Aurora Rising: The Aurora Cycle 1

by Amie Kaufman

  “They sound … friendly,” I venture.

  “You are being sarcastic, I hope.”

  “Well, duh.”

  Tyler slides in beside me in time to catch the end of what Kal is saying. He has three glasses that look so cold they’re sporting a thin coating of ice. Each one has an insulation band so you can hold it without your fingers getting stuck to the surface. A second band of rubber circles the rim, to save your tongue the same fate.

  “So, what are we talking about?” he asks, handing out the drinks.

  “Jackasses,” Kal replies.

  “Whose side are the humans on?” I ask Tyler, just wanting to know more. “In the Syldrathi war, I mean?”

  Ty looks between Kal and me, obviously deciding how much to tell me.

  “Nobody’s,” he finally says. “The Starslayer made sure of that.”

  He pauses, and Kal closes his eyes at the strange word.

  “… What’s a Starslayer?” I ask, looking between them.

  “Not what,” Kal murmurs. “Who.”

  A small beep comes from my breast pocket. “Caersan, aka, The Starslayer, is a renegade Syldrathi Archon, and leader of the Unbroken. His faction splintered from the Syldrathi government back in 2370, when it seemed peace talks with Earth were about to succeed. The Unbroken attacked Terran forces during a negotiated ceasefire, hitting the shipyards at Sigma Orionis.” Another beep sounds. “Would you like to know more?”

  “Magellan, hush,” I whisper.

  I touch the screen, putting him in silent mode. It’s one thing to have a talking encyclopedia in my pocket, but it’s another thing entirely to have an actual conversation with people who’ve lived this stuff. And I can see both Tyler and Kal have more to say here. That this all means something to them both.

  I look at Tyler, waiting for him to speak.

  He touches the chain around his neck, a faraway look in his eyes. I remember him doing the same thing in the med center, the ring hanging at the end of it. “My dad … he was a senator. But he was former TDF military, too. When the Unbroken attacked Sigma Orionis, Terra called up its reserve pilots. …”

  I can see the sadness in Tyler’s eyes as he speaks, and I realize …

  His father must have died there.

  “Remember Orion,” Kal says softly.

  Tyler looks up sharply at that, but the taller boy has his eyes fixed again on the other Syldrathi again. His voice is so soft I almost can’t hear him.

  “The attack at Orion prolonged the war another eight years,” Kal says. “Eventually, our two peoples found peace. But the Unbroken have been in rebellion ever since. One year ago …” He purses his lips, shaking his head. “They attacked Evaa. The star our homeworld of Syldra orbited.”

  “Nobody knows how they managed it.” Tyler’s voice is hushed. “But they made the Syldrathi sun collapse upon itself. Turned the star into a black hole that destroyed everything in the system.”

  “Ten billion Syldrathi died.” Kal looks at me, and the sadness in his eyes pierces my heart. “Ten billion souls gone to the Void.”

  I think on that number. Try to wrap my head around the size of it.

  “Starslayer,” I murmur.

  Tyler nods. “With a weapon like that at his disposal, the whole galaxy is terrified of him. And he’s made it clear that as long as Earth stays neutral in what’s now a Syldrathi civil war, he won’t turn his attention to us.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, the air in the room feeling heavier, the light a little dimmer. Kal’s the one who changes the subject, his voice cool, his emotions hidden behind that wall of ice once more.

  “Did you hear anything at the bar?”

  Tyler sighs and shakes his head. “The bartender definitely saw my uniform, but she didn’t seem to think there was any news worth sharing. At least there doesn’t seem to be any word about our attack on the TDF out there yet.”

  I sip my drink slowly, thinking about what I’ve learned. The liquid seems to almost sparkle, or vibrate on my tongue, sweet and tingling, and cold from the glass. It’s refreshing and energizing all at once. I look between Kal and Ty and wonder which of our many problems or mysteries they’re focusing on at this particular moment. The fact that they’re renegades among their own people? That we’re the only witnesses to the Terran massacre at Sagan station? That we’re out here without a plan or a prayer?

