by Amie Kaufman
I glance at Ty and he raises that scarred eyebrow and his lips curl in that infuriating lady-killer smile, and dammit, I realize mine are doing the same.
“I’ll be your best friend?” he offers.
And just like that, my smile falls away. I exchange a glance with Scar, then turn to the console and stab in my commands. Our Longbow purrs like a new kitten and the vibration of her engines shakes us in our seats, and for a moment it’s easy to forget the impulse to punch those dimples right off Ty’s face.
My arse, this is what we signed up for.
I tap my throat mic. “Aurora Control, this is Squad 312, requesting permission to launch, over.”
“Permission granted, 312. Good hunting, over.”
I glance over my console to the members of my squad.
“Right, hold on to your undies, kids.”
Our thrusters fire, pushing us back hard into our seats. The walls of the launch tube rush past us and the beautiful black opens up in front of us, glittering with tiny pinpricks of white. And all of a sudden, it doesn’t matter that I’m on this jank mission with this jank squad, doing a job a trained gremp could do. Because I’m home.
Sailing out from Aurora’s arms, I look into my aft-view monitors. They show another dozen Longbows, silver and arrowhead-shaped, rocketing through the dark. I can see the academy in all her glory; a city port of smooth domes and twinkling lights and impossible shapes, floating on nothing at all. The g-force from our thrust keeps the weightlessness away, but I can feel it anyway, just outside our Longbow’s skin.
The big empty.
The place where I’m the best at what I do.
“Squad 312, gate beacon has you locked. You are clear for Fold entry.”
“Roger that, Aurora. Pour me a shot, I’ll be back for last call.”
My fingers flit over the controls, guiding us toward the huge, hexagonal shape floating off the academy’s shoulder. I can see the Fold waiting inside the gate’s flashing pylons—that beautiful swathe of black, punctured by a billion tiny stars. Speeding toward it, I’m lost in the moment. Feeling the ship beneath me, around me, inside me. Slicing the empty like a knife.
“Course programmed,” Tyler reports. “Feeding to navcomp.”
His voice brings me back to reality. I remember who we are.
Where we’re going.
Where we’ve been.
“I’ll be your best friend?”
We push past the gate’s horizon and into the colorless sea of the Fold. The ship shudders as the impossibility of distance becomes meaningless.
The colorscape around us shifts to black-and-white. Signal beacons light up my scopes—thousands of FoldGates blinking out there in the brightness. Like a room full of hexagonal doors, with a new sun behind every one. A 3-D map flickers to life on the central console above our stations. Tiny readouts, scrolling data, a small red pulse indicating our current position.
“Horizon’s clear,” I report. “No FoldStorm activity. Should be smooth sailing to Juno. Navcom is estimating … six hours, twenty-three minutes.”
“Roger that. Walk in the park.”
Tyler unbuckles his safety harness and stands, stowing his flight jacket behind the copilot seat. His tank top sleeve isn’t long enough to cover the tattoo of the academy’s Alpha Division on the swell of his right bicep. Along with my full sleeves of dragons and butterflies, and the hawk across my back and the phoenix across my throat (yes, it bloody hurt), I have a similar tat to Ty’s.
Mine is the Pilot Division sigil, of course. But we got them in the same place. Same time.
I find myself thinking about the night I convinced Tyler to get inked with me. Shore leave on Cohen IV. The last time I ever saw him have a drink. The pain of the fresh design on our arms and the liquor in our veins and the thrill of graduating into our final year crackling in the air. Just you and me, Tyler. Staring at each other across that barroom table and all those empty glasses.
“Best friends forever, right?”
The colors around us are monochrome, because that’s just how it goes inside the Fold. Tyler’s once-blue irises have turned to gray, and he’s staring at the main viewscreen with a totally weird expression.
Probably thinking about last time he was in here.
That girl he found, floating in all this nothing.
She was a pretty one, too. …
“All right, let’s go over the mission again,” he says.
