Aurora Rising: The Aurora Cycle 1

by Amie Kaufman

  All the stupid little routines I used to do before a big competition at home flash through my mind—the stretches, the breathing exercises, the pump-up songs—and they all seem so impossibly small and stupid. That version of me—the one who thought she had any idea what life and death stakes were—feels young and far away, even though really, she was only a few days ago.

  I’d give anything to be her. To be able to tell my mom this scares me, and have her tell me to switch off the scary movie. To be able to tell my dad I don’t feel ready, and have him help me look up the answers in yet another training course.

  Everything I ever learned, I learned from sims or books.

  But this is real.

  Finian’s voice sounds from Tyler’s uniglass as we spill out into the cargo bay.

  “Fired the missiles, sir. They bounced off the Syldrathi like kebar balls. Their ship’s in position, and they’ve got a shuttle preparing to dock. I’m trying to run a localized current through our hull to stop them from getting a seal, but I’m a little worried about the insulation in this place. I don’t want to do their work for them and fry you all.”

  “Acknowledged,” says Ty, grim, gesturing for us to take cover behind the crates. “Cat, as the boarding party’s docking here, target their cruiser. They’ll be as distracted as they’re going to be.”

  “Roger that,” says Cat over the comms, her tone crisp. “Sucker punch for the mummy ship ready to go. I’ll aim straight for the love factory.”

  “They put those on cruisers now?” Scarlett asks.

  “I mean, I’ve heard rumors. …”

  The cargo bay elevator doors creak open again, and First Taneth appears with the Syldrathi girl, Aedra. A few dozen elderly Syldrathi are with them, all moving slowly, wearing long robes and clutching what even I can tell are weapons as old as they are. Kal is beside me behind a tall stack of crates, calling out as he sees them.

  “Take the gantries around the bay. We will cover the ground.”

  “We do not take orders from you, Warbreed.” Aedra glares. “Nor your Terran pets, for that matter. This is our station.”

  “We must stand united in this, Aedra,” Kal replies calmly. “Or fall alone.”

  Aedra breaks away from the other Syldrathi, stalking toward the two of us. Kal shifts his weight so he’s standing in front of me.

  “You speak of standing united?” The purple blade in her hand crackles to life, matched by the fire in her eyes. “When your kind tore our entire world apart?”

  “You know nothing of who I am,” Kal says. “Or what it cost me to be here.”

  She holds up her hand, and I see a tattoo on her ring finger. A circle with a single tear inside it. “I know my be’shmai is dead because of your kind, Warbreed. Him, and our whole world besides.”

  “Aedra!” Taneth calls. “Now is not the time for this!”

  “We’re about to die, Taneth!” she shouts. “What better time than now?”

  She turns back to Kal, her lips curled in a sneer.

  “Your path is littered with death, and your destiny is in your blood.”

  “Cho’taa,” Kal says, his voice subzero. “It has nothing to do with my blood.”

  And all the breath goes out of me, right there.

  Because …

  I’ve seen this before.

  He stood just like this in my vision back on Aurora station. Perfectly poised even when he’s standing still, like a coiled weapon, bruises on his face and disdain in his tone. He spoke these exact words.

  This can’t be happening …

  This is my vision come to life.

  Abruptly the room’s filled with a loud thump, the grinding screech of metal. Nobody needs Finian to tell us that the boarding party’s docked with the outer airlock. Kal turns his head, all eyes shift to the bay doors.

  The girl takes her chance, lifting the crackling purple blade.

  “I will see you in the Void, Warbreed.”

  Everything slows down. It’s like watching the world in freeze-frame, like a strobe light’s going off and I can see each and every movement and moment.

  What I’m seeing, and what I’ve already seen.

  Aedra will raise her blade and swing it, a flash of purple just like in my vision, a killing blow in the making. Kal will begin to turn but he’ll be too late. The blade will cut straight into him, and he’ll cry out and fall in front of me, and my hands will be covered in blood. Purple blood.

