Aurora's End (The Aurora Cycle #3)(72)

Tyler, don’t go… .

Tyler, I love you.

“Cat … ,” I whisper.





22



FINIAN





“Okay, that should work.”

I try to sound confident as we crowd around Magellan’s battered shell on the workbench, heads bowed like a med team over a critical patient. We’ve got the lab to ourselves right now—the team who should be here is off getting treatment for a dose of radiation. We’re probably scoring one ourselves, but we’ll be fine next loop, and we have urgent business.

I’ve already networked my uni, Zila’s, and Scar’s together, and with a dab of solder and a short prayer to the Maker, I’m putting the final touches on my hot-wired masterpiece.

“The combinational logic circuits … ,” Zila murmurs, sounding dubious.

“Ugh, I know. Nari, hand me another one of those pinchy metal things.”

“You mean a bulldog clip?”

“Right. Why are they called that?”

“I …” She frowns, plucking one from the sheaf of plasdocs. “Actually have no idea.”

“A bulldog invented them?” Scar suggests.

“You have a creature that’s both a bull and a dog? Actually, I’ll buy that. I mean, you people used to farm quantum— Ow!”

A small zap runs through the fingers of my exo—if the galaxy’s most annoying uniglass wasn’t digitally unconscious, I’d say that happened on purpose—and with a soft hum, the dead glass starts to power up.

“Yessss!” I raise a hand to Scarlett, and she obliges with a high five, curling her fingers through mine to pull me in for a kiss. A way, way better zap runs through me as our lips meet, and this is definitely how all high fives—

“HEY THERE! I MISSED YOUR F-F-F-F-FACES!”

We pause the kissing, watching as the four uniglass screens run through a series of digital patterns cut with lines of static.

“That doesn’t look right,” Scar mutters.

“It’s not. But I’m working with primitive tools here.” I glance up at Nari. “No offense, Dirtgirl.”

“None taken, bleach-head,” she murmurs.

“Hey, when the war ends twenty years from now and Trask becomes Terra’s closest ally, on a scale of one to ten, how stupid are you gonna feel?”

“Not half as stupid as you’re gonna look with my boot up your—”

“Children,” Scarlett sighs. “Please.”

“Even if we were not running out of time,” Zila says, “we still would have no time for pointless hostilities. We are all friends here.”

Kim scowls at me, gives a grudging nod to Zila. And the way she stares at Z tells me that maybe Lieutenant Dirtgirl is thinking she’d like to be something more than friends with our little Brain. But like Zila says, we’re running out of time.

“Hey, Magellan,” I say as the start-up screen finishes. “Good to see you again, buddy. We got some math for you.”

“HEY, POTPLANT! TEACUP TERRIER-TERRIERT-T-T-TERRIER! HERE BE DRAGONS. BARET, JEANNE. STARK, FREYA. BIRD WALTON, NANCY. LIST OF EXPLORERS INCOMPLETE. HAS ANYONE GOT A BISCUIT?”

I add another spot of solder. “Magellan! We’re kind of on a clock here, buddy, and we need you to do some math and save our tails.”

“Before the snake eats its own,” Zila murmurs.

All the activity on its screen pauses, and for a heart-stopping moment I think I’ve made things worse. Magellan flashes, a ream of decidedly nonstandard code scrolling down the cracked glass. The screen of my glass, then Zila’s, and then Scar’s begin to pulse in time, and the word OUROBOROS coalesces across all three, disintegrating into a cloud of ones and zeroes.

Scarlett frowns. “Did you see that?”

Magellan beeps again. A cool blue light washes its surface. And with a soft, pleased hum, the display resolves into a normal query screen.

“ON A CLOCK, HUH?” it chirps. “DOES THAT MEAN WE’RE FINALLY BACK IN 2177? I THOUGHT WE WERE NEVER GOING TO GET HERE!”

For a moment there’s silence, except for the fizz and pop of a couple of workstations behind us. Scarlett and I exchange a wide-eyed glance.

“We’re … what?” I manage.

“Magellan, please repeat last statement,” Zila says.

“OH, NOW WE’RE INTERESTED IN HEARING WHAT I HAVE TO SAY, HUH?” It flashes obnoxiously. “EVERYONE SICK OF THEIR LITTLE RUNNING JOKE?”

Zila frowns. “Running—”

“‘HEY, YOU’RE ABOUT TO CRASH INTO THAT PLANET, MAYBE I COULD HELP? MAGELLAN, SILENT MODE! HEY, DON’T EAT THAT, IT HAS ALL THE NUTRITIONAL VALUE OF A RIGELLIAN’S GYM SOCK. MAGELLAN, SILENT MODE! AURORA, DON’T TOUCH THAT ALIEN ARTIFACT, IT’S GOING TO— MAGELLAN, SILENT MODE!’”

“Magellan … ,” Scarlett begins.

“EVERYBODY AROUND ME IS A PROTEIN POPSICLE FULL OF TEENAGE HORMONES AND I HAVE THE IQ OF A SUPERGENIUS, BUT NNNNOPE, LET’S ALL YELL AT THE UNIGLASS BECAUSE IT’S JUST HILARIOUS TO US MEATBAGS!”

“Magellan, we’re sorry,” Scarlett says.

“SUUUURE YOU ARE.”

“We didn’t know we were hurting your feelings,” she assures it. “Nobody’s putting you on silent mode.”