Aurora Burning: The Aurora Cycle 2

by Amie Kaufman

  I pick up one of the dóa pieces, my ribs and muscles still groaning after my run-in with the drakkan. The piece is a flat white disk marked with a triangular black symbol. They play the role of pawns in the game—kinda, anyway. Sacrificial lambs used to gain an edge elsewhere in the battle.

  I’m starting to appreciate how they feel.

  “Do you play?” comes a low, sweet voice from behind me.

  I turn and see Saedii stalking through a double set of auto-doors, a silver tray poised on one hand. Her pet drakkan rides on her shoulder, watching me with glittering golden eyes. Before the doors whisper shut behind them, I see her inner quarters: simple artwork, a large bed, a computer terminal. I briefly wonder where she hangs the skins of her victims.

  She’s changed out of her armor into Syldrathi dress uniform—formfitting black, elegant lines, glittering with silver embellishments and battle trophies. Her black hair rolls down over her shoulders in seven thick braids, just like Kal’s. She’s taken the time to refresh the black paint that coats her lips, the strip that frames her eyes. I can see her brother in the shape of them, the line of her cheeks and brow. She radiates an aura of command: cold, cruel, calculating.

  “Do you play?” she repeats.

  I put the dóa piece back where I found it.

  “Tyler Jones,” I reply. “Alpha. Aurora Legion, Squad 312.”

  Saedii walks to the desk, places the tray down. It holds a carafe of crystal-clear water and two glasses. There’s also a beautiful long-bladed knife and four spheres that I recognize as a Syldrathi fruit called bae’el.

  Sitting down opposite me, Saedii fixes me with a withering violet stare.

  “Really?” she says, speaking perfect Terran. “That is your opening gambit? Name, rank, squad number?”

  She raises one dark eyebrow, then pours the water. The drakkan crawls up onto the chair’s back, trilling softly as it continues to stare at me. Saedii pushes the crystal glass across the desk and murmurs to her pet.

  “Yes, Isha, my love, he disappoints me, too,” she says, eyes returning to mine. “I thought he would know how this game is played.”

  I’m desperately thirsty after my arena brawl, but instead of drinking, I meet her stare, speaking softly, my voice calm.

  “The first step of successful interrogation technique is to establish rapport,” I say. “Offer the subject kindness—a gift like water or food or pain relief. Alleviating their suffering will highlight the suffering they’ve already endured, and evoke a sense of empathy in you, in contrast to their other captors.” I glance at the water, then back up to her eyes. “I know exactly how this game is played.”

  I lean back in my chair, lace my fingers in my lap.

  “Tyler Jones. Alpha. Aurora Legion, Squad 312.”

  Saedii pours another glass for herself, takes a small sip.

  “We Warbreed teach our adepts differently, little Terran,” she says. “The first step of successful interrogation technique is to establish dominance. Assure the subject, in no uncertain terms, that you are in control.”

  She picks up the knife from the tray, presses the tip ever so gently against the forefinger of her other hand. Like her hair, her nails are dyed black.

  “Begin with a mild amputation,” she suggests. “Something small. But something that will be missed.”

  She looks down at my crotch, then up into my eyes.

  “A sister, perhaps.”

  My stomach lurches at that, but I keep the fear from my face. Running the math in my head. “How did you know she w—”

  “I am no fool, Tyler Jones, Alpha, Aurora Legion, Squad 312.” She stabs the knife into a piece of bae’el, then begins removing the rind with deft twists of the blade. “The sooner you dissuade yourself of that notion, the better.”

  “You speak excellent Terran,” I say. “I’ll grant you that.”

  She slices a sliver of dark flesh from the fruit. “Far better than your Syldrathi.”

  “I’m surprised you bothered to learn. Given how clearly you despise us.”

  Saedii slips the sliver between her teeth. Looks me dead in the eye.

  “I always study my prey.”

  She leans back and places her feet up on the desk, nudges the glass of water toward me with the heel of one knee-high, silver-tipped boot.

  “Drink, boy. You will need your strength.”

  Isha trills, fluttering her wings and watching as I finally lean forward and pick up the glass. It’s solid crystal, heavy in my hand, and for a moment I consider pitching it at Saedii’s head, making a grab for her knife. The more sensible part of my brain reminds me of the beating this girl gave me the last time we tangled. My groin sends an urgent transmission, pointing out I might wanna have kids one day.

