Aurora Rising (The Aurora Cycle #1)(23)

“Squad 312, this is Aurora Flight Control, over.”

I tap my comms to reply. “This is Squad 312, over.”

“I have Aurora Command here for your Alpha, 312, over.”

I blink at that. Frown at Tyler as he taps the Receive button on his console.

“This is Legionnaire Jones.”

A holograph of Battle Leader de Stoy materializes above our displays. She’s in full dress uniform, hair drawn back in a harsh ponytail. I can see Admiral Adams standing beside her, also in dress, cybernetic arms folded over his barrel-broad, medal-studded chest, washed black and white and gray by the Fold.

Adams and Ty go way back. He and Ty’s dad were best friends back in their pilot days in the Terran Defense Force. Adams took Ty and Scar under his wing when their old man was killed. He and Ty go to chapel together every weekend, and Adams has always shown Tyler a little more attention than other cadets.

But still, I look into my Alpha’s eyes and see he’s just as confused as me.

“Good morning, Legionnaires.” Adams salutes.

We salute back and murmur our good mornings as de Stoy speaks.

“We wanted to wish you and your squad good hunting, Legionnaire Jones.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Tyler replies.

“This is your first step onto a much bigger stage,” Adams says. “The challenges that await you may be unlike any you’ve imagined. But we have every faith in your ability to see it through. No matter what may come. You must endure.” Adams looks directly at Ty as he speaks. “You must believe, Tyler.”

This is just weird. No matter how tight Adams and Ty might be, the senior brass don’t directly brief grunts like us. We’re so far down the chain of command we’re practically invisible, and this mission counts for nothing at all. But here’s both academy commanders, addressing us like we’re a First Class squad on a top-tier gig.

And then Adams looks directly at me, speaking the academy motto.

“We the Legion. We the light. Burning bright against the night.”

“… Yes sir,” I reply.

“Burn bright, Legionnaires,” de Stoy says. “The cargo you carry is more precious than any of you can know.”

“Maker be with you.” Adams nods.

“Um … ,” Tyler says. “Thank you, sir. Ma’am.”

Their images hang there a moment longer, like they’re trying to burn us into memory. I wonder what the hells is going on. But with a final salute, the projections fade, replaced with the rotating projection of Sagan station. We’re all staring at the place our commanders were a moment before, a little dumbfounded. And into the quiet, Zila Madran speaks a single word that sums all our feelings up spot-on.

“Odd …”

Tyler drags his hair back from his eyes, takes a seat. He’s all business once again, though I know he has to be asking himself the same questions I am.

“Right,” he says, leaning down to rub an imaginary scuff off his immaculate boot. “Kal, I want strategies if we come across hostile Syldrathi in the Neutral Zone. Scar, I want diplomacy options with the refugees. Zila and Finian, you’re studying Sagan’s systems. We have six hours. Let’s get to work.”

“What about me?” I ask.

Tyler glances at me and raises that scarred eyebrow and his lips curl in that infuriating bloody smile.

“Keep us flying, Zero.”

Just you and me, Tyler.

Staring at each other across that barroom table and all those empty glasses.

We’d known each other since we were five years old.

I turn to my controls, and plug in our course.

“Yes sir,” I sigh.

Best friends forever, right?





7


    Kal




The song is always the same.

It is two hours since we returned to realspace through the decrepit FoldGate near Sagan station. Ninety minutes since the Syldrathi refugees aboard began negotiations. One minute since Scarlett Jones finally broke the news that a member of the Warbreed Cabal was present aboard our ship. Ten seconds since Sagan’s defense grid locked missiles on us.

Humans are such fools.

Well-meaning fools, sometimes.

But fools, always.

“… And I respect that, sir,” Scarlett Jones is saying, trying to ignore the large missile lock flashing on our displays. “But Legionnaire Gilwraeth is our combat specialist. If we’re to fully examine your defenses—”

“No member of the Warbreed Cabal will set foot upon this station while I am First Walker!” comes the reply. “By the spirits of the Void, I vow it!”

I study the holographic projection Scarlett is speaking to. Taneth Lirael Ammar is an elderly man—at least two centuries by the look. His skin marred by faint wrinkles, the silver sheen in his hair is darkened by age, swept back from the small sigil of the Waywalker Cabal etched on his brow. The glyf reminds me of my mother. How far I am from home.

What is left of it, anyway.

It is often said other among other races that we Syldrathi are arrogant and aloof. That we hide our feelings behind walls of ice and stares of stone. But still, Taneth is clearly outraged at my presence. His violet eyes flash as he speaks, and a faint flush of anger shows at the tips of his tapered ears.