Aurora's End (The Aurora Cycle #3)(53)

“I have not encountered a hallabong before. But I enjoy citrus.”

“What about the rest of it?” she asks softly.

“The rest of it?”

“Family? Somewhere you’ve been? I’ve talked about me, what about you, Futuregirl?”

“WARNING: RADIATION DETECTED ON DECK 13, ALL DECK 13 STAFF PROCEED FOR IMMEDIATE DECONTAMINATION PROCEDURES.”

“I can offer only disappointment, I am afraid.” I switch my attention to a new set of entries, intrigued by the methods used in the scientists’ attempts to power up the crystal. “I grew up in state care with no family members. And I have not taken a vacation.”

She blinks. “What, ever?”

I shrug. “It was more fruitful to spend my academy leave studying.”

We are both silent after that, and I choose to devote the better part of my attention to the results of the power cycle experiments.

“Were you … always in state care?” she asks eventually, quieter now. Gentler. “Is that common, in the future? I mean, you don’t have to talk about it. If you don’t want.”

I hesitate, which is uncharacteristic. “It is not common,” I say after a while. I am about to continue, to inform her that I do not wish to speak of the experience, when I look across at her.

Our eyes meet.

“Perhaps we can speak of it during another loop,” I say instead.

She smiles, and in that moment there is something so familiar about her that my attention is caught entirely.

I feel my mind trying to switch gears, to fire up the search routines that will help me match her to some memory or experience that explains this familiarity. But I do not have time to study her smile, her eyes. I clear my throat, turning back to my console.

“You want to hear some more ancient history while you work?” she asks. “Or am I distracting you?”

“Both,” I realize.

As she keeps speaking, I let myself sink into her voice, and into the lines of data before me. Unless we find a way to break out of this loop, this will be my life. This will be my day.

Over, and over, and over again.

This will be my home.

“I think I—”

The loudspeaker cuts me off.

“WARNING: CONTAINMENT CASCADE IN EFFECT. CORE IMPLOSION IMMINENT, T MINUS THREE MINUTES AND COUNTING. ALL HANDS PROCEED TO EVACUATION PODS IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: CORE IMPLOSION IN THREE MINUTES AND COUNTING.”

And there it is.

The end of the loop.

We will always have the next one, I suppose.

I glance at the timer on my wrist, then fall still.

I feel a small furrow forming in my brow.

Nari tilts her head. “Zila?”

I must have miscalculated earlier. I told Finian and Scarlett the core overloaded fifty-eight minutes after the quantum lightning strike. Usually I am right. But it has only been fifty-one minutes… .

I must be tired. I did not sleep when the others did.

I do not speak of my mistake.

Instead, I finish what work I can, committing as much of the data to memory as possible. Nari watches me from the window, the starlight glowing on her skin. And finally, when there are only moments left, I rise to my feet, ready to meet what is coming. “I will see you soon, Nari.”

“WARNING: CORE IMPLOSION IMMINENT, T MINUS THIRTY SECONDS. ALL HANDS EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: CORE IMPLOSION IN THIRTY SECONDS.”

“I hate this part,” she admits.

I meet her eyes again and, without knowing why my instinct is to comfort her, reply, “You are not alone.”

She takes a step toward me.

Her eyes are very pretty.

“WARNING: CORE IMPLOSION IMMINENT. FIVE SECONDS. WARNING.”

She is not tall.

“Zila, I know this is terrible timing, but I really think you’re—”

“WARNING.”

BOOM.





17



TYLER





There are advantages to being one of the galaxy’s most wanted criminals.

My whole life I played by the rules. Studied hard, worked harder, never really made time for trouble. But turning the collar of my long black coat up against the chill, pulling up my hood, and stepping into the bar, much as I hate to admit it, I kind of enjoy the feeling of being a wanted man.

The place is totally packed—freighter pilots and longhaul crews, gangsters and drug/sim/skin dealers, hundreds of faces, a dozen different races. Through the crowd, the Betraskan girl behind the bar gives me an appreciative smile, and the various lowlifes, scumbags, and villains I’ve scoped over the last day or two nod greeting or just cradle their drinks. But nobody messes with me, even in a place rough as this.

I’m a galactic terrorist, after all. An Aurora legionnaire gone rogue. A mass murderer, responsible for the deaths of hundreds of Syldrathi aboard Sagan Station, not to mention an Interdiction breach, a heist, a couple of explosions aboard Emerald City, and any number of other charges the GIA has drummed up against me.

That’s not the kind of guy you mess with head-on.

I belly up to the bar, drenched in the thumping beat of the deep dub, surrounded by glowing holos advertising the latest stimcasts, newsfeeds of distant battles, the growing pulse of the war that’s rising across the stars. Nobody seems particularly worried by it. Most of them aren’t even aware it’s happening. The girl behind the bar slides a glass of synth semptar down the polished plasteel at me. As I lift the glass, I see the coaster underneath has her palmglass number written on it.