Aurora Rising (The Aurora Cycle #1)(66)

Aurora stares. Her whisper’s almost too soft to hear.

“Yes.”

She drags her eyes away from the screen, over to Tyler.

“I don’t know how I know. But I know. That’s why we’re here. …”

“Okay.” Tyler nods, staring at the sculpture. “Give us the bad news, Finian.”

“I never said I had bad news,” our Gearhead replies, tapping on his keyboard. “I said I had absolutely terrible news.”

“Maker’s breath,” I sigh. “Just spit it out, will you?”

Finian blows me a kiss and moves his fingers, pulling our image to a wider shot. I can see a large circular room, decked in fancy furnishings. Huge glass windows look out into what seems to be some kind of jungle. Dozens of glass cases and cabinets are arranged around the space, picked out with warm spotlights and filled with strange objects. Some are sleek and elegant, others twisted and shimmering. But all of them are pretty.

“This is Casseldon Bianchi’s office,” Finian explains. “It’s in the heart of his estate. It’s protected by the kind of security that’d wake a career criminal screaming in the night. Temperature-responsive scanners. Genetic sensors. Pressure floors reading off micro-changes in air density. And even assuming you could fool those measures, there’s only one door in or out. And there’s only one key. Which as far as I can tell, hangs around Bianchi’s neck at all times.”

Finian flips to a picture of Bianchi dressed in a sharp suit, unveiling some piece of exotic sculpture in his museum. His grin is a row of dazzling white fangs. Around his neck, I can see a digital passkey hanging on a platinum chain.

“Polymorphic, gene-coded, sixty-four-digit encryption,” Finian says.

“Sounds complicated,” Tyler says.

“Complicated doesn’t even begin to describe it. His office is going to be harder to get into than my date’s boxer shorts at last Genesis Day Ball.”

“Is there any way in at all?” Tyler asks.

“I honestly don’t know,” Finian sighs. “I tried poetry, I tried flowers, I—”

“I’m talking about the office, Fin. What about air vents?”

Our Gearhead shakes his head, pulling up the picture of the office again. “The vents are three centimeters wide at best. And ion shielded. So unless you’re planning on losing a lot of weight …”

“What about those huge windows?” I point out.

“They’re not windows, they’re walls,” Finian replies, swiveling three-sixty in his chair again. “Whole office in enclosed in transparent polarized silicon.”

“Why?”

“Bianchi buys trinkets and artifacts from all over the galaxy. But his main interest is in exotic life-forms. He’s got over ten thousand species in his menagerie, according to this interview I read in last month’s Galactic Gentleman.”

“People still subscribe to Galactic Gentleman?” Scarlett asks, eyebrow raised.

“I mean, I’d heard rumors … ,” I mutter.

“I buy it for the articles. Anyway, Bianchi’s office …” Finian’s fingers dance, and the projection on the wall shifts to a schematic. “Sits right at the heart of his menagerie. And surrounding his office is the cage for his most prized exhibit.”

“Please tell me it’s a small, friendly terrier named Lord Woofsly,” Tyler sighs.

“Close, Goldenboy,” Finian says, flipping his display again. “Very close.”

Projected on the wall is the most horrific … thing … I’ve ever seen. And as of one eye-gougingly accidental encounter outside the shower this morning, I’ve seen Dariel de Vinner de Seel in his underwear.

The beast is all razored teeth and lurid green eyes and rippling muscle. Its claws are broadswords and its hide is horned and armored, and it’s making a shrieking, metallic noise—like two chainsaws trying to have sex.

“Fellow Legionnaires, may I present the pride of Casseldon Bianchi’s menagerie,” Finian says. “The Great Ultrasaur of Abraaxis IV.”

“Amna diir,” Kal breathes, his usually cool facade cracking just a little.

“You said it, Pixieboy.” Finian nods. “I mean, I have no idea what you said, but yeah, you said it. Rumor has it Bianchi paid his fourth testicle to get his hands on this thing.”

“Why do they call it the great ultrasaur?” Aurora asks. “Does it have, like, excellent penmanship skills or something?”

“It’s the last one of its kind in the whole galaxy.” Fin shrugs.

“What happened to the rest of them?”

“This one killed them,” the Betraskan replies simply. “It’s the last of its kind because it literally ate all the others.”

The girl blinks. “Holy cake, it what?”

“Yeah, ultrasaurs are the most infamously hostile species in the ’Way,” Finian says, running one hand through white hair, leaving it more spiked than before. “They killed every living thing on Abraaxis IV. And when they ran out of things to kill, they killed each other.”

“Evolutionarily speaking, that makes very little sense,” Zila points out.

“Makes perfect sense to me,” Finian shrugs. “People do it all the time.”