  His blood.

  I can see it in my head.

  Clear as the walls around me.

  My hands in front of me.

  And I know I can change it.

  The cargo bay is suddenly lit by a flickering white light. I throw my hand up. And though I’m nowhere near her, Aedra goes flying backward. She slams into the wall, arms spread wide. As she crumples to the ground, a searing pain cuts through my right eye, lancing into my head. It’s like a clamp around my temples, like it’s squeezing, squeezing, and as I curl in on myself, my scream drowned out by the grinding metal of the cargo bay doors being cut open, blood drips from my nose again. Warm and salty on my lips, spattering on the metal at my feet.

  And Kal’s in front of me, his lips moving, his stare locked on my own.

  “Spirits of the Void,” he breathes. “Your eye …”

  10

  Finian

  The radio’s a low murmur in my ears as I wrestle with this hunk of junk’s systems. Somewhere off to my left Zila is silently working on improving our comms range, and I’m locked in my own private battle with a computer grid that’s older and uglier than my third grandfather. If this piece of chakk station was going to screw me this bad, it should have bought me dinner first.

  The Unbroken have their docking clamps in place, and they’re cutting through the outer hull now. If I can’t find a way to divert their attention away from making a new door through to the cargo bay, Zila and I are in line for a sudden—and probably very brief—promotion.

  “The Maker better take into account that we died on a mercy mission.” I plug my uniglass into a port, praying it’s not too modern to interface with this pile of nuts and bolts. “Because I’m going to need a place to hide when my grandparents reach the afterlife. I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

  Zila doesn’t reply, and when I glance over, she’s got that blank stare of hers fixed on her screen, as if she didn’t hear me at all.

  “My parents are dead,” she says flatly.

  Well.

  That kills the conversation deader than we’re about to be.

  I don’t get this girl. I don’t get what makes that big brain of hers work or what the hells she’s doing here or how she can remain calm when we’re all about to become corpsicles floating in space.

  And see, this is our problem. Right here. None of us are actually bad at what we do. Individually, we have the goods, at least on paper. It’s just that half of us didn’t volunteer to be here, and the other half doesn’t have anywhere else to be. We should never have been drafted into the same squad.

  We just don’t … click.

  I actually didn’t think I’d be the last Gearhead picked, to be honest.

  They all pretend the exosuit isn’t an issue, but I know it is. It always has been. When people look at me, it’s the first thing they see. Still, I’m damn good at what I do, so it was a kick when the incompetents were picked before I was. Gearheads who couldn’t count past ten without taking their socks off got a gig, and I was left standing there with my tool in my hand.

  Alone.

  I was sent away from home when I was six years old—they said it would be easier on an orbital station with my grandparents. I could sleep in low grav there, have access to the best doctors. What they meant was that it would be easier for everybody else. You’d think I’d have learned to lower my expectations by
now.

  Not that I’ll be moping about that—or anything—much longer.

  My uniglass does the job, and a virtual screen springs up above the console. The rush of relief is like a drug. This is what I’m good at. Not people. This.

  I step back and lift both my hands like I’m conducting an orchestra, burrowing my way into layer upon layer of ancient maintenance algorithms. I crunch them in my fist, sweeping aside safety protocols and delivering a surge of power to the couplings holding the Syldrathi shuttle in place. I hear a faint second hand scream through Tyler’s uni, and the nerve-jangling sound of the plasma cutters abruptly halts. That’ll buy us thirty seconds.

  I plunge into the dizzying mess of code for round two. I deliver a second shock to the couplings, but the Syldrathi techs are onto me now. Dismissing the display with a sweep of my hand, I ease my weight back onto my heels, my suit hissing softly as it compensates.

  Maybe I can mess with their readings, make their computer think there’s not enough atmosphere inside the cargo bay to equalize pressure. That’s going to require something more hands-on.

