by Amie Kaufman
“I mean Scarlett’s right,” Tyler says.
“… She is?”
“… I am?”
Tyler turns to us, leans against the railing, and folds his arms.
“I shouldn’t have been out in the Fold in the first place. It was my mistake.”
“Ty, you risked your—”
“No, Cat,” Ty says, looking at his bestie. “I know you had your pick of squads, and I won’t ever forget that you stuck with me. But the Draft is done. It wouldn’t be fair to ask for special treatment. I’ve gotta go the way.”
Sigh.
Know the way.
Show the way.
Go the way.
That’s what all good leaders do, according to our dad—the great Jericho Jones. And those are the words Tyler lives by. They’re the reason he’s spent his whole life looking after me and everyone around him. They’re the reason he joined the Aurora Legion in the first place. And normally, hearing him say them makes me want to kick my dear baby brother right in his sanctimonious junk. But every now and then, they remind me just how much I love the little jerk.
Tyler takes a deep breath, nods to himself.
“The Legion stands for something real. There’s people out there who need our help, and we’re not helping any of them sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves. I’ve still got the Legion’s best pilot in my squad.” He smiles at Cat, giving her a double shot of dimples. “That’s a start, right?”
Cat doffs an imaginary cap. “Bloody great one if you ask me.”
Ty winks in my direction. “And my diplomat isn’t totally incompetent.”
“Respect your elders, brother mine.”
“You’re three minutes older than me, Scarlett.”
“Three minutes and thirty-seven point four seconds, Bee-bro.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“Why do you think I do it?” But I stand up slow and offer him a wry salute. “Legionnaire Scarlett Isobel Jones, reporting for duty, sir.”
Tyler salutes back, and I just roll my eyes.
“The highest-ranked Alpha in Aurora Academy,” he says. “The best Ace. A killer Face. That sounds like the makings of a squad to me. I mean, we’re part of an elite military school with the best students from across the galaxy, right? How bad could the rest of the crew I’ve been saddled with actually be?”
Cat and I exchange an uneasy glance.
“Um, yeah. About that …”
•••••
“She’s a psychopath,” Tyler declares.
“Technically, she’s more of a sociopath,” I reply.
“Look at these disciplinary actions, Scarlett.”
“Um, I read them when I compiled the file for you, thanks for noticing.”
Cat, Tyler, and I are walking down C-Promenade through the early morning crowd. The place is always a hive, but today it’s especially busy with all the newly promoted Legion squads being shipped out to their first assignments. Everyone in the crowd is military; Betraskans and Terrans mostly, rubbing shoulders in our scandalously drab uniforms.
I swear, the person who designed these things must have considered “boring” an interstellar sport. I’d rather give the Great Ultrasaur of Abraaxis IV a foot rub than wear one. The cut is okay, I suppose, padded and plated and formfitting. But the color is an ugly shade of blue-gray, with a shiny Aurora Legion logo on the chest and single bright strip across our shoulders and cuffs to denote our divisions:
Blue for the leadership corps.
White for Cat and her fellow Aces.
Green for the Brains in the Science Division.
Purple for the Gearheads.
Red for the Tanks.
And lucky me, a bright, sunny yellow for the diplomatic corps to match my bright, sunny disposition.
I do what I can to liven things up—my hemline is five centimeters higher than regulations technically allow, and my bra probably defies Newton’s law of universal gravitation. But pushing the envelope any further is a good way to get a disciplinary citation from one of our instructors, and who needs another one of those, honestly. I’ve already collected the set.
It’s twenty-four hours since Tyler pulled his white knight routine out in the Fold. Battle Leader de Stoy and Admiral Adams have debriefed him, so aside from the novelty of him pulling a two-hundred-year-old orphan from the most famous derelict in Terran history, we’re back to business as usual. First missions are being assigned by the hour, and the sooner we meet the rest of our squad, the sooner we hit the black. We’ve worked five years for this, and I’m so sick of this place I can actually taste the vomit. School is most definitely out.
Tyler is still looking over the digital dossier on his uniglass. “Zila Madran. Terran. Age eighteen. Science Division.”
“She’s clever,” I say. “Her academic record is flawless.”
“She’s had thirty-two official reprimands in the last two years.”
“Well, we aren’t all perfect little snowflakes, brother mine.”
“Speak for yourself.” Cat grins, smacking her butt. “I’m bloody brilliant.”
Tyler looks over the uniglass in his hand, shaking his head. “Says here Cadet Madran locked two fellow cadets in a hab room and exposed them to the Itreya virus so she could test a serum she’d concocted.”
“Well, it worked,” I point out. “They didn’t go blind.”
“She shot her roommate with a disruptor pistol.”
“Set to stun.”
“Repeatedly.”
“Maybe she didn’t stun so easy?” Cat offers.
“Et tu, Brannock?” Tyler asks.
We salute a passing instructor, dodge a gaggle of younger cadets (who whisper in appropriate awe at the sight of the famous Tyler Jones) and step into the elevator leading down to the squad briefing rooms. As the station spins past the transparent plasteel, along with all the hustle and bustle twenty thousand people can provide, Tyler flips to the dossier on our next squaddie.
