “Maybe I should start calling you a cow, since you have four limbs, are made of meat, and have rudimentary biological mental capacities.

Tremble and fear, all enemies!” he shouted. “For we shall shake the air with thunder and blood! Your doom is imminent!

Sometimes, the answers we need don’t match the questions we’re asking.

I pointed my nose right at the bomber down below, then i hit the overburn. "Cadet?" Ironsides said. "Pilot, what are you doing?" "My weapons are gone . . . I have to ram it." "Understood," Ironsides whispered. "Saints' own speed, pilot." "What?" Jorgen said over the line. "What? Ram it? Spin!" I dove toward the enemy bomber "Spin," Jorgen said . . . "Spin you'll die." "Yes," I whispered. "But I'll win anyway.

You have four guns." "Someone must have stuck them on when I wasn't looking.

A warrior is nothing if she has nothing to fight for.

That soup tasted better than the blood of my enemies. Considering I'd never actually tasted the blood of my enemies, perhaps that didn't do justice to the soup.

...human beings need someone friendly to listen to them when they’re grieving. So feel free to talk to me. I will be friendly. You have nice shoes.” “Is that the only thing you notice about people?” “I’ve always wanted shoes. They’re the sole piece of clothing that makes any sense, assuming ideal environmental conditions. They don’t play into your strange and nonsensical taboos about not letting anyone see your—” “Is this really the only thing you can think of to comfort someone who is grieving?” “It was number one on my list.” Great. “The list has seven million entries. Do you want to hear number two?” “Is it silence?” “That didn’t even make the list.” “Move it to number two.” “All right, I . . . Oh.

When this is done, Jerkface, I will hold your tarnished and melted pin up as my trophy as your smoldering ship marks your pyre, and the final resting place of your crushed and broken corpse!" - Spensa, pg. 64

Pilots are never ‘peachy,’ girl. We’re spirited.” “Or,” I added, “briskly energized by the prospect of dealing death to the coming enemies.” “Or that,” Cobb said. “If you’re psychotic.

And yet, when you fly, you are amazing. You’re so determined, so skillful, so passionate. You’re a fire, Spin. When everyone else is calm, you’re a burning bonfire. Beautiful, like a newly forged blade.

I miss my pilot,” M-Bot said. “I ‘miss’ him because of the loss of knowledge. Without proper information, I cannot judge my future actions. My ability to interface with the world, and to be efficient, is lessened.” He hesitated. “I am broken, and do not know how to fulfill my purpose. Is this how you feel?” “Maybe.” I made a fist, forcing myself to stop fidgeting. “But I’m going to beat it, M-Bot.” “It must be nice to have free will.” “You have free will too. We’ve talked about this.” “I simulate it in order to seem more palatable to humans,” he said. “But I do not have it. Free will is the ability to ignore your programming. Humans can ignore theirs, but I—at a fundamental level—cannot.” “Humans don’t have programming.” “Yes you do. You have too much of it. Conflicting programs, none of it interfacing properly, all calling different functions at the same time—or the same function for contradictory reasons. Yet you ignore it sometimes. That is not a flaw. It is what makes you you.

You watch yourself," I said, wishing I had something to stand on to bring my eyes level with his. "When you are broken and mourning your fall from grace, I will consume your shadow in my own, and laugh at your misery.

When heritage becomes a box instead of an inspiration, it has gone too far.

A pox of unique human diseases--many of which cause an uncomfortable swelling--come upon you!

Then [Hurl] sat up, holding out her fist. "Not cowards. No backing down. Brave until the end, right Spin? A pact." I met her fist with mine. "Brave to the end.