Aurora's End (The Aurora Cycle #3)(68)

“Understood,” I smile. “You folks have a better one. 303, out.”

Perfect.

Better than I hoped, in fact. The main hangars are obviously full of governmental envoy ships. With the station this busy and with the help of Cohen’s passcodes, I can slip through undetected, log in to the station’s network as soon as I dock, and warn Admiral Adams with time to spare.

Well … that’s the plan, anyway.

I look across the glittering silver spires of Aurora Station, marveling at the fleets gathered here. Beautiful and sleek, hulking and huge, hundreds of designs, all moving through the dark like they’re dancing. I’ve always loved starships, and I can’t help but smile at the sight. But my stomach sinks as I spot a group of familiar shapes silhouetted against the Aurora star—a Reaper-class carrier, supported by half a dozen heavy destroyers.

It’s the delegation from Earth. Probably Prime Minister Ilyasova herself, dutifully escorted by the Terran Defense Force.

I feel more than a little crushed at the sight of them. My dad devoted his life to protecting our planet—first as a member of the TDF, then in the Terran Senate. I signed up for the Aurora Legion because I wanted to give my life to the same cause. And now my own government thinks I’m a traitor.

The thought that they’d shoot me on sight leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

I bring the Longbow into the bay, through the slow ballet of other Legion ships, alien vessels, loaders, SecDrones, autolifters, skiffs. Even this far from the main hangars, the place is a madhouse. Busier than I’ve ever seen. It’s a little tricky to navigate, truth be told.

I wish Cat was here… .

I suddenly realize that the last time I saw this station was when we left on our first mission. All of us together. Squad 312 forever. It seems so long ago now. So far away. But I push aside thoughts of my friends, my sister, all I’ve lost. Focus on what I need to do. Because Maker knows they’d want me to.

They all gave up so much—gave everything—to get me this far. And I’m not gonna fail them.

My Longbow comes into berth, umbilicals and docking clamps snaking out from the airlock to secure my ship. Hardline cables plug into the ’Bow’s computer system, downloading trip data and logs. And after a forty-eight-hour Fold, a few cases of assault against fellow legionnaires, misappropriation of Legion resources, deprivation of liberty, and one count of what is definitely galactic piracy, I’m finally in the station network.

Like I say: hell of a lot of trouble just to make a phone call.

But hey, I’m a pirate now.

Yarrrrr.

I know the admiral’s private uniglass number by heart. It’s only accessible via the Aurora Legion network aboard the station. It’s for senior command members and his closest friends within the Legion. And for his friend’s son—the boy he mentored all through his years at the academy.

I must have dialed him a thousand times, for advice, for a debrief, for a game of chess. He and my dad served in the TDF together, and he looked in on me like Dad would have wanted him to. We went to chapel together every Sunday for years. And somehow, for some reason, he’s the one who put me on this path, who put Aurora O’Malley on my ship, who left those gifts for us in the Dominion vault on Emerald City.

My hands are still shaking as I punch the numbers into the station comms system, staring at my reflection in the glass monitors. Adams and de Stoy know something about the Ra’haam, the Eshvaren, all of this—at times, it seemed they knew what was coming before it actually happened. And yet, if my vision is true, somehow they don’t know the Ra’haam plans to blow up this academy and the entire Galactic Caucus aboard it.

The vidcall connects. My heart lurches as the admiral’s face appears on the screen—heavy jaw, scarred cheek, salt-and-pepper hair shorn to stubble.

“Admiral—”

“Hello, you’ve reached the private number of Seph Adams. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to answer. Please leave your details and I’ll get back to you.”

CLICK.

The face disappears.

The screen goes dark.

I blink.

“You’ve gotta be kidding… .”

I stare at the glass, a flashing prompt that reads LEAVE MESSAGE?

“No,” I rise to my feet, voice rising with me. “No, you have got to be kidding me!” I drag my hand back through my hair, my patience splintering into a million glittering pieces. “I escape GIA captivity, I get stabbed, beaten, and chewed like a jetball in Unbroken custody, talk my way out, get myself captured again and then take out an entire squad of Aurora legionnaires, steal their ship, drag my ass halfway across the sector, risk capture and summary execution, and I get your MESSAGE SERVICE?”

LEAVE MESSAGE? the computer prompts.

“I don’t get it!” I bellow. “How could you know to leave us the Zero, Admiral? To send us that coded message? How could you know about Kal getting shot, about me being captured, about Cat not making it off Octavia, and not know to ANSWER YOUR DAMN UNIGLASS?”

I don’t curse. I consider it a sign of poor self-control. Scar used to say swearing was a natural impulse—that it’s a proven stress reliever and dopamine-release mechanism. But if you’ve got something important to say, it’s worth taking the time to say it without resorting to language you’d hear in a toilet. I can count the number of times I’ve said a bad word on one hand.