“Finian de Karran de Seel. Betraskan. Age nineteen. Tech Division.”
“He’s smart,” I say. “Top tenth percentile. If you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Says here he failed Fold Dynamics.”
“Otherwise he’d be top two percentile,” I say. “See? Super smart.”
“Also says here he wears an exosuit,” Tyler continues.
“Yeah,” I nod. “He has nerve damage, muscle weakness, and impaired mobility. He caught the Lysergia plague as a kid. The suit compensates.”
“Fair enough.” Tyler nods. “But if he’s so smart, why’d he fail Fold Dynamics?”
“The final exam was a group exercise.”
“… So?”
“So, you’ll see,” Cat sighs.
We step out of the elevator, work our way through the crowd, and a few corridors later, we arrive at our allocated briefing room. The walls are aglow with displays—star maps denoting galactic territories, daily feeds about the Syldrathi civil war, news footage of the refugee fleets amassing on the edge of Terran space. A smartglass table dominates the room, the sigil of Aurora Academy projected on the surface, along with our motto.
We the Legion
We the light
Burning bright against the night
And on opposite ends, literally as far apart as they can possibly be, are two of our new squad mates.
Zila Madran is Terran. She’s even shorter than Cat, with dark brown skin and long, tight black curls. The green stripe of the Science Division across her shoulders does nothing for her complexion, but if cute could be weaponized, she’d be a pretty good candidate. There’s something about her stare, though. Like there’s no one home behind those dark eyes of hers.
But hey, at least she’s not carrying a disruptor pistol today. …
The most notable thing about him is the light exosuit mentioned in his file. It’s made of a silvery metal, a half shell covering his back, his arms and legs fitted with articulated sleeves, gloves, and boots. It’s state-of-the-art tech, and his movement is fluid, almost soundless. But even if I hadn’t read his background, I’d still be able to tell the suit is handling much of the hard work for him.
Tyler looks at the pair, offers them a picture-perfect salute.
“Good morning, Legionnaires.”
They both just stare at him, Zila as if she’s counting all his atoms one by one, and Finian as though he just got served a dish that looks nothing like the pretty picture on the menu. Still, he’s the one who moves first, lifting one hand in a half-assed salute.
“Sir.” The honorific doesn’t sound like a compliment.
Zila keeps staring. When she finally speaks, she sounds quiet. Polite, even.
“Good morning.”
Tyler turns to me, eyebrow raised. “Aren’t we missing someone?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, dear brother.”
“He’s going to miss the briefing.”
“Hmm.” I make a show of patting down my uniform, peering down my tunic. “I seem to have left the part of me that cares in my other pants.”
Please note: I love my brother very much and I know he’s having a tough day, but I was up really late last night pulling together his dossier and I haven’t had my caffeine yet and I’m normally not this mean to him. …
Wait, who am I kidding.
Ty makes a face and gets down to business.
“All right, first off, apologies for the unusual circumstances. I’m not sure what you’ve heard about how the Draft played out, but it looks like we’re going to be working together for the foreseeable future. Our official designation from Aurora Legion Command is Squad 312. My name is Tyler Jones, I’ll be this squad’s Alpha. This is our Face, Scarlett Jones, and our Ace, Cat Brannock.”
Cat sits and leans back in her chair. “Call me Zero.”
“As in, ‘Zero chance of success’?” Finian asks, all innocence.
“As in most cadets miss twelve to fifteen percent of targets on their pilot stream exam,” Tyler says.
“Guess how many I missed, Skinnyboy.” Cat smiles.
Said Skinnyboy stretches, his suit making a hum and a series of soft clicks. “Finian de Karran de Seel. Just Fin if you wanna be lazy about it. Gearhead. You break it, I’ll put it back together. Can’t promise a hundred percent success rate on anything but my dashing wit, though.”
I nod hello, turn to our second squaddie. She’s hunched in her chair, knees drawn up to her chin. She’s got this puzzled look, as if the idea of introductions doesn’t quite compute. And I get it—meeting new people can be tough. Especially since she knows she wasn’t Tyler’s first, fifth, or even last choice.
“Zila Madran,” she finally says. “Science officer.”
“I love your earrings,” I say, trying to put her at ease.
Well, that gets a reaction. Zila’s gaze snaps back to me, and she lifts one hand to the band of beaded gold as if she wants to hide it.
Hmmm. They’re the sort of thing you wear so they can be admired. But she doesn’t like it when people do.
Iiiiinteresting.
“So,” Finian says, turning his black gaze on Tyler. “Gotta say, I’m impressed, Goldenboy. There was a pool running on how long you’d be crying in your bunk before you pulled it together and gave us a rousing speech. To be honest, I had you down for this time tomorrow.”
Testing the water. Trying to push Ty’s buttons.
“How much did you bet?” my brother asks.
“Fifty creds.”
“Gambling is against academy regulations,” Tyler points out.
“And only a bloody idiot bets against Tyler Jones,” Cat adds.
Finian blinks at Cat, glances back and forth between her and Ty.
“What is he, your boyfriend or something?”
