Aurora's End (The Aurora Cycle #3)(85)

“Jonii, wait, I can explain… .”

I lunge for the pulse pistol inside my jacket. He lunges for the exit. The stun blast strikes the space he stood a second before, my second shot knocks the door off its hinges. But he’s running now, out the exit and down the corridor, fumbling for his uniglass, yelling for station security.

Game over.

I dash into the cubicle, wrench off the grille, and drag myself up into the vent, fastening the cover behind me. It won’t buy me much time, sure. But it’s going to be a minute at most before Aurora Legion security is notified that one of the galaxy’s most wanted terrorists, Alpha gone rogue, mass murderer, and space pirate (yarrrr) Tyler Jones is loose on the station.

So now this game is on the clock in a whole new way.

I crawl into the vent, using my uni to light my way. These ducts are a maze, and normally I’d be hopelessly lost a few junctions in. But like I said, they really should run the sweeper drones through here more often.

Ahead of me, I can see—clear as I can see the firing squad waiting if security catches me—the handprints and knee tracks of my best friend, scuffed on the grubby metal surface.

And so I crawl.

Like the life of every sentient being in the galaxy depends on it, I crawl.

The clock on my uni ticks down. I’m jacked into the station network, glancing occasionally at the summit feed. Delegates are gathering in the Founders’ Enclave, a myriad of races and costumes taking their place in the concentric rings. In the center of the stage, a podium is picked out by a bright spotlight, a holo of the Aurora Legion sigil spinning in the air above it.

I realize I’m getting into restricted areas of the station now. I pass an automated security checkpoint in the vents, but the motion sensor and laser screen have been bypassed by a tiny jamming device pressed against the wall—no doubt courtesy of the GIA’s spec-ops division. I slide down a chute into wider vents, following Cat’s trail. I’m sweating in my suit now, temperature slowly rising. Passing another three security checkpoints, I see they’re all disabled.

I’d wondered if there might have been a bomb on the Terran delegation shuttle, or some device in the landing bay that might cause the station’s destruction. If Cat would hit the ammo stores or refuel supply. There’s any number of ways a saboteur could put this station on its heels with the right knowledge and enough time. But I know where she’s headed now. The most strategic choice. The most reliable place to kick off an explosion that’d wipe out the entire academy, no fuss, no survivors.

The reactor core.

Cat’s trail ends at another grille, and I pop it loose, slip free. I’m sweating so hard my jacket feels soaked through. Jonii will definitely have alerted station security to my presence by now, though they haven’t sounded any audible alarms—probably don’t want to disrupt the summit. Dropping to the metal floor, I see I’m in the reactor core itself, the dark metal walls stained vaguely blue by the overhead lighting.

This section is absolutely off-limits for cadet staff, and I admit I don’t know it too well. But I can still tell where Cat’s gone, even without a scuff trail to follow. Four security staffers are laid out on the floor ahead of me.

Kneeling beside them, I check pulses, but I already know they’re dead. The hatchway has been disabled, and through it, I find three techs and two more security team members, all gone. Glancing at the sec system, I see the cameras are offline, no doubt knocked out by another GIA jammer.

These bodies, this tech …

I shake my head. Understanding the planning and skill it takes to pull a job like this. How much of an edge the Ra’haam has, with the combined knowledge of every person it’s ever absorbed at its beck and call. I can see now how many moves ahead it has been this whole time.

The clock ticks down.

“Esteemed representatives,” comes a voice in my earbud.

I glance to my uniglass, realizing the opening address has begun. It’s being transmitted across the entire station network, and the voice of Admiral Adams rings on the walls as I steal on through steam-filled corridors, past more bodies, the heat stifling, the air thick and wet in my lungs.

“Honored guests. Friends. On behalf of Greater Clan Battle Leader de Stoy and myself, welcome to the first day of this Galactic Summit.”

I reach a massive heavy-duty door, marked with diagonal black-and-yellow stripes. Four more dead bodies are scattered on the ground in front of it. A sign is painted across the metal in large white letters:

WARNING: REACTOR CORE. NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY BEYOND THIS POINT.

The lighting around suddenly dims, turning bloodred.

“Oh Maker, not yet,” I pray.





26



KAL





Sempiternity is on fire.

Her hull is torn wide, leaking fuel and coolant into the void. The leak is ablaze, an arc of flames cutting across the dark, aglow with hundreds of tiny points of light. Each of them is a ship, Free Peoples or Ra’haam, friend or foe, all of them fighting and dying for this tiny chance at life.

“G Wing, you have incoming Ra’haam fighters! Mark six—”

“Roger, Trinity, this is the Do’Kiat, we are moving to intercept—”

“Maker’s breath, they’re all over us! We—”

In the Neridaa’s control room, the battle is projected all around us, as if the crystal walls were glass. I stand beside Aurora, watching all of it unfold, heart in my throat. Out in the black, new stars bloom briefly, missiles weave, tentacles clutch, the gutted hulks of wrecked ships list helpless, bleeding and burning. The Free Peoples of the galaxy fight with the kind of bravery that legends are spun from, that songs are sung of.