  I pop a multi-tool out from where it nests in the warm curve of metal at my ribs, yanking the cover off my bank of computers so I can crawl inside. I really hope my suit stays grounded, or I’m going to fry myself. But even if this works, I know I can’t do it forever. And my hands are shaking. Usually they’re fine, especially with the tiny lines of stimulators that run down to my fingertips—it’s my legs that need the most help, my knee extension and my hips.

  But pump enough adrenaline through me and everything gets tougher, and right now, adrenaline’s not in short supply. In my mind’s eye, I can see the Unbroken Syldrathi bursting into the cargo bay, eating my team for dinner before heading up here for dessert.

  Will I hold my nerve long enough to face them?

  Or will I hide so they have to drag me out?

  There are so many conversations I should have had. I should have been nicer to my grandparents. I should have apologized to my parents. Should have apologized to most of the people I’ve ever met, I guess, but my apologies always seem to make things worse.

  Still, this is probably my last chance to try.

  “Look, Zila,” I say. “About your parents. I—”

  “Sir, I’m getting a transmission from a Terran Defense Force destroyer,” she says. “Ident: Bellerophon. They just dropped through the FoldGate in response to our mayday and estimate they’re eleven minutes from weapons range.”

  Tyler replies down comms. “Um, are you sure?”

  He sounds as lost as I feel. No way in hells are the TDF involving themselves in a scuffle like this. No way they’d even be out here in the nowhere end of space, let alone willing to compromise Earth’s neutrality with the Unbroken. …

  “Affirmative,” Zila says without missing a beat.

  “Put me on comms with the Syldrathi, Zila,” Scarlett says.

  “Broadcasting.”

  “Syldrathi invaders,” Scar begins, in a don’t-mess-with-me tone. “Please be advised we have incoming support from the Terran Defense Force vessel you can no doubt see popping on your scopes. If you want to keep your pretty asses in your pants, I advise your immediate withdrawal. Or you can stick around to see if a Wraith-class Syldrathi cruiser is a match for a fully armed Terran destroyer. Your call.”

  Is it weird that this girl’s don’t-mess-with-me tone makes me want to tell her she can mess with me any day she wants?

  We hold our breath. I stay where I am, on my hands and knees, half-inside an ancient bank of computers. Zila doesn’t move a muscle above me, and through my audio I can hear the soft breaths and rustles of the team down in the cargo bay as they hold position.

  And then with a shuddering clunk, the Syldrathi shuttle pulls free.

  “Sir, they’re in retreat,” Zila reports, in exactly the same tone she’s used all through this near-death experience.

  What is with this girl?

  Tyler chimes in on comms. “Cat, let the incoming TDF destroyer know you’re there so they don’t mistakenly blast you out of space. Zila, we need you down here for medical. Finian, you too.”

  I crawl out backward, and Zila and I exchange a glance.

  Why do they need medical when nobody made it on board?

  When we reach the cargo bay, the Syldrathi refugees are standing together, doing a pretty good job of looking aloof and composed despite the fact they all just escaped certain and brutal murder. The Jones twins are crouching over the one young Syldrathi who’s out cold on the floor, silver hair splayed around her like a halo, arms outflung. Kal’s busy looming nearby, along with our stowaway. I remember her name now—Aurora—and I know where I’ve heard it before.

  She’s the one Goldenboy pulled off the Hadfield.

  But what’s she doing here?

  Zila busts open a crate of medtech, and I help her carry a kit over to where the Syldrathi girl’s laying. Someone’s clearly punched her, and she’s smacked her head but good on the wall behind. Might have been our Aurora, because she’s sporting a bloody nose, now that I squint at her again. She looks wild, down on one knee, cheeks wet as though she’s been crying, one hand trying to staunch the blood. Weirdest of the weird, her right iris has turned almost totally white.

  “What has happened to her eye?” Zila asks.

  I shrug, glancing at the bleached stripe running through Aurora’s bangs.

