by Amie Kaufman
“Look, I know it can’t be easy, Kal. I know I can’t really understand it. But you need to understand how close to the edge we are here. We can’t afford these kinds of entanglements right now. I need you to keep a lid on it.”
“I might say the same about you. Sir.”
Tyler blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I see the way Legionnaire Brannock looks at you.”
He bristles at that, standing a little taller. He still only comes up to my chin.
“That’s none of your business, Legionnaire.”
“I agree, sir. It is none of my business at all.”
We stand there in silence, electricity crackling between us. The thing I was raised to be is acutely aware of how easy it would be to reach out and break this human boy. But the man I try to be keeps his arms folded instead. His face expressionless. His pulse calm. The turbolift hisses to a halt, the door slides open with a small chime. Time stands still, and so do we, until the door starts to close.
My hand flashes out, holds it open.
“After you, sir.”
Tyler exits the lift after a few more moments of staring, tapping his uniglass as he goes. “Finian, this is Tyler, do you read?”
“Loud and clear, Goldenboy.”
“We’re on level seventy-one. Point us in the direction of the security hub.”
“On it. Shift changeover is in five minutes according to Dariel, so you wanna hustle if you’re going to get overlooked in the crush.”
We hurry down the halls at Finian’s direction, into a broad, open space. Dozens of other security crew in power armor matching ours are converging on the airlock of what looks to be an old Neltaarian cruiser, flashing their IDs at the guards on duty before being waved through. The hour is late—almost midnight shipboard time—and the guards on duty look both bored and tired.
A good combination.
A broad-shouldered Terran in front of us pushes his ID badge under the scanner, met with a flashing red light and an angry buzz. The guard on duty sighs and tells the Terran to run it again, only to be met with another angry beep.
“Piece of crap,” the guard says, kicking the scanner.
“In a hurry, boss,” Tyler says smoothly, waving his ID with his thumb over the photograph. “Meeting some ladies, and they don’t like to wait.”
“Yeah, yeah, go through,” the guard says, thumping the scanner again.
As the big Terran complains behind us, we shuffle past into the security hub. Walking down a long main hallway, Tyler taps the commlink in his ear.
“Good work, Finian,” he murmurs.
“Child’s play. Get your uniglass within a meter of any wireless system and I can work miracles. You want to look for a sign to the central core.”
Stepping through the airlock, another scanner runs a series of red lasers over our badges and armor, an electronic voice urges us to proceed. The hallways are almost busy, SecTeam members either clocking off or clocking on. I spot a sign for the server systems, point it out to Tyler. I keep my stride easy, my smile polite. I ignore the tension in my muscles, the feeling of enemies on all sides, the violence simmering inside me. Walking softly. Hearing my father’s voice in my head.
We arrive at a set of double doors, sealed with an electronic keypad and marked server core. We pretend to chat as a man in an administrator’s uniform hurries past. When the corridor is clear, Tyler holds his uniglass near the lock.
We wait. Trying not to look suspicious. Which, given that we are breaking into this room in the middle of an armed facility, is somewhat difficult.
“Take your time, Finian,” Tyler mutters into his commlink.
“Look if you know someone else who can run a wireless hack on an eighteen-digit encryption, be my guest,” comes the reply.
“I thought you said you were a miracle worker.”
The lock beeps. The server door clicks open.
“Well, hey now, would you look at that.”
We steal inside the room, pulling the door closed behind us. The air is cool, filled with a subsonic hum, the room lit by flickering LEDs and overhead fluorescents, lined with rows of servers and tangles of cable. Finian’s voice crackles in our ears.
“Wow, that was amazing, Finian. You really are a miracle worker. I think I’m going to name my firstborn dirtchild after you beca—”
“Knock it off,” Tyler snaps. “Where do we plant this leech?”
“Tertiary uplink oughta do it. Now listen close. I’ll use small words.”
