by Amie Kaufman
“Evolutionarily speaking, that makes very little sense,” Zila points out.
“Makes perfect sense to me,” Finian shrugs. “People do it all the time.”
“Why is it making that noise?” Scarlett winces.
“Mating call, I think? Eat all your potential lady friends, I guess you get lonely.”
“Okay, okay,” Tyler says. “I think we’ve established that going in through the menagerie isn’t an option. So, front door it is. We need that key.”
“Won’t do us any good, Goldenboy,” Finian says. “It’s a polymorphic gene-modded combination sequence. That means the combination changes every time Bianchi comes into physical contact with it. And if anyone else so much as sneezes on it, the key registers the foreign DNA and locks the whole estate down.”
I feel a sort of relief at that. This mission is looking more impossible by the second. The sooner Tyler realizes we’re wasting our time on this crap, the sooner we give up this bloody insanity.
I trace the whorls and lines of ink on my right arm with my fingertips. I do that when I get nervous. When I get angry. When I need to center myself. My tats are from a dozen different artists, a rainbow of color, a collage of styles, but they all have one thing in common. The one thing I’ve loved since I was a little girl.
Wings.
Dragons. Birds. Butterflies and moths. I have a hawk inked across my back and shoulder blades, just like my mum. She was a pilot in the TDF before she got sick. I still remember the smile on her face when I told her I was joining the Legion. She told me she was proud. She said the same thing the last time I spoke to her. Wheezing it, with what little breath the plague let her take.
“I’m proud of you, baby girl.”
I wonder how proud she’d be if she saw me now. A fugitive. Neck deep in trouble. A court-martial with my name on it already sitting on someone’s desk. I know Tyler will try to take the fall for us if we get caught. I know he’ll say he ordered us to help him. But a part of me is still trying to figure out why.
He saw something aboard that TDF destroyer.
Something O’Malley did that he won’t talk to me about.
We used to talk all the time.
“And there is no way to defeat this lock without the key?” Kal asks.
“I suppose divine intervention might work,” Finian says. “But that’s not even our first problem. We can’t get close to Bianchi’s office. His estate is the most highly guarded area on the World Ship. State-of-the-art security. Hacking his cams is one thing, but we’re never getting in there without getting caught.”
Silence descends on the room. And into the quiet, Aurora finally speaks.
“I didn’t want to say anything. …”
We all look at her, expectant. She’s obviously still hesitant, looking up into Pixieboy’s frozen stare, my glower. She chews her lip, but finally speaks.
“But … I saw something in the shower this morning.”
“It’s disgusting in there,” Scar agrees. “The mold has mold growing on it.”
“No, I …” Little Miss Stowaway meets my stare. “I saw Cat.”
“Well, well!” Finian grins. “I didn’t know your creshcake was syruped on that side, Zero.”
“Shut up, Finian,” I growl.
“Hey, no judge here, kiddo. …”
“No, I mean …” Aurora shakes her head. “I had another … vision. I was feeling a little woozy, maybe from the steam, I don’t know. So I sat on the tile and rested my head against the wall, and then … I saw Cat in a mask and fancy jumpsuit. And Scarlett and Tyler, too.” She looks between us. “You all looked like you were dressed for a … party, I guess?”
“A party in that bathroom?” Scarlett asks.
“I know it sounds like it,” Aurora replies. “But it wasn’t a dream.”
Tyler leans forward, fingers steepled at his chin as his eyes light up.
“There’s a party this weekend,” he says, looking around the room. “Fiftieth anniversary of the World Ship. Bianchi is putting on a masquerade ball.” He looks at Aurora and breaks into a dimpled grin. “If we get ourselves some invitations, we can just walk into his estate.”
“Okay?” Scarlett says. “And how do we manage that?”
Tyler rubs his chin, staring at the schematic as he leans back in his chair. “I’m working on it. We’ve got a few advantages here.”
Ty’s twin raises her eyebrow. “Such as?”