Uh-oh. Bad move.
Cat’s eyes grow a little wider. Standing slowly, she starts to pick up her chair.
“At ease, Legionnaire Brannock,” warns Tyler.
Finian looks unimpressed. I’m not sure he quite understands the damage Cat can do to a guy’s important bits with just a chair. But Tyler is her commanding officer now, and with Cat at least, that carries weight. So with one last scowl, she sits, giving our new Gearhead a glare that could melt plasteel.
Fin grins at Tyler. “Hey, is it true what they’re saying about you?”
“Probably not,” Tyler sighs. “What are they saying?”
“That you blew your spot in the Draft rescuing some civilian out in the Fold?”
“That’s classified,” Tyler replies. “I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
“So it is true,” Fin snickers. “You’re just a regular … what is it you Terrans say … Boy Scout? A regular little Boy Scout?”
Zila, it seems, has had enough of the conversation. She picks up her uniglass, swiping the surface and tapping out a quick rhythm with her fingertips. Checked out. Despite my lack of sleep and caffeine, I feel sorry for Ty. As far as dream picks go, these two sure aren’t it. But my brother isn’t fazed.
“I remember you now,” Tyler says to Fin. “You’re the cadet who irradiated the propulsion labs so he could get out of his spatial dynamics exam.”
“Technically, everyone got out of their spatial dynamics exam.”
“You were that frightened of failing, huh?”
“Are we bonding right now?” Fin asks. “I feel like we’re bonding.”
“You’re also the kid I see sitting alone in the mess hall every chow break.” Tyler turns to Zila. “And you I don’t see at all. But like it or not, I’m your CO now, and we’re stuck together for the next twelve months. So you can buckle up and enjoy the ride, or play the tough guy and spend the next year cleaning latrines. Your choice, Legionnaire.”
Ultimatum. Nice play, baby brother.
Finian stares just long enough to save face. But really, he’s got no other move here and he knows it. So slowly, and as sloppily as he can, he salutes.
“Sir, yes sir.”
“And what about you, Legionnaire Uniglass?” Tyler asks.
Zila looks up from the device in her hand. Tilts her head and blinks once.
“I understand, sir.”
Tyler nods, all business. “All right, then. I don’t know where our Tank is, but I’ve got reports to file. Our mission briefing is at 08:00 tomorrow—with any luck, Command will send us somewhere we can do some good. Don’t be late. Squad dismissed.”
Tyler stands, and I shoot him a wink to show my approval. He’s not as good at reading people as I am, but then again, not many people are. I’m not sure what to make of Zila Madran, yet. But I’ve met guys like Finian de Seel a thousand times. Chip on his shoulder, and an open invitation for the whole Milky Way to take a big old bite.
He’s gonna be trouble.
We file out of the briefing room, into the corridor beyond. Cat is chatting to Tyler about tomorrow’s briefing, wondering which sector we might be assigned to.
Zila and Finian follow quietly. I’m walking in front, uniglass in hand, shooting a query to our missing squad mate. So I’m kinda surprised when a hundred kilos of bleeding boyflesh crashes into my chest.“Scar!” Tyler shouts.
We hit the floor. Boyflesh is sprawled on top of me in a decidedly unflattering pose and I’m starting to regret the five centimeters missing off my hemline.
“Ow?”
Ty moves to haul the lump off me, but the guy’s already up and charging down the corridor, back toward the knock-’em-down, punch-’em-out brawl he came from.
“You’re gonna pay for that, pixie,” Boyflesh growls.
There’s five of them slugging it out at the end of the hall. All young. The red stripes on their uniforms mark them all as Tanks. Four are Terran—the kind of burly lumps you’d expect to find in the academy’s Combat Division. The fifth Tank is taller. Agile and lithe. He has olive skin and his long ears taper to gentle points. Silver hair is tied back from his face in five long braids, spilling down over his shoulders. His eyes are the kind of violet you only read about in stories, and his cheekbones are sharp enough to cut your fingertips on, and I realize he’d be beautiful if it wasn’t for the blood spattered on his fists and face.
Still, there aren’t many in the academy, so it doesn’t take long to realize …
He’s Syldrathi.
“Ne’lada vo esh,” he says calmly, raising his bloody hands.
“Speak Terran, pixieboy!”
One of the Terrans aims a punch at the Syldrathi’s head, and I realize the fight is four on one. The Syldrathi easily blocks the strike, locks up his attacker’s arm with the kind of crunch you never want to hear your own elbow make, flinging him at a girl built like an armored troop carrier and sending them both tumbling.
“Esh,” he says, backing up a step. “Esh ta.”
“Hey!” Tyler shouts in his best voice of authority. “Knock it off!”
Tyler’s voice of authority is pretty good, but nobody listens. The Syldrathi takes a punch to his jaw, lashes out with his fingertips into his assailant’s throat. The guy drops with a gurgle, and in a move that makes even Cat wince, the Syldrathi stomps him right in the fun factory, eliciting a high-pitched scream. His face totally serene, the Syldrathi weaves below a punch, drops another cadet with a kick to his knee. And even though it’s four to one, I start to realize …