I keep watch at the door, peering out through the crack while Tyler follows Finian’s instructions. Security personnel march past, a few stragglers heading to their shifts. A refreshment drone trundles past on smooth tracks, carrying a tray of coffee and celedine and stimulant supplements. Five minutes pass, each as long as an eon, until finally I turn and whisper to my squad leader.
“Someone comes.”
Tyler looks up from the server, elbow deep in cable. “You sure?”
I peer back down the corridor at the approaching Terran. He carries an armload of computer equipment and wears a tool belt full of e-tech. He is three days unshaven, glares at the security personnel around him with an air of undisguised contempt, and looks as though he has not slept in seven years.
“He certainly has the appearance of a man who works with computers, yes.”
“Finian, are we good?” Tyler asks.
“Affirmative, I’m getting a signal from the leech. We’re in.”
“Roger that,” Tyler says, sealing up the server cabinet.
A passing security team member bumps into the approaching commtech, spilling some of the gear he carries. The man curses, stoops to pick up his fallen parts and pieces. But he is barely four meters from the server room door now. He will surely notice us if we walk out of it right in front of him.
Tyler joins me at the door, peers outside.
“This isn’t good.”
“Agreed.”
My Alpha looks at our surroundings. Rapidly reaches the same conclusion I have. There is nowhere to hide in here, particularly in the bulky power armor we are wearing. The Enemy Within whispers that I could easily deal with this tech in silence—crush his windpipe as soon as he steps inside. Snap his neck. Choke him to death. A dozen different endings dance inside my head. But the quieter part of me knows that would leave a corpse in the server core, and that might lead to an investigation, bringing our leech closer to discovery.
My mind is racing. But I am not the one who scored a perfect one hundred on his military tactics exam in final year. The Legionnaire beside me is.
“Suggestions, sir?”
Tyler scowls. Permutations and possibilities running behind his eyes. The commtech is shuffling toward the door now, weighed down by his gear, muttering under his breath. Tyler glances at me. Takes a deep breath.
“Look, apologies in advance for this. But whatever you do, don’t punch me, okay?”
“Wh—”
Tyler grabs the front of my power armor and pulls me close. The door opens and the commtech walks right in at the precise moment Tyler’s lips land on mine. My eyes go wide. The man’s jaw falls open.
I am shocked into stillness. I know Terrans touch casually, slapping each other on the back, shaking hands. This is a lot more than a handshake. This is Tyler pressed up against me, turning slowly toward the commtech, our mouths still mashed together. …
The tech stands in the doorway, glancing back and forth between us. It’s Tyler who breaks off the kiss, looking appropriately embarrassed. For my part, I am simply stunned. Shuffling his armload of gear, the commtech backs slowly out of the room.
“Thiiiiiiink I’m gonna give you boys a moment,” he says.
The tech drags the door shut behind him with an apologetic smile. Tyler pulls away completely.
> “You okay? Not going to punch me or anything, right?”
“What … ,” I sputter. “You …”
Tyler waits for me to compose myself, then nods toward the hall.
“Give it a minute,” he says. “Then slink out of here looking embarrassed.”
“That will not be difficult,” I say.
Tyler chuckles. He opens the door, nods down the hallway.
“After you, sweetie.”
With a deep breath, I stalk out of the server core, back toward the entrance. The commtech is standing a short distance down the corridor, studiously pretending not to notice me leave. But as I pass by, he winks.
My ears burning, I climb the stairs and make my way through the security hub until I’m swiping my ID through the scanner at the entrance hall. The guard on duty nods as I exit, not even looking up from his uniglass.
“Have a good one.”
A few minutes later, Tyler joins me in the entrance hall, and we march off together. Walking inside the turbolift, he stands beside me, hands behind his back, whistling a soft tune. I am forced to admit that his quick thinking just averted a calamity, that the tech believes we were in the server for … if not innocent reasons, then not illegal ones. That our leech is now safely inside the security network and we have eyes all over the station.