Finian sighs, his exosuit whispering as he massages his temples. “We’ve been over it already, sir. That’s what our briefing this morning was for, right?”
Tyler glances at Pixieboy. “Legionnaire Gilwraeth was incarcerated by academy security during that briefing, so I thought we could run over it again.”
“Well, do the rest of us have to hear it? Sir?”
I fold my arms and glare. “Are you, like, a professional arsehole or … ?”
“More a hobbyist,” Finian replies. “Hoping to go pro next season.”
He’s smirking, waiting to see what I’ll lob back over the net. Skin already white and eyes already black, Finian’s the only one of us unchanged by the Fold. I keep a lid on it, but deep down, I’m just as frustrated as our new Gearhead is. I heard Ketchett’s squad got sent to Beta Fushicho to eliminate a pirate fleet. Troile’s squad landed a sweet detail escorting ambassadors to the Sentanni peace talks. For an Alpha with the grades Tyler got, this mission is nowhere. This squad is nothing. But as again, and as always, he keeps it professional. He’s good like that.
Except when it comes to the pretty ones.
“We have six hours and twenty-two minutes till our destination, Legionnaire de Seel,” Tyler says flatly. “You can spend it scrubbing the latrine floor until you can see your face in it, or you can spend it going over our mission. Up to you.”
The Betraskan purses his lips in thought. “Well, if you put it like that …”
“I do.”
Tyler taps a series of commands into his console, and the miniature map of the Fold is replaced by a hologram of a big lump of rock, floating in a sea of other big lumps of rock. It’s an asteroid. The ugly mother of all asteroids.
A glance at the specs tells me it’s about a thousand klicks across, hollowed and pitted like wormy fruit. I can see the domes and pylons of a large factory, clinging to its side like a barnacle.
“This is Sagan station in the Juno system,” Tyler says. “It was an ore-processing rig, owned by the now defunct Jupiter Mining Corporation, abandoned in 2263. Since the Syldrathi civil war broke out six months ago, Sagan has seen an influx of refugees from Syldrathi space, who’ve claimed the abandoned facilities as their own. AL Command now estimates the population at seven thousand.”
I’m watching our new Syldrathi squaddie while Tyler talks, but Pixieboy has a good poker face. His stare is piercing, cold. He’s radiating that traditional Syldrathi aloofness. The “I’m better than you, and that’s just Science” attitude. But there’s not a silver hair out of place on his head, his face like a model from a fashion zine, and even with the bruises from his brawl, I’ve gotta agree with Scar. You wouldn’t kick him out of bed for snoring.
“The Juno star is situated in the Neutral Zone,” Tyler continues. “With the Terran and Betraskan governments still refusing to accept Syldrathi refugees, their welfare is the Aurora Legion’s responsibility.”
“Which I don’t understand,” Scarlett says.
“We’re a neutral relief organization, Scar, we’re sup—”
“Yes, thank you, Bee-bro.” Scar rolls her eyes. “I know what the AL is. What I mean is, I don’t understand why the Terran and Betraskan governments won’t open their borders and help these people. Their home system has been decimated by one of their own Archons. Why are Terra and Trask leaving them out in the cold?”
“This is wartime.” Finian shrugs. “If they op
en their borders up, who’s to say some of the refugees they let in won’t be a danger themselves?”
“That’s such crap, Finian,” I growl.
“I’m not saying I agree, I’m just telling you what they’re thinking.”
“So we just leave these people out here to rot?” Scarlett asks.
“Obviously not,” Tyler says. “We’ve got a cargo bay full of medtech for them.”
Scar starts sniping at her brother about that being no better, and Finian weighs in with his two cents and the bridge devolves into brief chaos before a deep, warm voice cuts through the clamor.
“They fear.”
Silence falls, and all eyes turn to Kaliis Thingywhatsit, first son of … whoever.
“Your governments,” he says. “They fear the Starslayer.”
That brings quiet to the bridge. We all glance at each other, unnerved. As if saying the name has somehow given it even more power.