  Or the fact that I’m the only reason for all of it?

  I don’t have any answers. About the colony, my dad, what’s happening to me. But I’m learning more about this galaxy I’ve found myself inside, day by day. And I’m going to find the truth about what’s happening to me if it’s the last thing I do.

  “Do not lift your head,” Kal says, his voice as cool as the drink in my hand. “But those Unbroken are headed our way.”

  I do as Kal says, only looking up with my eyes. Half a dozen Syldrathi are making their way over to us, cutting through the crowd like knives. On the surface, they’re all similar to each other. Similar to Kal. Their long silver hair is bound in complex braids, their eyes are all different shades of violet. They wear an elegant kind of black armor, scratched and battle-scarred, daubed with lines of white paint that twist into beautiful letters in a language I don’t know. All of them are tall, slender, strong. Ethereal and graceful. And all of them have the same small glyf that marks Kal’s forehead.

  The three blades.

  But as they draw closer, I see each of them is subtly different—one has bones woven through his hair, another has what I realize are severed, pointed ears strapped across her chest in a diagonal line, like the world’s most morbid beauty queen sash. The tallest has a vicious scar cutting right across his handsome face. Each of them carries themselves the same—cold and menacing, radiating disdain, bringing with them the sense that they could descend into violence at any moment. I’d know even if nobody had told me—these Syldrathi are warbringers.

  There’s a woman at the fore. Her pale silver hair is pulled back into a braid so tight it must be giving her one hell of a headache. Maybe that accounts for the extremely unfriendly expression.

  “Human,” she says, addressing Ty. “I see you have a pet.”

  “I have a squadmate,” Ty says, with a polite nod of greeting. “And he’s enjoying his drink right now, just like me. We don’t want any trouble.”

  An unfriendly ripple goes through the Syldrathi.

  “He has forsaken the rightful cause of his people,” the leader says. “He seeks the company of Terrans when there is work yet undone for all Warbreed. Until all our people are united under Archon Caersan’s hand, there is no rest, whether we will it or no. He is a traitor. Cho’taa.”

  Behind her, there’s a rumble of agreement from her followers. Their eyes are narrowed, sparkling with hatred. Beautiful and ugly all at once. The woman leans forward, and slowly, deliberately, she spits on the table between Kal and Tyler.

  “You should be careful he does not betray you next, human.”

  “You do not want this, Templar,” Kal tells the woman quietly, not even looking at her. “Believe me.”

  “Believe you?” She laughs, short and sharp. “You who have no honor? You who wear the uniform of the enemy?”

  “We’ve nearly finished our drinks,” Tyler says, his friendly tone not budging. “Once we have, we’ll go our way, and you can go yours.”

  “Will you?” says the woman, tilting her head as if he’s said something curious. “I see no path between you and the door.”

  Kal’s eyes flicker to the woman’s, then away again. “Perhaps because you are as blind as you are foolish.”

  Tyler glances at the other boy. “Take it easy, Legionnaire Gilwraeth.”

  Kal goes very still for a moment, and the braided woman looks at him sharply. It feels like all the air has been suddenly sucked out of the room.


  “I’na Sai’nuit,” she breathes.

  Kal turns his head to speak to me. “Stay behind me, be’shmai.”

  The woman looks incredulously at me. “You name a human be—”

  Kal’s open palm collides with her stomach, his elbow with her jaw, sending her backward with a spray of spit and blood. He surges out of our booth, lashing out at another two Syldrathi and sending them stumbling away with bloody lips and broken noses. His opponents are caught unprepared for a moment, but then they come to life with snarls and shouts. Tyler’s caught flat-footed, too, but he recovers quick, rising to his feet and stepping to Kal’s side with his fists raised.

