by Kass Morgan
The soldiers stopped abruptly in front of an open door. “You can go in,” one of them said.
“Thank you,” Orelia answered in Sylvan before turning to Zafir. “Come with me.” He nodded and followed her into the space that served as the ship’s dining room, though she realized Zafir wouldn’t necessarily recognize it as such. It seemed small and spare compared to the grandeur of the dining room on the Quatran battlecraft but in a way that was comfortingly familiar. There was no lavish furniture. No paintings of famous military victories. For the Sylvans, war was something to avoid, not celebrate. They celebrated peace, not bloodshed.
General Greet was alone, which was unusual for her. She tended to include her advisors at important moments, and Orelia couldn’t imagine anything more important than her first face-to-face encounter with a Quatran. Her light blond hair had more gray in it than Orelia remembered, though most of it was tucked under her cap. And there seemed to be a few more lines around her eyes. But otherwise she appeared unchanged, which Orelia found surprisingly comforting. After spending weeks being torn apart by uncertainty—uncertainty about her loyalty, about her future, about Zafir—it was reassuring to remember that some things would remain constant.
Orelia saluted, though it felt strange doing so in Quatran civilian clothes. Everything about facing General Greet felt strange. Although it’d been less than a year since Orelia left Sylvan, it felt like several lifetimes ago. It was several lifetimes ago. She’d been a Sylvan agent embedded behind enemy lines. She’d been a Quatra Fleet cadet, forming the first real friendships of her life. And now she was a traitor, mistrusted by both sides. After all that, she belonged nowhere.
“Orelia,” General Greet said in a tone that might’ve sounded neutral were there not five soldiers standing outside the door, awaiting orders to arrest Orelia the moment their commanding officer gave the word. “You’re well?”
“Yes, General Greet,” Orelia replied in Sylvan.
General Greet turned to Zafir. “Thank you for joining us, Lieutenant.” Orelia had never heard General Greet speak Quatran before and was momentarily surprised by her confidence and fluency.
Zafir looked similarly startled but regained his composure. “It’s an honor, General.” He inclined his head, just as a Sylvan would’ve done in this situation.
“Perhaps you can explain to me why the Quatrans are suddenly so interested in peace.”
Zafir nodded. “I understand that this overture is unexpected, and I appreciate your willingness to hear us out.” He spoke calmly and with such assurance that Orelia felt a surge of pride. He was shouldering the pressure and expectations of this historic event—the first diplomatic conversation between Quatran and Sylvan leadership—with courage and poise. “Most Quatrans, including myself and the majority of the Quatra Fleet, have always believed that the Sylvans struck first when they bombed Tri fifteen years ago. But a few days ago, Orelia explained that this was a misconception, and that we were being deluded by a handful of leaders at the very highest levels of our military and government. While we still don’t have concrete proof that this is the case, we’re obviously deeply troubled by the possibility that this costly war might be the result of deception. At the same time, this revelation made the idea of peace talks seem possible, something we never would’ve considered when we believed you to be the aggressor.”
General Greet remained silent as she scrutinized Zafir. Unlike the Quatrans, the Sylvans didn’t feel compelled to respond right away and saw nothing strange or awkward in allowing time to think before speaking. However, Zafir seemed unruffled by the long silence.
“We can discuss it over dinner,” General Greet said finally. Orelia wasn’t sure whether this was a good sign or a bad sign. Sylvans never discussed important business or political matters over dinner. They rarely spoke at all; meals were for sustenance, not socializing.
The three of them sat at the simple metal table, and the place mats at each setting began to glow. Orelia and General Greet pressed their hands on top. Zafir followed suit, then let out a muffled yelp and snatched his hand away. “It stung me,” he whispered to Orelia.
“It’s just performing a nutrition assessment,” she explained. “Put your hand back.”
A moment later, plates emerged from the opening at the center of the table. Orelia smiled as she watched Zafir do his best to contain his confusion as he looked from his plate to Orelia’s. His was covered with salad greens, while hers contained a mixture of grains and vegetables.
“The scanner must’ve identified a vitamin deficiency,” she said to explain the difference.
“Remarkable,” Zafir said, gazing around the table.
“You’ll understand, Lieutenant,” General Greet began, “that my highest duty is protecting the people of Sylvan. For years, that meant staving off attacks on our planet and trying to neutralize the enemy that seemed set on annihilating us. However, there is no greater protection than peace, which is why I intend to take your proposal seriously. But it’d be reckless and irresponsible of me to take your claim at face value, given the behavior the Quatrans have exhibited over the years, behavior that points to a most callous disregard for the value of life.”
Zafir’s face remained polite and inscrutable while she spoke, betraying neither frustration nor concern. He looked so relaxed that, for a moment, Orelia forgot how truly extraordinary this was, to be in a room with both General Greet and Zafir as two seemingly incompatible parts of her life collided. “I understand. And that’s why I’m not asking you to make any sort of commitment. All we want is for you to attend the peace summit, hear what we have to say, and then make your own decision about what’s best for your people.”
“And how do I know that I’m not leading them into a trap?”