Such a touch is an intimacy among Syldrathi.
It should be treated with reverence, not used as a cheap trick.
But it did work.
“Look, sorry again,” Tyler finally says. “I had to think fast. We good?”
“… Did they teach you that technique in tactics class at the academy?” I ask.
My Alpha grins and shakes his head. “The best tacticians know how to improvise. That means working with whatever comes to hand.”
“Or mouth?”
Tyler laughs. “I guess so. Good thing I brushed my teeth this morning.”
We ride in silence for a while, watching the numbers on the display rise.
“I didn’t know Syldrathi blushed with their ears,” Tyler muses.
“I am not blushing.”
“I mean, it kinda looks like you’re blushing.”
“I am not blushing.”
“Ooookay.” Tyler nods. “I sometimes have that effect on people is all.”
“Is your request not to punch you still in effect, sir?”
My Alpha only grins in reply. And though I am still somewhat shocked, I cannot help but feel a grudging respect also. He thinks swiftly, this Tyler Jones. He does not rattle, and he does not hesitate. With everything on the line, he still sees clearly, and he does what it takes to win. He is a born leader.
The lift halts and the doors open, and as I step out into the hallway, I hear him chuckling to himself behind me.
“What is funny?” I ask.
“I was just thinking,” he grins. “Scarlett did tell us to just kiss and get it over with …”
18
Cat
“So I have good news,” Finian declares. “Then excellent news. Then absolutely terrible news.”
Ty sinks down on the couch beside me, Scarlett on his other side. He and Kal have just got back from their job in the security hub, their power armor dumped in the love hotel with our unconscious double dates. Our illustrious leader leans down to rub a scuff off his boot, his mop of shaggy blond hair hanging in his eyes. I watch the muscles play in his arm from the corner of my eye. Pretending not to notice. Pretending not to care.
“Good news first,” Tyler says.
Finian swivels his chair to face us. His uniglass is plugged into the forearm of his exosuit, a holographic screen projected from a lens at his wrist. The light’s bright against the gloom of Dariel’s den, the image crisp. I wonder how much processing power is in that rig of his. Wonder at the kind of mind that could even make a suit like that. Finian’s an annoying little shithead for sure, but at least he doesn’t have shit for brains.
“Good news is the leech is working perfectly,” he declares. “I’m in their network, moving slow so as not to attract attention. But I have access to the infamous Casseldon Bianchi’s luxury liner, and all the security cams therein.”
He pauses, looking around the room.
“Don’t everyone applaud at once.”
“What’s the excellent news?” Scarlett asks.
Finian taps a pad on his exosuit’s other arm. His small holographic screen flickers into larger, brighter life onto the white stone of the wall. His swipes the air, and the holograph flips through half a dozen screens until he finds the one he wants.
“Excellent news is I think I found our Trigger.”
From her seat in the corner, Aurora comes to her feet. Her mismatched eyes are wide, fixed on Fin’s projection. There, floating on a beam of blue light, is the sculpture she painted all over the storage room—a figure with three-fingered hands, wrought in strange metal. Doesn’t look much bigger than my own hand. The diamond in its chest and the pearl in its right eye are actually real gemstones. It’s hovering inside a transparent case of what might be glass, slowly spinning.
“Is that it?” Tyler asks.
Aurora stares. Her whisper’s almost too soft to hear.
“Yes.”
She drags her eyes away from the screen, over to Tyler.
“I don’t know how I know. But I know. That’s why we’re here. …”
“Okay.” Tyler nods, staring at the sculpture. “Give us the bad news, Finian.”
“I never said I had bad news,” our Gearhead replies, tapping on his keyboard. “I said I had absolutely terrible news.”
“Maker’s breath,” I sigh. “Just spit it out, will you?”
