Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle #2)(59)

Despite their confusion, Saedii’s crew is well trained. The sentinels break into action, some talking into comms units, others drawing weapons. Two march off immediately toward the launch bays. Several others gather around the warden’s desk, looking in cold disbelief at his displays. I can see six Terran vessels inbound on our position. Four destroyers. Two heavy carriers, bristling with fighter wings.

A force like that could tackle even a ship as imposing as Andarael.

If they dared attack her …

They might actually defeat her.

From the corner of my eye, I see Zila slip a uniglass from inside her sleeve and pass it to Finian. Our Gearhead turns away from the door, unnoticed amid the sudden clamor, and works feverishly on the small, glowing screen.

I see Zila’s hand sliding beneath her tunic to her hidden disruptor pistol.

I steal up to the closest sentinel.

“RED ALERT,” the PA calls. “RED ALERT. MISSILES INBOUND. DECOYS ENGAGED. ALL HANDS, BRACE. FIGHTER WINGS, LAUNCH.”

Finian meets my eyes and nods. The Andarael shifts beneath us as the helm engages in evasive maneuvers. I hear the thunder of her engines, the dull thudthudthud as her pulse weapons open up. The Enemy Within surges against the prison of my ribs, longing for bloodshed. He wants to be out there with his brothers and sisters, wading through the black and the red, reveling in the taste of salt and smoke, dancing the dance of blood.

But we can dance in here well enough.

I unsling my disruptor rifle and unload four shots into the heads of the sentinels closest to me.

Finian’s fingers blur on his uniglass, and the punishment field around their cell finally drops.

Zila surges out the door, firing rapidly and taking another sentinel down with a shot to the spine.

I toss my rifle to Scarlett, draw the blades from my back. She catches the weapon and the air is filled with disruptor fire: Scarlett’s haphazard blasting, Zila’s more refined bursts.

The adepts are caught flat-footed, some scattering for cover, others turning toward me, and then I am weaving, slicing, swaying, as the deck rolls beneath me, as the alarms continue to sing, as the thing I do not wish to be roars to my surface. I can feel my father’s hand on my arm, guiding my strikes as he trains Saedii and me in the days before our family collapsed, before our world perished.

Another warrior falls beneath my blades. I taste blood on my tongue. A disruptor shot strikes me in the shoulder and one of my blades sails free from my open hand. A shot from Zila stops the follow-through and I strike back despite my pain, slicing into my foe’s throat, fountains of dark gore painting the ceiling, the walls, my hands, and my face.

Show them who you are, Kaliis.

Show them what you are.

I am nothing then. No thought. Just motion. Lost in the moment, the hymn, the hypnotic, dizzying dance of blood. And when the music is brought to a sudden halt, when a bone-jarring impact to the Andarael’s hull drags me out of the trance, I look around and see what I have wrought.

Nine bodies. Nine men and women, once alive and breathing and now nothing but cooling meat. I feel elation. Revulsion. Feel the pounding of my pulse in my ears and smell the stink of the blood on my hands.

This is who you are, Kaliis, the Enemy Within whispers.

You were born for war.

I’na Sai’nuit.

The Enemy retreats as the Andarael shudders, heavy impacts ringing on her hull as the alarms continue to scream. I look at Scarlett picking herself up off the deck, at Finian struggling to rise from where he fell. I can see the horror in their eyes at the carnage I have created. Zila is more pragmatic, but still, I can sense a shadow over her as she surveys the blood-slick floor, the bodies. I can feel the fear in them. Of what I am and what I do. But none of it truly matters.

Because it is all for her.

Aurora.

I take a passkey from a fallen sentinel, deactivate the punishment field on her cell. She looks beautiful as ever, eyes closed in slumber, curls of black and white framing her fluttering eyelids.

As I unlock her restraints, Zila slips into the cell beside me. She takes a quick reading with her uniglass, peels off the dermal patch at my be’shmai’s wrist. Producing the medical supplies she stole from the infirmary, she presses an air-hypodermic to Aurora’s throat.

“She is heavily sedated,” Zila reports. “It will take her some ti—”

“I will carry her,” I say, sweeping her up into my arms. “We must move.”

“Your shoulder,” Zila objects. “You are w—”

“I am well,” I say, striding out of the cell. “We must go. Now.”

“What’s the plan?” Scarlett asks.

Another impact rocks the Andarael, then another. I glance to the warden’s terminal, see images of the Fold outside. The colorscape is black and white, but the waters are still red. Three of the Terran destroyers have been incinerated, and one of their carriers is incapacitated. The Unbroken are fighting fearlessly. Brilliantly. But still, the battle is going badly for Andarael. The void is swarming with fighters—the snub-nosed, bulldog shapes of Terran mustangs and the bladelike silhouettes of Syldrathi corvettes—weaving in and out of the swelling firestorm. Andarael’s defense grid has been smashed; Terran missiles are now pummeling her hull. Another impact rocks us, sparks bursting from the instrumentation, alarms screaming.

“BREACHING PODS EN ROUTE FROM TERRAN CARRIER,” the PA calls. “ALL HANDS, PREPARE TO REPEL BOARDERS.”