“Well for starters, a gangster as murderous as Bianchi isn’t going to be expecting to get robbed. No one’s stupid enough to cross him.”
“Except us, apparently,” I growl.
Ty winks at me. “Never underestimate the element of surprise.”
“Great,” Finian says. “So we get onto the grounds. Then all we have to do is steal a key from around the neck of the most dangerous criminal in the sector, in full view of a party full of guests and his guard detail, without setting off the genetic alarms. Which will happen as soon as one of us touches the key.”
I’m watching Ty’s eyes. Watching his lips. The glow of the vines plays across his face in the dim light, and I can see his dimples just waiting in the wings. He was the golden boy at Aurora for a reason. Sure, he aced every exam. But his favorite subject was always tactics. When we were out gaming or drinking or cruising, Ty would be sitting in his room studying old dead generals. Sun Tzu. Hannibal. Napoleon. Eisenhower. Tankian. Giáp. Osweyo.
Most boys want to grow up to be astronauts or firemen.
Ty wanted to grow up to be Marcus Agrippa.
“And then there’s the security systems in the actual office to deal with,” Scarlett points out. “Unless we just snatch and grab the Trigger, in which case, we’ll have the whole station on our tails.”
And finally, I see Ty’s dimples come out to play.
“Sounds like a challenge to me,” he says.
I feel my answer surging in my chest. I try to fight it. Try to hold it in. Ty is my squad leader. I go where he says, I do what I’m told. That’s what they teach you at the academy. Always back your Alpha.
Always.
“No,” I hear myself say. “No bloody way.”
My squad looks at me as I stand up, fists balled up tight.
“Seriously, enough of this crap.”
“Do you have something to say, Legionnaire Brannock?” Ty asks.
“You bet your damn tailpipe I do,” I say, letting the anger fill my voice. I’m so furious at him right now, I can barely stop myself from screaming. “This has gone way beyond stupid and all the way into brain-dead. It was bad enough being on the run from our own people, attacking Terran personnel, risking all our lives. Now you want us crossing the deadliest criminal in the sector for the sake of a trinket this crazy skirt saw in a dream?”
I gesture at O’Malley, still glaring at Tyler.
“For real, Ty, have you gone all the way sideways?”
“There’s more than dreams going on here, Cat,” Tyler says. “And you know it. You saw what Auri did to the Longbow. When I first found her in the Fold, I was close to drowning inside my suit and she moved us. She got us to safety. And you heard what de Stoy and Adams told us at the start of this mission.”
“This isn’t a bloody mission!” I shout. “It’s a robbery! And for what? To satisfy this head case’s delusions? Am I the only one who sees how spaceloops this is?”
“Don’t call me a head case.” O’Malley shoots back.
“Oh, she speaks!” I say, dropping into a low bow. “We are not worthy. And what advice do you have for us, O mighty prophet?”
Kal raises one silver eyebrow at me. “You are embarrassing yourself, Zero.”
“Jam it up your arse, Pixieboy!”
“Look, I don’t pretend to know what’s happening here,” O’Malley says. “But something is happ
ening. I’m seeing things before they happen. I’m seeing—”
“Are you seeing any way we pull this off without ending up dead, Little Miss Visionthing?” I demand. “Do you see any way for us to get in and out of Casseldon Bianchi’s private office without getting caught?”
She squares her jaw. Glances at the schematic on the wall.
“No,” she says quietly.
“Well, color me all the way shocked.”
“Cat,” Tyler says. “Put a lid on it.”
“Maybe she’s right, Tyler.”
All eyes turn to Scarlett. She’s looking at her brother, her voice soft, her tone the kind of gentle that only comes with the delivery of bad news.
Tyler breathes deep, looks at his twin. “Scar?”
“All I’m saying is we’re a long way into the weeds here,” she says. “Before we go any further, maybe we should stop and ask ourselves where this road leads.”