  I drink.

  “You and your crew were obtaining data from the Hephaestus salvage fleet,” Saedii says. “Records show that the flight recorder your technician destroyed aboard the Totentanz belonged to an ancient Terran derelict. The Hadfield. A vessel that set out from your world over two centuries ago.” She slices off another sliver of fruit, presses it to her tongue. “What do you want with two-hundred-year-old truths, little Terran?”

  “I’m a history buff,” I reply.

  “Know the past,” she says, “or suffer the future.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You are lying,” she says, cool and mild. “Continue to do so, and I will have your sister suffer the most gruesome of torments before I flush her into space.”

  “Considering you were willing to feed us to a monster an hour ago, I presume you’re going to kill us all anyway.” I shrug. “And if this information is so important to you, maybe you should have started with the interrogation and proceeded to the execution, instead of the other way around?”

  “My brother has all these answers too, little Terran,” she replies calmly. “You are not an essential part of this equation.”

  “Then why bother talking to me at all?”

  The knife flashes. Another sliver of fruit disappears between Saedii’s black lips. It’s a long moment before she replies.

  “It is not often I see a lone combatant best a full-grown drakkan.” She looks me up and down, eyes sparkling. “I recognize your prowess. And your bloodline. Jericho Jones was a foe worthy of respect.”

  A flash of anger runs through me then. I feel my jaw tighten, my teeth clench.

  “That didn’t stop your people murdering him at Orion.”

  She raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “We are warriors, Tyler Jones, not widows. Weep not for the wages of war. And while your peerage is to be respected, do not believe for a moment I will not kill you and your sister and your little cripple to learn what I want.”

  I bristle at the insult to Fin, eyes narrowing. She simply smiles as the barb lands. Meeting her stare, I realize this girl is from a culture entirely alien to mine—a culture where strength is prized, cruelty encouraged, weakness despised. I’m beginning to appreciate how hard it must have been for Kal to break out of that cycle, become the person he is. The longer I spend in his sister’s presence, the more impressed with him I am. And the more I loathe her.

  But while almost all Warbreed genuinely think this way, I realize Saedii is mostly just goading me. Pressing buttons. Watching reactions. Everything she’s done since she arrived—the water, the threats, the talk about my crew, my father—it’s all been to gauge the kind of person I am.

  I glance at the strategy games around the room. A dozen different games from a dozen different worlds. I realize all of them have been involved in conflicts with the Syldrathi in the last fifty years.

  I always study my prey.

  “The one named Aurora.” Saedii’s lip draws back in ever-so-slight contempt. “The girl my dear brother names be’shmai.”

  “Finally getting to the point, I see,” I say.

  Her hand drifts up to the string of severed thumbs around her neck.

  “You males,” she sighs. “Always in such a rush.
”

  Isha trills, golden eyes flashing.

  “She lacks the skills and training of a legionnaire,” Saedii continues. “Who is she? Where is she from? Why do you travel with her?”

  “She stowed away on our ship,” I reply. “She’s from Earth. And your brother would be upset if I sent her away.”

  “Half-truths,” Saedii coos, reaching up to scratch the drakkan under her chin. “The little Terran believes he is clever, Isha. He still believes he is in control here. Should we kill the sister first? Or that twisted little Betraskan toad?”

  “Does it make you feel bigger?” I ask. “Trying to make others look small?”

  “You are small, little Terran,” she replies. “Small and weak and frightened. Your own government names you terrorists. Your own people hunt you like hounds.”

  “And what would your government name you?” I reply. “I mean, if you hadn’t murdered them all for daring to make peace with Earth?”

  “ ‘Peace’ is the way a cur cries ‘Surrender,’ ” Saedii replies, studying her fingernails. “Mercy is the province of cowards. The Inner Council of Syldra was in league with our enemies. They were traitors to the Syldrathi people.”

  “So you destroyed them along with your own homeworld?” I demand, anger creeping into my voice. “Along with ten billion of those innocent Syldrathi people?”

  “The Syldrathi people accepted the treaty with Terra, boy. They had lost their honor. They deserved no pity, and Archon Caersan showed them none.”

