Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle #2)(57)

… 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 offscreen. “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.

And I see it then. Like a puzzle laid out in front of me. Like a game of chess, a dozen moves ahead. I see what’s happening here, and where it will lead. And I know, with awful certainty, that there’s only two ways this can play out. Either Saedii capitulates and hands over Auri, which is never going to happen. Or Terrans and Syldrathi go to war again.

But the Ra’haam wins either way.

Because if Terra goes to war with the Unbroken, so do our allies, the Betraskans. That means the Aurora Legion is suddenly involved. The resulting conflict could end up sucking in every sentient race in the galaxy. And in that chaos, that carnage, that distraction, the Ra’haam will be left alone to gestate. Until it’s ready to hatch, erupting from its seed worlds through the nearby FoldGates.

Bloom and burst.

And then it has the galaxy.

“Saedii,” I gasp, my crotch still aching. “Don’t do this.”

“Be silent,” she says, not even sparing me a glance.

Her eyes are on a tactical display, now pulsing on the screen where the image of Princeps used to be. I can see the approaching Terran ships, two carriers laden with fighters, four destroyers armed to the teeth.

“They want you to shoot first,” I say, desperate now. “They want you to be the one who starts it. If you open fire on that fleet, it’ll shatter the neutrality between Syldrathi and Terrans, don’t you get it? It’ll mean we’re at war.”

She looks at me with those cold eyes.

“We are Warbreed, little Terran,” she says simply. “We were born for war.”

She presses the transmitter at her breast, and my heart sinks in my chest.

“Erien, notify the Neridaa that we are engaging hostile Terran forces.”

“At once, Templar.”

“Are weapons ready?”

“Awaiting your order, Templar.”

“Saedii, don’t!”

Her eyes narrow.

Her lips thin.

“Annihilate them,” she says.





14

KAL

The Andarael is a capital ship, crewed by over one thousand adepts, Paladins, dragoons, and support staff. So it is easy enough to avoid attention as we march toward the detention block. Zila shuffles before me through the ebb and flow, mag-restraints clasped but unlocked around her wrists. We receive the occasional glance, nothing more. But a part of me knows this subterfuge cannot last.

My chest is one dark bruise from the disruptor shot aboard the Totentanz. My ribs aching like white fire. The cigarillo case Adams gave me stopped the worst of the shot, but the Unbroken took the gift from me while I slumbered, and I have no idea where it is now. I suppose I may never know what was locked inside it. But regardless, I know it saved my life. I know we are part of a grand mystery here, decades or even centuries in the making.