Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle #2)(43)

“My squad is none of your concern, Saedii. Release them, and I will join you.”

Kal looks across at me, and I can see the apology in those big violet eyes of his. We both know that whatever happens to the others, his sister won’t be letting me rejoin the Zero before it departs. And we both know what the Unbroken will make of my physical limitations. My suit.

And Maker’s bits, does that suck.

But it’s also okay. I want them to go. They’re my chosen clan, and I want them to live. So I draw a deep breath, nod at him silently.

He reaches across to clasp my shoulder, completely oblivious to the fact that he just about crushes it.

“Kal.” Aurora cuts across the channel. “Kal, I’m not leaving you.”

I can hear the fear in her voice, the hurt, the heartache. I hassle Kal and Auri about it, because hey, it’s me, but I’m not blind to how close these two are growing. How much she means to him, and how much he’s starting to mean to her. I find myself wondering what it would’ve been like to have someone feel that way about me. To have found someone who looked at me the way he looks at her. And yeah, it’s probably a stupid thing to be thinking at a time like this.

Which is why I spot her just half a second too late.

A figure in the bridge hatchway, leaning hard against the door, blood dripping down her nose. She’s not Syldrathi, I realize—she’s one of the Hephaestus tug crew that Kal laid out when we arrived. Maybe the Galaxy’s Greatest Grandma. Maybe just the jetball fan. Whoever she is, she looks like death warmed up, but somehow she’s made it to her feet and staggered to the cockpit.

And she’s holding a disruptor.

“Kal!” I shout, flinging up my hands as though they can stop a blast.

Our Tank’s eyes are still on the comms array, the speaker his sister’s threats are spilling from. But at the sound of my voice, he swings around, drawing the disruptor at his belt. He moves fast—faster than any Betraskan, any human—but still not fast enough. He pushes me aside, his finger tightening on his trigger, just as the razor hissss of a Kill shot tears through the cockpit, ringing in my ears.

My heart sinks in my chest as I watch it all unfold in slow motion.

Kal twisting aside, trying to dodge the blast.

The shot striking him, right in the chest.

Violet eyes widening in pain, mouth open in shock.

And then he’s flying, spit spraying between his bared teeth, backward into the control panel and crashing to the ground. The Hephaestus goon staggers and drops from Kal’s return shot, her rifle clattering across the deck. I can hear our squad screaming down our channel, Kal’s sister through the Totentanz’s comms unit, demanding to know what’s happening.

But I can’t find my voice.

Can’t do anything but stare at the smoking hole in Kal’s suit, edged in black scorch marks.

Right over his heart.

But despite all the voices, the shock, in a way that would please and definitely surprise my academy instructors, my Legion training kicks in.

First, secure your position.

That much is easy—one look at Grandma tells me that Kal’s blast knocked her stupid, and she’s lying unconscious in the passageway.

Second, medical emergencies.

Dropping to my knees with a thump and popping a multi-tool from a recess in my exo, I slice a clean line into the fabric of Kal’s suit and through the insulation beneath. He doesn’t move the whole time, and my brain is conjuring up images of Cat on Octavia—images of her bright blue eyes, flower-shaped, of her hand outstretched, of the sadness on her face as she watched us go.

First seven.

Then six.

Now five?

“Finian, report!” Tyler shouts.

Not again, no, not Kal too, please, Maker, not him too …

“Fin, what happened?” Auri cries.

“Kal’s hit,” I manage.

“Fin, no!”

“He’s hit… .”

My pulse is thumping in my ears, mouth dry as dust as I drag the suit fabric aside, waiting for a gush of deep, warm purple to soak my hands.

But …

But there’s nothing.

I blink hard, something between a sob and a laugh bursting on my lips. Because there, beneath the burned lining of Kal’s suit and the scorched fabric of his Legion uniform, praise the Maker, I see something has stopped the worst of the blast. My hands are shaking as I pull it out of his breast pocket, watching the console lights glint on the scorched silver, my mouth open in wonder.

That damn cigarillo case …

Kal’s out cold, maybe from the blast, maybe from slamming into the console. He’s gonna have an award-winning bruise when he wakes up.

But he’s alive.

I can’t say the same for the poor cigarillo case, though. It’s bent and busted open, and as my heart slams against my rib cage, as the voices of my teammates ring out over comms, I realize there’s something inside the case.

“Finian, status!” Tyler demands.

“Fin, what’s happening?” Auri cries.

“It’s okay,” I report, my voice shaking. “He’s okay… .”

I pry the case apart, forcing my hands to cooperate, though the adrenaline flooding my nerves is making it hard for my exo to compensate. There’s a piece of paper inside the buckled metal, small, square, marked with black handwriting.