Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle #2)(88)

Do you?

“Yes!” I shout. “I hate feeling this way. But … it’s hard, Esh. It’s so hard. When I left for Octavia, I was supposed to wake up a couple of weeks later and start a new life. Instead, I slept two hundred years.” I paw at my eyes, angry at the tears, at myself. “And I know there are some things that are more important than one little Earth girl crying over her life, but maybe you could ease off just a little.” I look up at those rainbow eyes, accusation in my own. “Because everything I’ve lost is because of you.”

It stands there, glittering in the light. I can feel it’s almost … angry with me.

We understand what we ask you to give up. But the galaxy is at stake.

“I know that!”

Thousands of inhabited worlds. Billions upon billions of souls. All of it shall be consumed if the Ra’haam is allowed to bloom.

“I know that too!” I cry, climbing to my feet. “I’m not an idiot, Esh. I know!”

And yet you refuse. To let go. To burn. You are the Trigger, Aurora Jie-Lin O’Malley. You are the power of the Eshvaren made manifest. And if you do not let go of the obstacles that hold you back, then you will fail.

“But how?” I ask.

Do you wish it? Esh asks.

I look up at the rose-colored sky above my head. The billion suns waiting beyond. I think about everything that hangs in the balance. The lives of all those strangers, the lives of all my friends. All that will be lost if I stumble here.

All my life, I wanted to be an explorer. To see and do things most people only dreamed of. To take myself to the very edge. That’s why I trained in cartography, why I sacrificed so much to get onto the Octavia mission in the first place, that mission that somehow, two centuries later, has led me right here.

To this edge.

“Yes,” I hear myself say.

Truly?

“Yes!”

Then close your eyes.

And so I do.

I find myself in a white room, afternoon sun shining through broad glass windows. I realize I’m standing in one of the dozen kitchens my family had as we bounced around the world in preparation for the Octavia mission. And then I feel a flood of sudden pressure in my chest, a rush of joy and heartache and love as I see her, right there, close enough for me to reach out and touch.

“Mom … ,” I whisper.

She looks up and gives me one of her smiles—the ones that made me feel like everything was all right in the world. And looking around the room, letting the scene soak into me, I realize that I’ve been here before. That this isn’t just a place from my memories—this is a particular night I already lived.

It was my father’s birthday. Mom was chopping vegetables for his favorite dish from her side of the family: a thick brown stew full of carrots and potatoes, lamb and barley. I was measuring out tapioca starch for his favorite fresh rice noodles.

I was about thirteen, and she and I didn’t always get along by then. I’d already decided I wanted to try out for Octavia. My mom said it was too soon to be making life decisions like that. And I ache at the memory of the fights we had about it, the time we wasted on struggling over something so small.

Now I watch her quick, capable hands as she works, her familiar wedding ring. When this night really happened, all those centuries ago, we just sang and cooked and talked about one of my homework assignments until the others got home. But now, I know, I can divert the vision if I want to, as long as I don’t push it too far.

And I do want to. Badly.

So I tell the home system to turn down the music, and I lean into Mom’s side, rest my head against her shoulder. She wraps an arm around me and gives me a squeeze. It’s so familiar, the softness of her so perfect, that I feel tears in my eyes.

“What is it, Auri J?” she asks, pressing a kiss to my hair.

I’m quiet as I consider what it is I want to say to her. I know I can’t tell her what’s happened—it will break the illusion, the shape of what this place is. But I know I can come close.

“I guess I’m just thinking about some of my friends at my old schools,” I say.

“Oh?”

I suck on my lower lip. “I mean, I know we always move, but some of them … I think they were planning on having me around a lot longer, you know? I think they felt like they could count on me for things, and now I’m not there anymore.”

“Oh, my Aurora.” She turns to me, tucks me under her chin. Soon I’ll be too tall for that. “You’ve always taken your responsibilities so seriously. I respect that about you very much. And I know it’s hard to move on. But we can’t hold ourselves in place forever, darling, not for anyone. Life is for living. The ones you left behind will be all right, I promise. The ones you leave behind in the future will be all right too, even if you make it all the way to another planet.”

“But some people depend on us,” I say.

“Well, it’s true that they do,” she says. “But you’ll have lots of adventures in the future, and goodbyes will come with lots of them. The ones who love you will take pride in sending you on those adventures, I promise.”

I ease back enough to look up at her, my eyes aching.

“I love you, Mom,” I say, and she looks down at me with all the love in the world written on her face, in the tender curve of her mouth.