“It’s not, I promise,” Orelia said, speaking for the first time since they’d sat down. “I was there when they decided to send the envoy to talk to you. They’re as desperate to stop the war as we are.”
Orelia had spent most of her life on a Sylvan military base, training under General Greet’s watchful, exacting eye, and she’d grown attuned to the subtle ways her commanding officer conveyed approval, irritation, and disappointment. Yet as she met General Greet’s eyes across the table, Orelia saw something even worse—suspicion. She’d grown too close to the Quatrans for the general’s comfort, that much was clear.
The knots in Orelia’s stomach began to tighten. Orelia would never forgive herself for her role in the deaths of those Sylvans, but at the same time, she had completed her mission. She’d traveled to another solar system, created a fake identity, and infiltrated one of the most secure bases in the Quatra Fleet. She’d done exactly what had been asked of her, against monumental odds. She’d never shied away from her duty.
Orelia had been up for twenty-six hours and had reached a state beyond exhaustion. She was leaving for the Quatra System in six days, and there seemed to be no end to the final round of preparations, tests, and briefings.
This time, however, they’d purposefully kept her up all night to see how she performed under stress, to ensure that she’d be able to maintain her cover no matter the conditions. Now, sitting in one of the small, dark windowless rooms in the center of the military base that had been her home for the past twelve years, she felt more delirious than tired, which she supposed was the point.
“Good afternoon, Orelia,” Colonel Nion said as he entered the room and sat down in the chair across from her. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she said. Over the years, she’d learned that there was no point in attempting small talk or—gods forbid—trying to joke with the humorless Colonel Nion. He wasn’t unkind, and he was arguably one of the most gifted intelligence officers on Sylvan, but he took his job very seriously. When she was younger, she’d found his demeanor rather wearing, but that was when her mission had felt abstract. Now that it was actually happening, Orelia understood Colonel Nion’s seriousness. While she’d never say it herself, she knew it was tru
e: The future of Sylvan was resting on her shoulders. Failure was not an option. She had to transmit the Academy coordinates back to General Greet. And in order to do that, she had to pose as a Quatra Fleet cadet without arousing suspicion.
“All right, then, let’s begin,” Colonel Nion said in a tone that made it clear he would’ve gone straight into the exercise no matter how Orelia had answered his perfunctory question. “What’s your name?
“Orelia Kerr,” she said, using her fake Quatran surname for the first time.
“Where are you from?”
“Loos.”
“What part?”
“A small island called Ariad off the coast of Merilene.”
Colonel Nion frowned. “Merileen,” he said, correcting her pronunciation. “These details are important, Orelia.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’ll get it right.”
“What part of Loos are you from?”
“A small island called Ariad off the coast of Merilene,” she said, forcing her mouth to produce the unfamiliar sound.
“Who did you live with?”
“My parents and my sister.”
“What do your parents do?”
“My mother works as a receptionist at a beach resort.” No. The word rose up so quickly, it nearly escaped her lips. My mother was a teacher. She loved to sing with the children. I could hear her in the classroom when Dad and I went to pick her up from work. We couldn’t go for a walk without one of her former students coming up to her, wanting to share a memory of their time in her class.
“What about your father?”
“My father is a boat mechanic in the harbor.” My father was a rescue worker. He saved people who were swept away by summer floods. Sometimes he’d be gone for weeks at a time, but I didn’t mind because I knew he was a hero.
What would her parents think about her upcoming mission? It was a foolish question. If either of her parents had been alive, she wouldn’t be going on this mission. She wouldn’t have been raised on a military base along with the other war orphans, and she wouldn’t have been identified as an “ideal candidate” for the top-secret operation the Sylvan leadership had been planning for years.
“How do your parents feel about you attending the Academy?”
“They’re proud of me,” she said. They’re glad that I’ll have the chance for revenge.
But was that true? For a while, Orelia had devoted her whole life to destroying the people who’d killed her parents; it was hard to imagine either of them holding on to so much hate in their hearts. But then again, Orelia had only a few years’ worth of memories of her parents. She’d been only six when the Quatrans bombed her city, transforming the vibrant metropolis into a wasteland… and transforming her from a cherished child into an orphan.
“What track are you hoping for?”
“However I can best serve the Quatra Fleet.”
“And what do you want to do after you leave the Academy?”
I want to watch it burn.
There was another long silence, but this time Orelia was the uneasy one. “We will attend the peace summit,” General Greet said finally, and for one brief moment the knots of dread in Orelia’s stomach began to unfurl. “But if you betray our trust or take advantage of us in any way, we will reduce your entire solar system to cosmic dust.” She turned to Orelia, eyes even colder than before. “And we’ll make sure that you go with them.”
CHAPTER 14
VESPER
“See?” Arran jabbed the screen, uncharacteristically agitated. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Quiet,” Vesper whispered as she looked around the library. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in there with them, but you never could tell who might be eavesdropping from behind one of the bookshelves.
“You’re the one who wanted to meet here,” Arran said, confused. “Should we just go back to one of our rooms?”
“No, that’s even worse.”
“Didn’t you say that our rooms are soundproof?” he asked with a knowing smile. “I distinctly remember you making a big deal about how glad you were not to worry about disturbing your roommates when you—” The smile vanished from his face as he cut himself off. “When you had… visitors,” he finished lamely.
