Aurora's End (The Aurora Cycle #3)(81)

“Good luck, Dirtgirl,” Fin says, offering his hand. “Next time I see you, hopefully you’re a hundred meters tall and made of solid marble.”

“I’ll make sure not to shoot any Betraskan ladies in the face.” Nari smirks weakly. “Assuming I ever get out of this alive, I mean.”

“I’m sure you’ll do it this time, Nari,” I tell her.

“I’m trying, Red.” She sighs, scratching her chin. “It’s a big ask.”

“If anyone can pull this off, the Founder of Aurora Academy can,” I smile. “We the Legion, we the light.”

Nari squares her shoulders. “Burning bright against the night.”

The lieutenant turns to Zila, jaw clenched.

“I guess this is it. Again.”

“Good luck, Lieutenant Kim,” Zila murmurs, offering her hand.

“You too, Legionnaire Madran,” Nari says, shaking it.

The pair stand there, still holding hands, while the station shudders in its rivets and metal groans dangerously around us. Zila looks up into Nari’s face, and her expression would be a mask to most. But like I say, reading people is what I do. And I can see it in Zila’s eyes, sure as I can see those pulses of dark energy outside the viewports.

Zila likes this girl. I mean likes likes. In all the time we’ve known each other, I’ve never known Zila to really like anyone. It seems kinda cruel she had to cross an ocean of two hundred years to find someone, only to leave her behind.

And even though she’s trying to keep a lid on it, to be professional, analytical, unemotional, I realized a few loops back that having to say goodbye to Nari over and over again is breaking Zila’s heart.

Over and over again.

“Kids, we gotta go,” Fin says.

“Yes,” Zila nods. “We do.”

She lets go of Nari’s hand, gives over her beloved disruptor pistol, and slips her uniglass into the breast pocket of the lieutenant’s flight suit. Nari nods once, cycles the office door open.

“Good luck, Nari,” I whisper. “See you in 2380.”

Nari takes the stairs, but we head back down the elevator shaft, quick as we can. After a quick dodge around a sec patrol, a pause to let a flustered engineering crew rush past, we finally make our way into the chaos of the hangar level.

As we creep into the stuttering red light of the main bay, the chaos washes over us in a wave. The stench of scorched chemicals burns my lungs. The scream of emergency alarms fills my ears. I stifle a cough, breathing in the stink of charred plastic and smoke, as Finian, Zila, and I take shelter behind a stack of storage drums. Like always, a frantic-looking soldier runs past, and a deck commander roars, “Get that goddamn fire out!”

The floor shakes, and we steal on through the smoke-filled bay. The lighting is emergency red, intermittent, and even though Fin and I aren’t half as good at the space-ninja thing as Zila, we stay unseen, crouching below the wing of a Pegasus fighter.

As a pair of deckhands run past, Zila whispers, “Now,” and we dash across the deck, the wailing alarms covering the clang of our feet on the grille. I don’t breathe again until we’ve reached our target—the bulldog-nosed bulk of a heavy Terran military shuttle, waiting at one end of the hangar bay.

I’m sure Tyler would be able to tell me the make, the model, the name of the engineer who designed this thing. But the thought of my brother just hardens that lump of ice in my belly, and so I try not to think about it, instead keeping watch as Finian sidles up to the shuttle’s loading bay door and begins to work. I have no idea what kind of magic he’s weaving, but magic it is, because in a few minutes, the hatch cycles open.

The station rocks, the deck beneath us shudders. And quick as three very quick things, we’re into the shuttle’s belly, hatchway closed behind us.

“Piece of bake,” Fin grins as the door clunks shut.

I blink. “Piece of what?”

“Bake?” he replies. “Piece of bake—that’s right, isn’t it?”

“It’s piece of cake,” I laugh. “Bake is what you do to cake.”

“Eh,” he shrugs, his exosuit hissing. “I was never that into dessert.”

“Sweet enough already, huh?”

He sticks a silver finger into his mouth, makes gagging sounds.

“I know,” I sigh. “We’re nauseating, de Seel.”

His grin dies as Zila grabs the uniglass from his pocket and hunkers down on the bay floor. Fin and I crouch beside her, and with a soft beep, an image is projected onto the curve of the shuttle wall—a transmission from the uniglass in Nari’s flight suit pocket.

I recognize a familiar corridor, gunmetal gray with bright blue letters—HANGER LEVEL, SECTION B. The picture is bouncing slightly, the sound of Nari’s boots ringing on the grille with her every step.

Déjà vu.

“Nari, can you hear us?” Zila asks.

We see a hand move into frame, tilting the uniglass camera lens upward to give us a brief glimpse of the lieutenant’s head. She’s abandoned her own helmet, snatched another from a supply locker somewhere—plain black, no callsign. She’s also ripped the ident tags off her flight suit breast and the lieutenant chevrons off her sleeves. If she lives through this, she doesn’t wanna get identified as a wartime saboteur, after all.