  “Matches her hair now, at least?”

  Aurora ignores us both, looking up at Tyler instead.

  “The Terran government’s outside?”

  “That’s right,” he says, speaking a little carefully.

  “Please, don’t tell them I’m here. I can’t go with them.”

  He blinks, exchanging a glance with his sister.

  “Auri,” he tries. “That’s exactly where you should go. I don’t know how you ended up here, but you’re a Terran, they’ll take care of you.”

  “You don’t understand,” she insists, lowering her bloodied bandage. “Battle Leader de Stoy told me to avoid them. She told me to stow away with you.”

  Another twin-to-twin glance ensues while Auri tries her pleading eyes on me. Then she hisses, hand to her head as though it’s hurting her. Pawing at her bloody nose.

  Scarlett takes over from her brother. Apparently during their silent communion they’ve decided this is a job for a diplomat. “Auri, there’s no reason de Stoy would say that. Maybe you misunderstood her?”

  “I can’t go,” Auri insists, eyes getting wilder, doing herself no favors at all. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand. They wiped away every trace of my colony. It’s like Octavia never existed. They want to wipe me away, too.”

  Kal stares at her with cold violet eyes. Zila is looking at her like a bug under a magnifying glass. She’s not coming off as any kind of reasonable, and her uneasiness is infecting me, if I’m honest. Maybe it’s just nerves in the wake of a bunch of Unbroken almost getting close enough to barbecue me. Or maybe it’s that from time to time, the Terrans make me uncomfortable, too. They’re so complex, with so many languages, so many different clothes and colors, like a bunch of kazar birds, always picking fights and swirling into a blur. But I don’t know if we should force this girl to go somewhere she doesn’t want to be, either.

  “Listen,” she says, appealing directly to our squad leader. “I know this sounds crazy, but … I saw de Stoy before I ever met her, Tyler. I saw Kal in my hospital room, saying exactly what he said here, just a few minutes ago. And I saw what they’ll do to me. I can see it right now in my head and I can feel it, and …”

  Ah. Oh. Got it.

  This girl’s spent too long in the Fold.

  Our fearless leader has clearly drawn the same conclusion, because his voice goes very gentle. “They can help you, Auri. It’s going to be okay.”


  Kal drops to a crouch, murmuring in her ear. She glares at him, and for a moment, her hand tightens around the pistol she’s holding. But surprisingly, whatever he says seems to calm her, and she lets him slowly ease the gun out of her white-knuckle grip.

  I can hear Scarlett talking over comms to the TDF crew as the destroyer draws close to the station. With a heavy clunk, their umbilical clamps onto the outer doors, and First Taneth disarms the airlock. Our whole squad’s quiet. Auri’s breath is audible, catching and huffing, as if she’s trying not to cry.

  “They’ve got no faces,” she’s whispering.

  I blink. “What did you say?”

  “They’ve got no faces,” she hisses desperately. “And they’re going to wipe all this away, they’re going to make it clean, they’re going to paint it black.”

  Kal comes to his feet as the airlock doors rumble open. I catch sight of the familiar khaki uniforms of the Terran Defense Force marching into the bay, heavy tac armor and heavy boots. None of them are over twenty-five.

  The famous Ty Jones heads across to greet them, and though he’s only a freshly instated Legionnaire, he manages to look like he’s in charge. Which is all the more impressive, because he has to be as confused as the rest of us about why the TDF’s even involving itself here.

  “We sure are glad to see you, Lieutenant,” he says, offering a polite salute and one of those smoldering smiles he does so well.

  “Of course.” A young woman salutes back. “Glad we could help.”

  “I’ve gotta say, LT, we weren’t expecting help,” he admits. “If word gets out the TDF got involved in this, the Unbroken might consider the Terran government to have taken a side. There could be reprisals.”

  A voice comes from behind the group of soldiers, low and steely, as if it’s coming through a speaker. “That risk has been noted, Legionnaire.”