“I’m not going to burst into tears at the sound of his name,” she said, both touched by his concern and annoyed that anyone would see her as the type of girl who required careful handling after a breakup.
“Sorry,” he said with a wistful smile. “I guess you’re stronger than I am.”
Her face fell. She’d been so focused on her breakup with Rex that she’d almost forgotten that Arran was also nursing a broken heart. “I’m sorry, Arran. That was stupid of me. Everyone has their own way of dealing with stuff like this. Speaking of which,” she said, purposefully changing tack, “I heard an interesting rumor about you and that Loosian kid Rees.”
He shrugged and looked away. “I doubt it’s that interesting.”
Vesper decided to let the subject drop for now, knowing that Arran tended to shut down when pushed too far about his personal life. She was delighted that Arran had found someone to distract him from Dash, but there was part of her that hoped the distraction was only temporary. They were so good for each other. Her shy, reserved squadron mate had come out of his shell around the gregarious Dash, and her childhood friend had become a calmer, steadier version of himself. “Okay, so what exactly about that doesn’t make sense?” she asked, gesturing at the schematic.
He showed her a diagram of the supply chain responsible for the battlecraft. “There’s no way the Specters could’ve infiltrated the process at any stage. Whoever planted the malware was a Quatran, I’m sure of it.”
“But who?” Vesper asked, puzzled and frustrated. Nothing irritated her more than a problem she couldn’t attack head-on. “The rebels on Chetire and Deva couldn’t have accessed the supply chain either, could they?”
Arran shook his head wearily. “Probably not. But then that means it was someone…”
“In the fleet,” Vesper finished for him.
They fell silent, the troubling words hanging in the air between them. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Stepney’s so against peace talks?” Vesper said finally.
She waited for Arran to react with puzzlement, but instead he shook his head. “Honestly? No, I’m not surprised. Did you know that he’s on the board of Orion, that fyron-mining company?”
Orion. She knew that word. But how? She was about to ask Arran, when a memory came hurtling from the recesses of her brain, a memory that she hadn’t thought about in a very long time.
Vesper tugged on the delicate strap of her evening dress, willing it to stay in place. She wished she were like her mother, who, unlike other career officers, never seemed uneasy in civilian clothes and wore her elegant black evening dress with the same confidence as she did her uniform. Even her father was in full-on networking mode, chatting up the vice-chancellor of the Quatra Federation on the other side of the room.
“Relax, Vee,” Ward said, giving her outfit a cursory glance. “You look perfect.” But before she could respond, he’d already turned his attention to the party they’d just entered, scanning the landscape with the same focus and strategic scrutiny he used in the simulcraft. Their classmate Marcel’s parents had a fancy solstice celebration every year to which he was allowed to invite a few friends. It’d always been a coveted invitation. When they were younger, the appeal had stemmed from the well-stocked, poorly supervised bar. But as they’d gotten older and acceptance to the Academy began to feel more important than stolen shots of nitro spirit, the opportunity to mingle with high-ranking fleet officers became the real draw.
The party was always held at Marcel’s family’s apartment—an enormous penthouse on the top floor of one of the most exclusive buildings in Evoline. No matter how many times she visited, Vesper couldn’t help but marvel at the panoramic window that curved ar
ound the dining room. The soaring towers of the Tridian cityscape glittered in the pink twilit sky, and both moons—one full, one crescent—glowed with warm yellow light. Every few moments, a zipcraft whizzed past, and in the distance, the four towers of the Armory soared up from the horizon.
“So, what’s our plan of attack?” Ward asked as he took two glasses of sparkling pearlberry juice from a passing attendant. “Can you see Commander Stepney anywhere?”
“He’s not involved with Academy admissions. If you want to find someone to suck up to, you’d be better off with Laia Trow. She’s the head of the admissions committee.”
Ward made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “She’s a bureaucrat who reads thousands of applications a year. If you want to make sure yours gets to the top of the pile, you need to have someone influential advocating for you.”
“Come on, Ward. You really think a few minutes of party chitchat will be enough to make the commander of the Quatra Fleet want to help you?”
“Don’t be naïve, Vee. That’s how this stuff works. Now come on—we need to find him before dinner starts.”
Vesper gamely followed Ward through the crowd, smiling and exchanging quick hellos with her classmates and her parents’ friends and colleagues. She suspected that Ward’s time was better spent studying than stalking high-ranking fleet officers, but she knew better than to start an argument. When Ward had his mind set on something, he could be pretty pigheaded. He wasn’t so different from her, she supposed, except that her stubbornness rarely led to arguments with other people. The only person she refused to let get in her way was herself.
“That’s him,” Ward whispered. He gestured with his glass, causing a little liquid to spill over the sides. Vesper followed his gaze to see a tall, distinguished-looking man with grayish brown hair. There were bags under his eyes and lines around his mouth, but there was something youthful about his expression. He was listening intently while a slim, angular woman with sleek black hair spoke about something Vesper couldn’t hear. “Come on,” Ward said as he reached for her hand.
