Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle #2)(5)

“Yeah, we saw it. So did half the people in this city, I’m guessing. Including the syndicate we were trying to sell the Longbow to.”

“No deal, I take it?”

I glance behind, see a pack of gremps whipping along right on our tails, disruptors ready to fire as soon as we’re out of the pressurized tube.

“You could say that,” I reply. “We’re coming back through the bazaar, I need you giving us directions. Tell Kal and Zila to prep for launch. Every bounty hunter, lawman, and half-baked do-gooder in this hole is gonna be after us now.”

“I did tell you this was a bad idea.”

“And I told you. I don’t have bad ideas.”

“Just less amazing ones?”

Emerald City is whipping past the transit tube outside, dozens of levels, thousands of secrets, millions of people. The clouds around us swirl and shift in beautiful patterns, like watercolors on wet canvas. The walls and archways and gleaming spires under the ionized dome are tinged pale green by the chlorine storm below, the skies above like bruised blood.

I knew we’d be pushing it by even coming to a station as remote as this one. It was only a matter of time before word got out that we’d gone rogue, and I knew the Global Intelligence Agency would be gunning for us after Octavia III. But I should’ve known they’d come at us sideways. Framing us as the perpetrators of the massacre they committed was smart. Something I might’ve done if I flushed my morals into the recycler. By painting us as killers of innocent refugees as well as Interdiction breakers, they’ve cut us off from Aurora Academy and anyone who’d help us.

I can’t blame Adams for disavowing us. But he took me and Scar under his wing when Dad died—I have to admit it hurt, listening to him call us murderers. And though it makes sense for him to cut us loose after we’ve been accused of galactic terrorism, part of me is gutted he could ever believe it.

“Heads up, Bee-bro,” Scar calls.

“NEXT STOP, GRAND BAZAAR,” says the computer.

“You ready for this?” I ask.

My sister looks back at me and winks. “I am a Jones.”

A rush of air from the other direction slows us to a perfect stop beside the tube doors. We bail out, scramble into the sea of stalls and noise that is the Emerald City Grand Bazaar. If I had a moment, I’d stop to admire the sight.

But as it is, I figure I’ve only got a moment before we’re both dead.

· · · · ·

We burst through the doorway from the alley and into the kitchen of a Betraskan greasy spoon, the air filled with the sweet smell of luka nut oil and frying javi. The chef is about to start yelling at us when he sees the disruptor pistols in our hands. Then he and his cooks wisely decide to go on break.

The gremps burst in behind us, and Scarlett and I unload with our disruptors. I take out four (98 percent on my marksmanship exam), and the others bail back into the alley outside. Before they can regroup, we’re running again, out the front doors of the crowded diner and into the street beyond.

A teenage human pulls up on a hoverskiff outside the diner, climbs off the saddle. As his feet touch sidewalk, I sweep his legs, catch his falling passkeys, and leap onto his ride. Scar jumps onto the skiff behind me and offers an apologetic shout to the owner as we take off.

“Sorryyyy!”

We zip off into the thoroughfare, drones and manned vehicles bobbing and swerving around and above us. The traffic here is pure chaos—a perpetual high-velocity rush hour, three layers deep, and I’m hoping we can lose our pursuers in the crush. But a disruptor blast at our backs lets me know …

“They’re still behind us!” Scar shouts.

“So blast them!”

“You know I’m a bad shot!” She claws her hair out of her eyes. “I spent my senior marksmanship classes flirting with my range partner!”

I shake my head. “Remind me why you’re in my squad again?”

“Because I said yes, smart-ass!”

Finian’s voice cuts in over comms. “You wanna take the next turnoff, Goldenboy. Leads straight to the docks.”

“Hiiiii, Finian.”

“Um … hey, Scarlett.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Ah …” My Gearhead clears his throat. “Well, I mean—”

“Scar, knock it off!” I shout, zooming down the turnoff with more disruptor blasts ringing behind us. “Fin, does station security have any idea we’re here yet?”

“Nothing on the bulletins so far.”

“Engines prepped?”

“Ready to launch as soon as you two get here.” Fin clears his throat again. “Although, without you … we don’t really have a pilot… .”

And just like that, the world flying by me at a hundred and twenty klicks an hour slows to a crawl.

Scar’s arm tightens a little around my waist. My breath catches in my throat. I’m trying not to think about her. Trying not to remember her name. Trying not to acknowledge the ache in my chest and just keep us on the move, because as deep as we are, there’s just no time for grief right now. But still …

Cat.

“We’ll be there in sixty,” I say. “Bay doors open—we’re coming in hot.”

“Roger that.”