“Right out of the Legion, that’s for sure,” I say. “Dishonorable discharge. Probably prison. You worked for this since you were thirteen years old, Tyler. Are you so mad about missing the Draft you’re willing to throw your whole career into the recycler?”
“This isn’t about the Draft,” Tyler growls. “You heard what Adams told us. ‘You must endure. You must believe.’ ”
“But why?” I demand. “What about her makes you want to?”
“I don’t know.” Tyler shrugs, looks at O’Malley. “But I do. That’s what faith is.”
I grit my teeth. Resist the urge to slap him. To roar in his face. I look at Scarlett and she just shakes her head. Finian’s face is a mask, but it’s clear he’s reckless enough to go along for this ride. Zila’s watching me like I’m some kind of bug she’s trying to classify. Kal is silent, those cold violet eyes slightly narrowed. I’m outnumbered. Outgunned.
“Hells with this,” I spit, snatching up my jacket and marching toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Scar asks.
“I need a damn drink.”
“I didn’t dismiss you, Legionnaire Brannock,” Tyler warns.
“Then court-martial me!” I snarl.
I know slamming the door as I leave is a kid’s move. I know I’ll look like a little girl in a tantrum, mad because she didn’t get her way. I know it in my bones. All the way to the tips of my wings.
But I slam it hard enough to bust the hinges anyway.
•••••
“Gimme another.”
The bartender raises three of their eyebrows, proboscis quivering.
“Are you certain?” they ask. “You have consumed six already.”
“You know, your impression of my mum is getting really good,” I growl, tapping the lip of my glass with my finger.
The bartender shrugs, tops me up, and turns back to their other customers.
This place is a dive, neon-lit and smoky, deep in the low-rent section of the World Ship. The band is loud and abrasive, the floor sticky. It’s the kind of place you end up at three a.m. when you want to brawl or bang. Not sure which way I’m leaning—yet.
Tyler.
I slam back the cheap ethanol in one shot, wince at the chemical burn in the back of my throat. Try to figure out why I’m so mad. Is it really because he’s seriously considering this scam? Or because of who he’s doing it for?
“You must believe, Tyler.”
Tyler’s good at believing. Admiral Adams knew it. They went to chapel together every Saturday. You’d think religion might not have survived in the age of interstellar travel. The notion of faith was all but dead as humanity started reaching out to the stars. But after we discovered first one, then ten, then eventually hundreds of species, it didn’t really escape anyone’s notice that all of them were bipedal. Carbon-based. Oxygen breathers. The odds of that were just too remote to be plausible. Stuff like that doesn’t happen by chance.
So hey presto, say hello to the United Faith.
I touch the Maker’s mark at my collar. That perfect circle etched in silver. Wishing I believed like Tyler did. Because I can’t. Because I won’t. Because even though we’ve been friends since I busted that chair over his head in kindergarten, because even though I followed him to the end of the Milky Way, he didn’t believe in me—in us—the way he believes in her.
“O’Malley,” I growl, nodding to the barkeeper again. They’re about to pour when a gloved hand covers the mouth of my glass.
“Please allow us.”
I turn, wondering if this is my bang for the night. My muscles tense as I realize it’s the exact opposite.
It’s wearing charcoal gray, head to toe to fingertips. Its face is hidden behind a featureless mirrormask, elongated and oval shaped. I can see my dull reflection in the surface. My eyes wide with surprise.
Holy crap, GIA.
I rise from my chair and a second gloved hand clamps down on my shoulder. There’s another behind me, I realize. Sitting with my back to the door in a bar this loud, liquored this hard, they’ve snuck right up on me without me noticing.
Sloppy.
I’ve got no chance here. But my hand wraps around my glass in preparation for my swing anyway. If you gotta fall, fall fighting.
“Please refrain from unnecessary violence, Legionnaire Brannock,” the first agent says, its voice sexless and hollow. “We only wish to speak with you.”
