Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle #2)(96)

They’re not my GIA.

You said this before. The independence of the Aurora Legion— Maker’s breath, I’m not talking about the Legion. I’m saying the GIA has been infiltrated, Saedii. For all I know, the entire Global Intelligence Agency is working against the interests of Earth. And the whole galaxy. And the TDF personnel aboard this ship are too well trained to question orders. Even suspect ones.

She blinks at that, mistrust plain in her eyes.

Infiltrated? By who?

Not who. What.

I wonder how much I should tell her. Wonder how much she’ll believe. The concept of the Ra’haam, its plan for the galaxy, might simply be too much for her to deal with. But from what Kal has said, the Syldrathi do still hold some belief in the Ancients, despite most of the rest of the galaxy thinking they’re a myth. And Saedii’s smart enough to know that something insane is going on here. I need this girl to trust me. I need us to start working together.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Or, if not my friend, maybe my ally long enough for us to get out of this.

Because sooner rather than later, we’re going to arrive at wherever they’re taking us. And if it’s one of those nursery planets, like I suspect, the Ra’haam will be able to infect us, just like they infected Cat and the Octavia III colonists. Dragging us into its hive mind, absorbing all we are and all we know.

I’m not sure how those corrupted GIA agents are going to explain it to the TDF crew aboard this ship … unless they’re planning to infect everybody aboard?

Maybe the Ra’haam is that confident.

Maybe it’s that desperate, with Auri on the loose out there.

Maybe we’ve tipped its hand.

Maybe they found the Weapon… .

I feel my jaw clench, a flood of adrenaline rush through my gut. And, dragging my hand back through my mop of blond, I meet Saedii’s eyes.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Okay, you better get comfortable. This is going to be a lot to swallow.





28

SCARLETT

“Finian, Zila, are you reading me?”

I’m sitting on the Zero’s bridge, looking at the frantic readings and flashy lights on the pilot’s console as the whole ship shakes around me. Things cannot be said, by any measure, to be going well. In fact, we’re very possibly about to die. The only thing bringing me any sort of calm is the electropop thumping over the chaos—I discovered how to hook my uni into the bridge PA four hours ago, and Brittneee Vox’s latest single, “Get It,” is playing on repeat and I know I’m an atheist and very possibly about to perish in the middle of an uncharted spatial anomaly, but MAKER’S BREATH I LOVE THIS SONNGGGGG.

Before you get all judgy with me, I just want you to know I am the galaxy’s worst pilot. I have no more business sitting in this chair than the Great Ultrasaur of Abraaxis IV has getting a pedicure. Some people are born to fly, is what I’m saying. I was born to be flown. Preferably first class, with a criminally handsome flight attendant named Julio waiting on me hand and foot.

The ship shakes again. Harder this time.

Over the PA, Brittneee requests that I come Get It. No points for guessing what It is. This song is a lot of things, but subtle isn’t one of them.

“Um, Finian?” I ask into comms again. “Zila?”

I mean, I dated an Ace briefly in second year—my first foray into the high-ego, yeah-we-know-we’re-hot-but-you-know-it-too world of space pilots that Cat swam in so easily. (Kyle Reznor. Ex-boyfriend #19. Pros: Amazing kisser. Cons: Constant cockpit jokes.) I know enough about flying to apparently have not gotten us killed on the way here, but honestly, I’ve spent more time in a pilot’s chair since escaping the Andarael than I have in the rest of my life combined.

Information is scrolling down the screens, disconcerting words like SPATIAL DISTORTION, PROXIMITY ALERT, and EXTREME DANGER. The bridge lights are all gray because we’re still Folding, but they’re flashing really fast, and the ALERTs popping up on my screens are all helpfully labeled as RED, and I know that any one of these things is usually not good, but I’m afraid if I touch anything I’ll make it worse.

The ship shakes again as if to agree with me.

In sultry tones, Brittneee asks if I really Want It.

“Finian?” I ask, tapping comms again. “Zilaaaaa?”

I look up at Shamrock, sitting above the pilot’s console. The dragon peers at me with his black button eyes. He says nothing because he’s a stuffed toy but …

“I can feel you judging me,” I tell him.

“Scar?”

I hear the note of panic in Fin’s voice, swivel in the chair to face him.

“Hiiiii, Finian.”

He looks at the readouts behind me, eyes wide. “What did you do?”

“I flew in the direction of the probe trail like I was supposed to.”

“Yeah, but …” His eyes grow wider at the sight on the central monitor. “Maker’s breath, what is THAT?”

Up on the console, rendered in high-def, is a holographic image of the … well, I’ve got no damn idea what it is, honestly. It’s about a thousand kilometers across, which sounds big until you sit through a three-hour astrometrics lecture on how brain-breakingly big space actually is. It sort of looks like a whirlpool—strange, multicolored-gray energy spinning in an endless spiral. It’s very pretty. But judging by the fit my controls are throwing, it’s also very dangerous.