“They are right to fear,” he continues. “The Starslayer has declared all free Syldrathi his enemies. And those who offer them refuge become his enemies also.”
Tyler stares at Kal, and even our illustrious leader looks a little uneasy. “Since you weren’t there for our briefing, Legionnaire Gilwraeth, maybe you’d be so kind as to give us your insight now. These are your people we’re bringing aid to. What can you tell us?”
“I would have thought you well acquainted with Syldrathi, sir,” Kal replies, his voice smooth as silk. “Given the fate that befell your father.”
Scarlett’s eyes narrow at that. Tyler’s voice draws tight.
“And what do you think you know about my father, Legionnaire Gilwraeth?”
“That he was a war hero. A senator who argued for peace with my people long before peace ever came. And that he died fighting them in the Orion Incursion.”
“Remember Orion,” I say softly, touching the Maker’s mark at my collar. Across the table, I see Finian echo the movement.
“Del’nai,” Kal replies, scoping me with those glittering eyes.
“I don’t speak Syldrathi, Pixieboy,” I mutter.
“It means ‘always,’” Scarlett says. “ ‘Ever and always.’ ”
Pixieboy inclines his head to Scar, looks back to Tyler. “I know of the great Jericho Jones. I know how he died. So you have my apologies, sir. I imagine the presence of a Syldrathi in your squad is … unwelcome.”
“Is that the kind of person I seem to you?” Tyler responds. “The kind who decides to hate an entire species because one of them killed his old man?”
“Given the particulars of the Orion attacks, I imagine most people would have difficulty with it, yes.”
Tyler stares into Pixieboy’s eyes. “Well, it’s a good thing for you I’m not most people.”
Kal holds Tyler’s stare, that infuriating pixieboy arrogance radiating off him in waves. I know Syldrathi can live for a couple of centuries if you let them, and even though Kal is only nineteen, he looks at us like we’re some passing irritation. Here today and gone tomorrow. I can see the mark of his sucker punch on Tyler’s jaw. The bruises and cuts from his brawl with those cadets yesterday.
All of them Terran. Four on one, and he kicked the living crap out of them.
Remember Orion …
Kal finally nods to the holograph of Sagan station.
“Syldrathi are a proud people,” he says. “The refugees will be suspicious of our presence. They will not want our aid and will not trust us easily.”
Tyler glances at his sister. “Well, Scar speaks fluent Syldrathi. Between you and her, I have every confidence you can convince them we’re only here to help.”
Kal blinks. “You cannot mean to send me aboard?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Pixieboy points to the small tattoo on his brow. Three crossed blades.
“I assume you know what this is, sir.”
“A glyf.” Tyler nods. “It denotes which of the five Syldrathi cabals you belong to.”
Kal nods. “And this is the glyf of the Warbreed Cabal.”
“So?”
“Why do you think I was the last cadet to be picked in the Draft? Why do you think not even other Syldrathi wanted me in their squads?” Kal looks around at the rest of us, answering his own question. “Because the Starslayer is Warbreed. And his templars are Warbreed. And his paladins are Warbr—”
“Not every Syldrathi in the warrior cabal joined the Starslayer,” Tyler said. “Not all of you are responsible for his crimes.”
Kal looks at Ty with clear disdain. “And I am certain the starving, desperate spirits aboard that station will be all too ready to have a Terran explain that to them.”
“Um, excuse me.” Finian raises his hand, looking at Pixieboy. “But between me and Red over there, I think this squad already has its sarcasm quota filled.”
“Right.” Scarlett smiles sweetly at Kal. “And I’m the Face of this outfit. So maybe stick to punching things until they fall down? You seem good at that.”
Scar looks to her brother and nods.
“We’ll make it work, sir.”
“Right,” Tyler says. “The Starslayer’s fleets are hunting any Syldrathi who haven’t sworn to his new universal order. But a blip as small as Sagan is probably too unimportant to get anyone’s attention, which I presume is why the refugees are hiding there. The odds of any interference with our mission is low.”
“Approximately eight thousand seven hundred and twenty-five to one.”