  Problem is there are six of them, and only two of us.

  Well, three, I guess. Counting me.

  Kal’s still holding his glass, and he swings it in a lightning-quick arc against another Syldrathi’s head. It shatters, and the man falls, deep purple blood welling up from the wounds. Kal and Ty swing their fists, each aiming for a different Syldrathi. This isn’t like fighting in a vid—it’s brutal, ugly, savage. Their opponents stagger back, but the boys don’t follow up, staying with the booth at their backs, side by side, limiting the angles from which the others can approach.

  Their fighting styles are totally different. Kal’s has a dark grace to it. For such a big guy, he’s perfectly fluid, and as he fends off a return punch, then delivers a haymaker of his own, it’s like every movement is choreographed in a deadly, perfect dance.

  Ty fights more like an athlete. He’s fit and strong, and has good technique—even I can tell that. He punches, he kicks, and he hits below the belt when he has to. They’re all bigger than him. Faster and stronger. But even still, he’s fearless.

  A third Unbroken is already on the ground at Kal’s feet, more of the pack surging in to replace the fallen.

  Ty’s trading blows with his opponent, dancing back and forth like a boxer. Kal is swaying and weaving, saying something to his adversary that draws a snarl from the man, which Kal promptly ends by knocking out his teeth. The brawl’s now surrounded by a ring of bar crawlers who’ve gathered to watch. A part of my mind is busy watching the fight, another part monitoring myself—afraid I’ll feel myself slipping, that I’ll feel the gray closing in, that I’ll do something awful to defend them, something the whole bar will notice.

  But I don’t want to just sit here doing nothing …

  One of the Unbroken grabs one of the long, thin sticks that the players were using to move the table rocks from a spectator, drawing it back like a spear. Without thinking, I grab my glass, the cold burning my fingers for an instant before I throw. It clocks the guy right in the face, and he stumbles back with what’s definitely a curse.

  Kal glances over his shoulder, lips quirking in what might be a smile.

  And son of a biscuit, I find myself smirking back.

  Then the outer crowd is parting, revealing six feet of angry human bartender. She’s got a ring through her nose and full-sleeve tattoos, and she looks like she is not in the mood. She’s holding a large canister with a hose attached, and as she takes a swipe at one Unbroken’s back and unleashes a torrent of frothing white goo at another, I realize it’s a fire extinguisher.

  “Security are on their way!” she roars. “Now take it outside before I kick you out the airlock!”

  Style points, bartender lady. I like you.

  We’re all pretty much frozen, Ty and Kal swaying on their feet, the Syldrathi scattered around us, everyone dripping with foam. Now would be a really, really good time for us to make an exit. My gaze sweeps the room, checking to see what’s between us and the way out, and that’s when I spot Zila and Scarlett.

  They’re standing framed by the door, hands weighed down with bulging shopping bags. Scarlett steps in to do her diplomat thing, but her first words are drowned out by the sound of a loud, low-pitched alert.

  Everyone in the bar stops what they’re doing. Announcements in a dozen different languages spill out of the loudspeakers. The holographic displays above the bar dissolve into snow, then flash back to life once more.

  And every single one of them is showing a picture of me.

  It’s a still from footage they must have taken aboard the TDF destroyer. I’m wearing the same uniform I have on now. It’s a clear shot of me—black and white hair frames my face in a more-tousled-than-usual pixie cut, my mismatched eyes are wide.

  Text flashes on every screen, right below my face.

  WANTED FUGITIVE.

  REWARD OFFERED.

  CONTACT TDF FOR

  MORE INFORMATION.

  Time stands still. My heart pounds as I stare at the screen. But finally, desperately not wanting to, I drag my eyes down and look around the room.

  Every single person in the bar is staring straight at me.

  Son of a biscuit.

