Aurora Rising (The Aurora Cycle #1)(13)

He’s gonna be trouble.

We file out of the briefing room, into the corridor beyond. Cat is chatting to Tyler about tomorrow’s briefing, wondering which sector we might be assigned to. Zila and Finian follow quietly. I’m walking in front, uniglass in hand, shooting a query to our missing squad mate. So I’m kinda surprised when a hundred kilos of bleeding boyflesh crashes into my chest.“Scar!” Tyler shouts.

We hit the floor. Boyflesh is sprawled on top of me in a decidedly unflattering pose and I’m starting to regret the five centimeters missing off my hemline.

“Ow?”

Ty moves to haul the lump off me, but the guy’s already up and charging down the corridor, back toward the knock-’em-down, punch-’em-out brawl he came from.

“You’re gonna pay for that, pixie,” Boyflesh growls.

There’s five of them slugging it out at the end of the hall. All young. The red stripes on their uniforms mark them all as Tanks. Four are Terran—the kind of burly lumps you’d expect to find in the academy’s Combat Division. The fifth Tank is taller. Agile and lithe. He has olive skin and his long ears taper to gentle points. Silver hair is tied back from his face in five long braids, spilling down over his shoulders. His eyes are the kind of violet you only read about in stories, and his cheekbones are sharp enough to cut your fingertips on, and I realize he’d be beautiful if it wasn’t for the blood spattered on his fists and face.

Still, there aren’t many in the academy, so it doesn’t take long to realize …

He’s Syldrathi.

“Ne’lada vo esh,” he says calmly, raising his bloody hands.

“Speak Terran, pixieboy!”

One of the Terrans aims a punch at the Syldrathi’s head, and I realize the fight is four on one. The Syldrathi easily blocks the strike, locks up his attacker’s arm with the kind of crunch you never want to hear your own elbow make, flinging him at a girl built like an armored troop carrier and sending them both tumbling.

“Esh,” he says, backing up a step. “Esh ta.”

“Hey!” Tyler shouts in his best voice of authority. “Knock it off!”

Tyler’s voice of authority is pretty good, but nobody listens. The Syldrathi takes a punch to his jaw, lashes out with his fingertips into his assailant’s throat. The guy drops with a gurgle, and in a move that makes even Cat wince, the Syldrathi stomps him right in the fun factory, eliciting a high-pitched scream. His face totally serene, the Syldrathi weaves below a punch, drops another cadet with a kick to his knee. And even though it’s four to one, I start to realize …

“Maker’s breath,” Cat murmurs. “He’s winning.”

Syldrathi boy gets smashed against the bulkhead, opening up his brow. Dark purple blood spills down his face. He strikes back, moving like he’s dancing, those long silver braids streaming out behind him. Tyler roars, “Break it up!” and wades in, pulling one of the bleeding Terrans back. Never one to miss a brawl, Cat jumps in as Finian helps me to my feet.

“Well, it’s nice to know station security are on the job,” he says cheerfully.

The brawl dissolves into chaos, flying fists, and bilingual curses. The Syldrathi drops the last Terran with a flurry of strikes to his face, chest, groin, and as the guy falls, Tyler claps a hand on the taller boy’s shoulder. It’s a rare mistake on my baby brother’s part—Syldrathi don’t like to be touched without permission, as a general rule.

“Hey, ease up!”

Three things happen pretty much simultaneously here.

First up, station security finally arrive. They’re kitted in AL tac armor and armed with stun batons—affectionately known as “sicksticks,” since you tend to puke when you get shocked with one.

Second, the Syldrathi punches Ty right in the face. Ty’s eyes widen in surprise, and as I shout a warning, he tackles the Syldrathi to the ground in retaliation. The pair go at it, the Syldrathi trying to knock Tyler out of his not-so-shiny boots, and my brother trying to lock him up while shouting, “At ease! At ease, Maker’s sake!”

And third, beneath the blood, I finally recognize the Syldrathi’s face.

“Oh, this is not good,” I whisper.

“I dunno.” Finian smiles, first studying the Syldrathi, then taking a look at me. “Looks pretty good from here.”

“Oh, please,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

The SecTeam guys hit everyone moving with their sicksticks. Copious vomiting ensues. As Cat protests, security starts slapping combatants in mag-restraints. Finian doesn’t move from my side, and Zila stands behind us, watching with a blank expression as the team gets ready to haul everyone off to the brig.

But, holding my bruised ribs, I step forward with my best smile to diffuse things. I didn’t spend my diplomacy classes sleeping, after all.

(I took my afternoon nap in Astrometrics instead.)

“Hey, Mr. Sanderson.” I smile.

The SecTeam leader glances up from securing Tyler.

“I mean, Lieutenant Sanderson,” I say, smiling wider.

“Well, well. Scarlett Jones. Should’ve known you’d be caught up in this.”

“Are you implying I’m a troublemaker, Lieutenant?” I put a hand on my hip and pout. “Because I’m offended.”

Relax, it’s not what you’re thinking.