We all stop, surprised to hear Zila speak. I’d almost forgotten she was on the bridge, to be honest. She’s sitting at her station, sucking on a lock of black, curly hair, dark brown skin illuminated by the displays as her fingertips fly over her keyboards.
“Eight thousand seven hundred and twenty-five to one?” I repeat.
“Approximately,” she replies, not looking up.
“How’d you figure that out?” Finian asks.
Zila cocks a finger, points at her head. “With my brain.”
Tyler clears his throat in the uncomfortable silence that follows.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Regardless, I want you all on high alert. This is our first opportunity to prove our worth. So if you’re of the opinion that you’re more than just a glorified courier”—Ty glances at me—“now’s your chance to step up. Our governments might be afraid of getting the Starslayer offside, but we’re the Aurora Legion. We don’t bow to tyrants, and don’t back down from a fight.”
Even with the colors in monochrome, I can see the fire in Tyler’s eyes. There’s a passion in his voice that raises goose bumps on my skin. For all the griping, all the crap, listening to him speak, I remember why he was the top-ranked Alpha in our year. I remember why, staring at each other across that barroom table and all those empty glasses, I thought we might’ve had a chance.
“Squad 312, this is Aurora Flight Control, over.”
I tap my comms to reply. “This is Squad 312, over.”
“I have Aurora Command here for your Alpha, 312, over.”
I blink at that. Frown at Tyler as he taps the Receive button on his console.
“This is Legionnaire Jones.”
A holograph of Battle Leader de Stoy materializes above our displays. She’s in full dress uniform, hair drawn back in a harsh ponytail. I can see Admiral Adams standing beside her, also in dress, cybernetic arms folded over his barrel-broad, medal-studded chest, washed black and white and gray by the Fold.
Adams and Ty go way back. He and Ty’s dad were best friends back in their pilot days in the Terran Defense Force. Adams took Ty and Scar under his wing when their old man was killed. He and Ty go to chapel together every weekend, and Adams has always shown Tyler a little more attention than other cadets.
But still, I look into my Alpha’s eyes and see he’s just as confus
ed as me.
“Good morning, Legionnaires.” Adams salutes.
We salute back and murmur our good mornings as de Stoy speaks.
“We wanted to wish you and your squad good hunting, Legionnaire Jones.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Tyler replies.
“This is your first step onto a much bigger stage,” Adams says. “The challenges that await you may be unlike any you’ve imagined. But we have every faith in your ability to see it through. No matter what may come. You must endure.” Adams looks directly at Ty as he speaks. “You must believe, Tyler.”
This is just weird. No matter how tight Adams and Ty might be, the senior brass don’t directly brief grunts like us. We’re so far down the chain of command we’re practically invisible, and this mission counts for nothing at all. But here’s both academy commanders, addressing us like we’re a First Class squad on a top-tier gig.
And then Adams looks directly at me, speaking the academy motto.
“We the Legion. We the light. Burning bright against the night.”
“… Yes sir,” I reply.
“Burn bright, Legionnaires,” de Stoy says. “The cargo you carry is more precious than any of you can know.”
“Maker be with you.” Adams nods.
“Um … ,” Tyler says. “Thank you, sir. Ma’am.”
Their images hang there a moment longer, like they’re trying to burn us into memory. I wonder what the hells is going on. But with a final salute, the projections fade, replaced with the rotating projection of Sagan station. We’re all staring at the place our commanders were a moment before, a little dumbfounded. And into the quiet, Zila Madran speaks a single word that sums all our feelings up spot-on.
“Odd …”
Tyler drags his hair back from his eyes, takes a seat. He’s all business once again, though I know he has to be asking himself the same questions I am.
“Right,” he says, leaning down to rub an imaginary scuff off his immaculate boot. “Kal, I want strategies if we come across hostile Syldrathi in the Neutral Zone. Scar, I want diplomacy options with the refugees. Zila and Finian, you’re studying Sagan’s systems. We have six hours. Let’s get to work.”