  I bristle again at the name. Caersan. The Starslayer. The man who destroyed his own world and led the assault on Orion—the attack where we lost our dad.

  “You know, it’s funny,” I reply. “You Unbroken always talk about honor. But last time I checked, attacking during a peace negotiation is just as cowardly as stabbing someone in the back. Seems to me your beloved Starslayer is about as honorable as your garden-variety cockroach.”

  Saedii’s eyes flash at that.

  “I will warn you once, little Terran. Where the Starslayer is concerned, watch your tongue. Or watch me hand it to you.”

  “He’s a madman,” I spit. “And he—”

  I don’t really see her move, I just feel the strike—the heel of her palm into the bridge of my nose. I feel a crunch, see black stars, taste blood in the back of my throat. I tumble backward off the chair but quickly to my feet, my ribs still aching from the battle with the drakkan. The world is blurred with tears, and I only catch a glimpse of a dark shape before two hands clap down on my shoulders—

  Oh Maker, not again …

  —and a knee crashes into my groin. The black stars in my eyes burn through to white, and for a moment I’m nothing but the pain, dropping to my knees, crumpling to the floor, curling up into a ball of agony and misery. It’s all I can do to remember to breathe, and I’m waiting for those silver-tipped boots to start dancing on my throat when a voice cuts through the burning haze.

  “Templar. Forgive my interruption.”

  The boots never land. I recognize the voice—it’s Saedii’s second-in-command, his voice distorted slightly by the comms system.

  Through the tears, I look up and see Saedii touch the transmitter on the breast of her uniform. Her voice is cool, and she tosses one black braid off her shoulder as she smiles down at me, completely unruffled.

  “What is it, Erien?” she asks.

  “We have detected several vessels on intercept course with Andarael,” the lieutenant reports. “Approaching us from multiple headings.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Terran capital ships. Four destroyers. Two carriers.”

  Maker’s breath. That’s not just “several vessels.” That’s an assault fleet… .

  “Ignore them,” Saedii replies. “The Terrans would not dare risk violating neutrality by accosting an Unbroken vessel. Maintain course for the Neridaa.”

  “They are moving at assault speed, Templar. And they are hailing us.”

  That gives Saedii a moment’s pause. What she said is true—ever since the Syldrathi civil war broke out, Earth has been bending over backward to avoid getting involved with Syldrathi affairs. It’s hard to blame them, really—the Starslayer not only destroyed his own homeworld but somehow caused the Syldrathi sun to collapse upon itself. The subsequent black hole wiped out the entire Syldra system and several uninhabited systems nearby.

  Nobody wants to get on the wrong side of a man with that kind of power.

  But now there’s a Terran fleet on intercept course with us?

  Andarael is a massive capital ship herself—Drakkanclass, the biggest in the Unbroken armada—but that doesn’t mean her oh-so-cool commander wouldn’t be at least a little worried at tackling a Terran attack force that size.

  “Transmission onscreen,” Saedii says.

  I blink away my tears, the screaming pain in my groin receding to a mumbling ache as one wall flickers into life. For a moment, there’s only white light, burning on the back of my eyeballs. Then the white coalesces into a familiar shape, and as I force myself up into sitting position, I feel my stomach flip.

  I see the winged crest of the Terran Defense Force. The ship ident KUSA NAGI emblazoned beneath it.

  I see a Global Intelligence Agency uniform, spotless and white.

  A smooth, featureless mirrormask.

  “SALUTATIONS FROM THE GLOBAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY, TEMPLAR. YOU MAY REFER TO ME AS PRINCEPS.” Its voice is sexless. Metallic. Giving no hint of who might be behind that mask. But I know the man, the monster, beneath that flawless uniform.

  Auri’s father, Zhang Ji.

  Or what’s left of him, anyway. He was just one of hundreds of Octavia III colonists consumed and assimilated by the Ra’haam. They’ve been working in the shadows for two centuries, infiltrating the GIA and Maker only knows what other arms of the Terran government. Erasing all evidence of the Octavia colony’s existence. Hiding the existence of the twenty-two worlds the Ra’haam had seeded, and laying the groundwork for its return.

