Aurora's End (The Aurora Cycle #3)(4)

“Yeah, I know. But on Terra we call it déjà vu. It’s French.”

“I don’t know any French.”

“Stick around,” I wink. “I’ll teach you some.”

Zila’s voice breaks over comms again, laced with urgency. “Scarlett, please hurry to the bridge. Diplomacies are required.”

And again, I’m struck with that feeling. That we’ve said, done, lived this moment before. And more, that it ended really, really badly. I hold out my hand, and Fin takes it without thinking, and we’re running up the corridor together. Fin’s exosuit seethes and hisses as we sprint, boots pounding the metal as we take the stairs up to the cockpit.

Zila is seated in the pilot’s chair, looking slightly frazzled, which for her almost constitutes a complete nervous breakdown. At first glance, our vis-systems all look dead—nothing but blackness on any of our viewscreens. No planets, not even any stars, which is kinda—

No, hold up. Some cams are still online at least. I can see a small, dumpy-looking space station on one viewscreen, trailing a heavy cable out into that otherwise perfect darkness.

This makes no sense… .

We were in the middle of a massive space battle on the edge of Terran space a few minutes ago. Where did the fleets go? Where did this station come from? And why aren’t there any stars out there?

Zila meets my eyes as I look to her for explanation, and I know it sounds insane, but a part of me knows knows KNOWS …

“I take it you are also experiencing a sensation that suggests this moment is repeating itself,” she says.

“It’s French!” Finian declares.

A pulse of light flares on the viewscreens. It’s dim, deep mauve, only a few seconds long. But my stomach does an ugly little flip as I realize it’s not just darkness out there. There’s some kind of … storm happening. A greasy, rolling collision of dark tendrils, so big it almost breaks my brain.

Fin blinks. “Is that … ?”

“A dark matter tempest,” Zila murmurs. “Yes.”

I glance to the commscreen, the taste of burned metal on my tongue, luminous Syldrathi script crawling across the readouts. I can see the features of what’s definitely a Terran on the monitor—female, young—but her face is mostly obscured by a pilot’s breather and helmet. She has two diamond insignia on her collar marking her as a lieutenant, but that’s definitely not a Terran Defense Force uniform she’s wearing. My first impression is she’s a 17th-level badass. But her voice sounds just a tiiiiiiny bit uncertain.

“Listen … you need to identify yourself and provide clearance codes. You have ten seconds.”

Technically, Squad 312 is wanted for galactic terrorism, so I decide to get a little blurry on the whole “Identify Yourself” thing. I brush my hair back, conjure a smooth demeanor from my bag of tricks, and purr into the microphone.

“I cannot tell you how good it is to see you, Lieutenant! We thought we were in big trouble. Our ship is damaged, our engines are offline, and we’re in need of your assistance, over.”

“This is a restricted area,” the pilot replies, still a touch shaky. “How did you get here? And what the hell are you flying?”

“It’s a really long story, Lieutenant,” I smile, warm and friendly. “But our life-support situation isn’t exactly puppies and sunshine over here, so if you could offer us a tow, I can buy you a drink and tell you all about it.”

A long pause follows, my jaw clenched.

“All right,” the pilot finally declares. “I’m going to fire you a tow cable and bring you into dock. But you make any wrong moves, I will blast your asses across the system without even thinking twice about it.”

I smile. “That is great news, Lieutenant.”

“Thank youuuu!” Finian pops up behind me and waves. “You are as wise as you are beautiful, madam!”

The pilot’s voice turns to ice. What little I can see of her expression hardens to stone. “You have a goddamn Betraskan on board?”

All around us, alarms flare into life, red lights flashing and Syldrathi symbols illuminating, and a loudspeaker barks.

“WARNING, WARNING: MISSILE LOCK DETECTED.”

A tiny line of light appears on our scanners. I look to the others, helpless, wild. We have no engines. No navigation. No defenses.

“Oh shit … ,” I breathe.

“Scar … ,” Fin whispers.

The light draws closer. Our fingers touch.

“Do not be afraid,” Zila frowns. “It does not hurt much.”

“… What?” I ask.

The missile strikes.

Fire tears through the bridge.

BOOM.





2.2



SCARLETT





Black light burns white across my skin. I can taste the sound around me, metallic on the back of my tongue, hearing touch and feeling scent as everything I am and was and will ever be rips itself apart and together and together and togeth—

“Scar?”

I open my eyes, see another pair of eyes before mine.

Big.

Black.

Pretty.

Finian.

“Did you … ?” I ask.

“Was that … ?” Fin says.