Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle #2)(37)

I’ve never seen this place, but all I want is to go there.

Kal’s arms close around me.

The vision fades.

Everything turns black.





9

KAL

All is soundless.

The Hadfield’s hull peels apart in a perfect sphere of midnight blue, the cryo vaults demolished in a moment. Titanium and carbite buckle beneath the force of Aurora’s shock wave, and I hold her close as the belly of the mighty ship is blown apart from the inside out. Shards of plasteel and metal and glass spin outward into forever, and I engage the jet propulsion unit on my suit to hold us steady in the eye of the storm, this chaos my be’shmai has unleashed, her right eye gleaming like a lantern in the dark. And all of it, all of it, happens in complete and total silence.

“Kal, report!” Tyler demands over comms. “Finian, status!”

“I’m okay!” Finian shouts. “My underwear, not so much. What in the Maker’s name hit us?”

“Aurora,” I reply, holding her tight. “The bodies, being here … she saw something. She lost control.”

“Are you okay?” Tyler asks.

How could I be otherwise? How could I be anything less than perfect when she is in my arms? Her hair floating loose about her face in the zero gravity, lashes fluttering against freckled cheeks. The blinding flare in her right eye has dulled to a glow now, warm as firelight against my skin. I know her every line, every curve, pressing my fingertips against the visor of her helmet and tracing the— “Kal, report!”

“Aurora is semiconscious,” I reply. “We are still in the cryo vaults. What is left of them, anyway. Hephaestus security will definitely know we are here. Orders, sir?”

“Hold position,” Tyler says. “We’re retrieving Fin, then coming for you.”

“Acknowledged.”

And I do. Hold tight, that is. Cradling Aurora to my chest. The Hadfield is a ruin, the hull around us ripped wide. The tug hauling us is desperately trying to slow down, and the stress of arresting our momentum is continuing to tear the Hadfield apart. A digital heads-up display is projected on the inside of my helmet, and I can see Hephaestus security ships swarming in the dark outside, imagine the panicked transmissions flying between them.

All chance of stealth is lost.

And we still do not have the black box we came here for.

“K-Kal?”

My heart surges as she speaks, and I look down into her eyes, onyx and pearl, and I feel the universe fall away beneath my feet.

“It is well, be’shmai,” I murmur. “All is well.”

“What h-happened?” she whispers.

“Your power. You lost your grip.”

“I’m s-sorry,” she whispers, looking in slow bewilderment at the chaos and destruction around us. I can see blood pooling around her nostrils, bright red, clinging to her skin in the zero gravity. “I thought … I thought I was getting better at it.”

“You are.” I look at her intently. “You will.”

She shakes her head. “I saw …”

“What, be’shmai?”

She meets my eyes, and I sense fear in her. Fear and heartsickness, all the way to her bones. “I saw you … get hurt. Bad.”

My heart lurches, and I will it to be still. Warbreed fear no death. Warbreed fear no pain. Warbreed fear only to never taste victory. My father taught me that.

“… How?” I ask.

She shakes her head, wincing as the ship continues to break up around us, stanchions failing, bulkheads twisting apart. The totality of the destruction she has unleashed should be chilling. Her power, terrifying.

Instead, I feel only awe.

“It’s … hazy,” she says. “You got shot. You were aboard a ship. I saw … dark metal. Fuzzy dice. You … you were dressed the same as you’re dressed now.”

“Nobody is going to hurt me,” I smile. “With you at my side, I am unbreakable.”

She shakes her head and whispers, “Kal, I wasn’t by your side.”

“Kal, you read me?”

I touch my uniglass to transmit. “Affirmative, sir.”

“We’ve got Fin. Sending you coordinates for rendezvous. Security is all over us like a rash now, so we’re coming in red-hot. Zila will guide you.”

“Can you hear me, Legionnaire Gilwraeth?” comes a small, calm voice.

“Yes, Zila, loud and clear.”

“We are currently being pursued by thirteen Scythe-class fighters and two Reaper-class cruisers, so we will be unable to slow down below fifteen hundred kilometers per hour unless we wish to be incinerated by their missile fire.”

“Understood.”

“You will be attempting to match our speed and intercept the Zero, making a landing in the loading bay as we fly by.”

“At fifteen hundred kilometers per hour,” I say.

“Correct,” Zila says, just as deadpan.

“Understood.”

“Is that even possible?” Aurora asks, eyes wide.

“It is more likely Legionnaire Gilwraeth will succeed than a human would,” Zila replies. “Syldrathi reflexes are superior to Terrans’. If he matches Zero’s speed along the axis of pursuit, being X, and maintains speeds below one hundred kilometers per hour along the axis of approach, being Y, I calculate the odds of him successfully performing this maneuver at approximately six hundred and—”