Aurora Rising (The Aurora Cycle #1)(31)

His blood.

I can see it in my head.

Clear as the walls around me.

My hands in front of me.

And I know I can change it.

The cargo bay is suddenly lit by a flickering white light. I throw my hand up. And though I’m nowhere near her, Aedra goes flying backward. She slams into the wall, arms spread wide. As she crumples to the ground, a searing pain cuts through my right eye, lancing into my head. It’s like a clamp around my temples, like it’s squeezing, squeezing, and as I curl in on myself, my scream drowned out by the grinding metal of the cargo bay doors being cut open, blood drips from my nose again. Warm and salty on my lips, spattering on the metal at my feet.

And Kal’s in front of me, his lips moving, his stare locked on my own.

“Spirits of the Void,” he breathes. “Your eye …”





10


    Finian




The radio’s a low murmur in my ears as I wrestle with this hunk of junk’s systems. Somewhere off to my left Zila is silently working on improving our comms range, and I’m locked in my own private battle with a computer grid that’s older and uglier than my third grandfather. If this piece of chakk station was going to screw me this bad, it should have bought me dinner first.

The Unbroken have their docking clamps in place, and they’re cutting through the outer hull now. If I can’t find a way to divert their attention away from making a new door through to the cargo bay, Zila and I are in line for a sudden—and probably very brief—promotion.

“The Maker better take into account that we died on a mercy mission.” I plug my uniglass into a port, praying it’s not too modern to interface with this pile of nuts and bolts. “Because I’m going to need a place to hide when my grandparents reach the afterlife. I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

Zila doesn’t reply, and when I glance over, she’s got that blank stare of hers fixed on her screen, as if she didn’t hear me at all.

“My parents are dead,” she says flatly.

Well.

That kills the conversation deader than we’re about to be.

I don’t get this girl. I don’t get what makes that big brain of hers work or what the hells she’s doing here or how she can remain calm when we’re all about to become corpsicles floating in space.

And see, this is our problem. Right here. None of us are actually bad at what we do. Individually, we have the goods, at least on paper. It’s just that half of us didn’t volunteer to be here, and the other half doesn’t have anywhere else to be. We should never have been drafted into the same squad.

We just don’t … click.

I actually didn’t think I’d be the last Gearhead picked, to be honest.

They all pretend the exosuit isn’t an issue, but I know it is. It always has been. When people look at me, it’s the first thing they see. Still, I’m damn good at what I do, so it was a kick when the incompetents were picked before I was. Gearheads who couldn’t count past ten without taking their socks off got a gig, and I was left standing there with my tool in my hand.

Alone.

I was sent away from home when I was six years old—they said it would be easier on an orbital station with my grandparents. I could sleep in low grav there, have access to the best doctors. What they meant was that it would be easier for everybody else. You’d think I’d have learned to lower my expectations by now.

Not that I’ll be moping about that—or anything—much longer.

My uniglass does the job, and a virtual screen springs up above the console. The rush of relief is like a drug. This is what I’m good at. Not people. This.

I step back and lift both my hands like I’m conducting an orchestra, burrowing my way into layer upon layer of ancient maintenance algorithms. I crunch them in my fist, sweeping aside safety protocols and delivering a surge of power to the couplings holding the Syldrathi shuttle in place. I hear a faint second hand scream through Tyler’s uni, and the nerve-jangling sound of the plasma cutters abruptly halts. That’ll buy us thirty seconds.

I plunge into the dizzying mess of code for round two. I deliver a second shock to the couplings, but the Syldrathi techs are onto me now. Dismissing the display with a sweep of my hand, I ease my weight back onto my heels, my suit hissing softly as it compensates.

Maybe I can mess with their readings, make their computer think there’s not enough atmosphere inside the cargo bay to equalize pressure. That’s going to require something more hands-on.

I pop a multi-tool out from where it nests in the warm curve of metal at my ribs, yanking the cover off my bank of computers so I can crawl inside. I really hope my suit stays grounded, or I’m going to fry myself. But even if this works, I know I can’t do it forever. And my hands are shaking. Usually they’re fine, especially with the tiny lines of stimulators that run down to my fingertips—it’s my legs that need the most help, my knee extension and my hips.

But pump enough adrenaline through me and everything gets tougher, and right now, adrenaline’s not in short supply. In my mind’s eye, I can see the Unbroken Syldrathi bursting into the cargo bay, eating my team for dinner before heading up here for dessert.

Will I hold my nerve long enough to face them?

Or will I hide so they have to drag me out?