  The shock of seeing Princeps hits me like another kick—last we knew, we’d left him behind on Octavia. And suddenly I’m back there, on that doomed and ruined world. Blue spores tumbling from the sky. The colony run through with leafy tendrils of the thing slumbering beneath its mantle. Cat’s eyes, bright blue and flower-shaped, filling with tears as she looked at me for the last time.

  You have to let me go.

  The world is blurring again. I paw the burn from my eyes.

  Maker, I miss her… .

  “What do you want, Terran?” Saedii replies, staring at the figure onscreen.

  “TEMPLAR, IT IS OUR UNDERSTANDING YOU HAVE APPREHENDED SEVERAL TERRAN CITIZENS ENGAGED IN ESPIONAGE ABOARD A HEPHAESTUS SALVAGE CONVOY. THE SURVIVING HEPHAESTUS EMPLOYEES CONFIRM YOUR VESSEL’S PRESENCE IN THE BATTLE.”

  For a moment, I’m surprised the Unbroken left anyone alive in that convoy to give testimony. But thinking about it, I suppose it makes sense they leave witnesses to help spread the fear. It’s not like the Starslayer’s followers are afraid of reprisals. Nobody in the galaxy is brave enough to mess with them.

  Except …

  “Who I may or may not have acquired is none of your concern,” Saedii replies.

  “THESE CRIMINALS ARE WANTED BY THE TERRAN GOVERNMENT FOR INTERGALACTIC TERRORISM,” Princeps says. “THE BETRASKAN FINIAN DE SEEL AND THE SYLDRATHI KALIIS IDRABAN GILWRAETH ARE NO CONCERN OF OURS. BUT WE WOULD APPRECIATE IT IF OUR CITIZENS WERE RETURNED TO US.”

  … They want Auri.

  The Ra’haam. The gestalt entity, incubating on those twenty-two worlds on Auri’s star map. If they have her, they have the Trigger to the Eshvaren Weapon. They have the only person who can stop the planets from blooming and spreading the Ra’haam’s spores throughout the galaxy. And I’m trying to muster the breath to object, to warn Saedii she can’t possibly hand us over, to give her a hint of what’s at stake here.

  But of course, I needn’t have bothered.


  “I am a Templar of the Unbroken,” she announces, imperious. “Warbreed by birth and troth. Whatever prisoners I may or may not have aboard my vessel is my concern. And you are dangerously close to meddling in Syldrathi affairs. I advise your fleet to withdraw.”

  She leans forward on her desk and glowers.

  “Before you earn the Starslayer’s ire.”

  And there it is. The ultimate Get Out of Jail Free card. Nobody messes with Archon Caersan. Nobody wants a guy who can destroy solar systems mad at them. It’s just sensible policy, really.

  But apparently the Ra’haam doesn’t much care for Sensible.

  Princeps glances at someone off-screen. “ALERT THE FLEET. ALL VESSELS, WEAPONS LOCK ON SYLDRATHI VESSEL ANDARAEL. FIGHTER WINGS, READY LAUNCH.”

  It takes a moment for Princeps to get a response. I’m guessing that even in the heat of this moment, whoever received that order understands exactly how monumental it is. Terra doesn’t involve itself in Syldrathi business. It certainly doesn’t open fire on an Unbroken flagship carrying one of Caersan’s trusted adjutants. If this goes south, if those ships engage …

  … it could mean war.

  But finally, we hear a reply offscreen. “Sir, yessir.”

  A tiny alert chimes a moment later, ringing across the Andarael’s PA. Saedii’s lieutenant pipes in over comms. He speaks in Syldrathi, but I understand the language well enough to get the gist.

  The Terrans have achieved weapons lock.

  Fighter bay doors open.

  And for the first time, I see a tiny crack appear in my hostess’s armor. She hides it quickly, but it’s there. A tiny sliver of it behind her eyes.

  Uncertainty.

  Still, she scoffs, looking Princeps in its blank mirrormask, that traditional Syldrathi arrogance slipping into place like a mask of her own.

  “You are bluffing, Terran.”

  “AM I? ” Princeps replies.

  The transmission drops into black. Another warning comes in from Saedii’s second-in-command, and she replies, ordering their weapons hot, their fighters to prep launch. We’re about thirty seconds from a full-scale engagement here. The first time Syldrathi and Terran warships have opened fire on each other since the Jericho Accord of ’78—the pact that officially ended the war between our worlds two years ago.