Finian blows me a kiss and moves his fingers, pulling our image to a wider shot. I can see a large circular room, decked in fancy furnishings. Huge glass windows look out into what seems to be some kind of jungle. Dozens of glass cases and cabinets are arranged around the space, picked out with warm spotlights and filled with strange objects. Some are sleek and elegant, others twisted and shimmering. But all of them are pretty.
“This is Casseldon Bianchi’s office,” Finian explains. “It’s in the heart of his estate. It’s protected by the kind of security that’d wake a career criminal screaming in the night. Temperature-responsive scanners. Genetic sensors. Pressure floors reading off micro-changes in air density. And even assuming you could fool those measures, there’s only one door in or out. And there’s only one key. Which as far as I can tell, hangs around Bianchi’s neck at all times.”
Finian flips to a picture of Bianchi dressed in a sharp suit, unveiling some piece of exotic sculpture in his museum. His grin is a row of dazzling white fangs. Around his neck, I can see a digital passkey hanging on a platinum chain.
“Polymorphic, gene-coded, sixty-four-digit encryption,” Finian says.
“Sounds complicated,” Tyler says.
“Complicated doesn’t even begin to describe it. His office is going to be harder to get into than my date’s boxer shorts at last Genesis Day Ball.”
“Is there any way in at all?” Tyler asks.
“I honestly don’t know,” Finian sighs. “I tried poetry, I tried flowers, I—”
“I’m talking about the office, Fin. What about air vents?”
Our Gearhead shakes his head, pulling up the picture of the office again. “The vents are three centimeters wide at best. And ion shielded. So unless you’re planning on losing a lot of weight …”
“What about those huge windows?” I point out.
“They’re not windows, they’re walls,” Finian replies, swiveling three-sixty in his chair again. “Whole office in enclosed in transparent polarized silicon.”
“Why?”
“Bianchi buys trinkets and artifacts from all over the galaxy. But his main interest is in exotic
life-forms. He’s got over ten thousand species in his menagerie, according to this interview I read in last month’s Galactic Gentleman.”
“People still subscribe to Galactic Gentleman?” Scarlett asks, eyebrow raised.
“I mean, I’d heard rumors … ,” I mutter.
“I buy it for the articles. Anyway, Bianchi’s office …” Finian’s fingers dance, and the projection on the wall shifts to a schematic. “Sits right at the heart of his menagerie. And surrounding his office is the cage for his most prized exhibit.”
“Please tell me it’s a small, friendly terrier named Lord Woofsly,” Tyler sighs.
“Close, Goldenboy,” Finian says, flipping his display again. “Very close.”
Projected on the wall is the most horrific … thing … I’ve ever seen. And as of one eye-gougingly accidental encounter outside the shower this morning, I’ve seen Dariel de Vinner de Seel in his underwear.
The beast is all razored teeth and lurid green eyes and rippling muscle. Its claws are broadswords and its hide is horned and armored, and it’s making a shrieking, metallic noise—like two chainsaws trying to have sex.
“Fellow Legionnaires, may I present the pride of Casseldon Bianchi’s menagerie,” Finian says. “The Great Ultrasaur of Abraaxis IV.”
“Amna diir,” Kal breathes, his usually cool facade cracking just a little.
“You said it, Pixieboy.” Finian nods. “I mean, I have no idea what you said, but yeah, you said it. Rumor has it Bianchi paid his fourth testicle to get his hands on this thing.”
“Why do they call it the great ultrasaur?” Aurora asks. “Does it have, like, excellent penmanship skills or something?”
“It’s the last one of its kind in the whole galaxy.” Fin shrugs.
“What happened to the rest of them?”
“This one killed them,” the Betraskan replies simply. “It’s the last of its kind because it literally ate all the others.”
The girl blinks. “Holy cake, it what?”
“Yeah, ultrasaurs are the most infamously hostile species in the ’Way,” Finian says, running one hand through white hair, leaving it more spiked than before. “They killed every living thing on Abraaxis IV. And when they ran out of things to kill, they killed each other.”