“Everything okay here?” the barkeep asks, those three eyebrows rising again.
I look at the G-men. The pistol bulges beneath their jackets, the distance to the door. Crunching the odds as the music crashes in my ears and the booze thumps in my blood. And slowly, I sit back down in my seat.
“We’re good,” I say.
“Another drink?” the G-man asks.
“If you’re buying.”
“The Larassian semptar,” the GIA agent says. “Three, if you please.”
The barkeep complies, pouring us three bullets in three fresh glasses. The second operative sits on my other side, staring at me in the mirror behind the bar.
Once old three-eyes has shuffled off to serve their other customers, the first agent reaches into its gray suit. Moving slow and deliberate, it places a uniglass on the counter in front of me. Above the device I can see a small holographic projection of a third G-man—the creepy badass dressed all in white who nabbed the others aboard Tyson station. From the instrumentation behind it, I can tell it’s standing on the bridge of a Terran destroyer.
“Good evening, Legionnaire Brannock,” the figure says, its voice expressionless. “We have not been introduced. You may refer to me as Princeps.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.”
I lift my glass to my lips and tip it back slow. Taste smoke and faint sugar and notes of sheer bloody adrenaline on the back of my tongue.
The other two glasses sit in front of the operatives.
Untouched.
“You are a very long way from home, Legionnaire Brannock,” the small holograph says.
“No home like the black,” I reply, smiling around the old Ace saying.
“The insides of the cells at Lunar Penal Colony are not black,” Princeps replies. “They are gray. No sky. No stars. Just gray. Forever.”
“You trying to scare me, G-man?” I hold out my glass to the bartender again with one rock-steady hand. “Because I’m shaking.”
“I know it is difficult to see,” Princeps says as the barkeeper pours. “But there is a way out of this. For you, and your squad.”
“We do not want you,” the one behind me says in my ear, electronic voice crawling on my skin. “We only want Aurora O’Malley.”
“The rest of Squad 312 will be free to leave once she is in our hands.” Princeps nods. “Return to the academy. Your careers. Your friends. Your life. You need not throw away all you have worked for, Legionnaire Brannock.”
I blink hard. Shake my head. “I’m sorry, Princess, could you repeat that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of all the shits I don’t give.”
I slam back my shot, stand up slow.
“Thanks for the drink.”
The operative behind me grabs my arm with one gloved hand. The grip is perfect. Hard enough to hurt. Soft enough to let me know it could hurt a lot worse.
“The girl you are harboring is an enemy of the Terran people. The entire Terran Defense Force is now on alert and devoted to her capture. And she will be ours.” The agent’s voice goes soft and dangerous. “With or without your help.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s why you’re skulking around dive bars at ungodly o’clock in the morning, huh?” I sneer, motioning at the uniglass on the bar top. “This guy isn’t even in the same bloody sector as the rest of us.”
“The Bellerophon is en route to your location even as we speak, Legionnaire Brannock,” Princeps says. “You cannot escape from us. But a TDF invasion of the World Ship will cause unnecessary loss of life. We hope to resolve this issue without violence. Aurora O’Malley has killed enough of our agents already.”
My eyes narrow at that.
“You did not know?” Princeps asks. “She murdered two operatives aboard the Bellerophon. Crushed them like paper cups with a thought.”
Princeps disappears off the uni’s screen, replaced with an image of what might be an interrogation room. Two charcoal-gray suits. Blood and guts smeared along the floor and three meters up the walls.
My stomach surges. I swallow hard. “Maker … ,” I breathe.
“This is the girl you are harboring. She is not what she appears, Legionnaire Brannock. She is dangerous. To you. To those you care about.”
I shake my head. “It’s not my call. An Ace backs her Alpha. Always.”
I glance at the agent behind me, staring at my reflection in that faceless mask.
“Always.”
“Your loyalty to Tyler Jones is admirable,” Princeps says. “But surely you must have wondered at his recent decisions? Does he truly seem himself?”