  15

  Finian

  My sort-of-cousin Dariel is blocking his doorway, and this isn’t going as well as I’d hoped. I’m trying to convince him to let us inside, give us some crash space that’s off the grid, a place to lay low until we figure out what we’re supposed to be doing here. And so, for the last twenty minutes or so, with Cat lurking behind me like a very cranky bodyguard, we’ve been exchanging familial details, figuring out where we both fit in our extended family tree—and therefore who owes what, and what a fair price would be for his help. Because nothing comes free in a place like Sempiternity.

  I’ve never met Dariel before, but I can see the de Seel nose on him. He’s dyed his shoulder-length hair pitch-black, matching his contacts, and he comes off looking like some kind of human corpse. The white skin that looks perfectly normal alongside proper white hair just looks weird and pallid now.

  And he doesn’t just look like a corpse. He looks like a wannabe-tough-guy lover-boy-type corpse, dressed in black pants and a black shirt that’s open at least two buttons too many.

  Not gonna lie, it’s a little embarrassing that Cat’s seeing this.

  “So my third mother’s brother is Ferilien de Vinner de Seel,” I say patiently.

  “But you’re a de Karran de Seel,” he says, for the third time.

  Make that a stupid wannabe tough-guy lover-boy corpse.

  Ugh.

  “My third mother became a de Karran,” I sigh. “But originally she was a de Vinner, and the de Vinners are your—”

  “Aw, bugger me sideways,” Cat curses behind me.

  I turn my head, but she hasn’t finally lost interest in our connect-the-dots game. She’s staring up at a big holoscreen mounted in a corner of the dirty corridor where Dariel’s quarters are located. I follow her gaze, and … there’s our stowaway’s face in close-up, with a Wanted banner streaming underneath it. Somewhere out there, Goldenboy is now having an even worse day than he was before.

  And this puts me at a distinct negotiating disadvantage.

  “Friend of yours?” Dariel asks, bracing both hands against his door frame and leaning out into the hall to take a look at the screen.

  It nearly kills me to say it, but I force my expression as close to neutral as I can possibly manage. “If you let us in, I’ll owe you a Favor.”

  His smile widens, and he shakes my hand while I try not to look like I’m freaking out. Putting myself in his debt like this without nailing down any of the details … well, now he knows how bad things are. Without another word, he steps back and leaves the doorway open for us.

  “Welcome, cousin, welcome.”

  Cat’s already on her uniglass, checking her fauxhawk in the mirror as she walks inside. “Ty, I’m sending you our location,” she says, her voice echoing in my earpiece.

  “Roger that,” comes the reply.

  “Everything okay?” Cat asks. “You sound out of breath.”

  “Running,” Tyler gasps.

  “… From what?”

  �
��Bar brawl.”

  “Aw, bloody hells, you started one without me?”

  I raise an eyebrow at Cat, speaking into my uni. “Do you need backup, Goldenboy?”

  “Negative,” our noble leader grunts. “Hold position.”

  I follow Cat inside, and as I step across the threshold into Dariel’s place, a whole-body shock goes through me. It’s like I’ve stepped straight through a FoldGate and into a room back on Trask. The walls are lined with white stone, bright green flic vines tumbling down from the niches along the ceiling where they’ve been planted, gently glowing leaves helping light up the room. Trickles of water trail down the walls, and the ceiling is a jagged landscape of stalactites.

  It’s like being back in a place I’ve barely visited since I was six years old, and I’m completely unprepared for the wave of … I’m not even sure what this feeling is.

  “Grew most of them out of salt.” Dariel’s voice in my ear startles me, and I turn to see him pointing to the stalactites above. “And commissioned a few carved out of rock, a guy back home does them.”

  “It’s, uh … authentic,” I manage.

  Cat’s looking around the cramped living room like she’s scared the surfaces are radioactive, and I don’t blame her—there are crates stacked up to the ceiling, computer gear everywhere, notes and pictures and screens pinned to every available surface, and it’s none too clean. Looks like my cousin’s running quite the business empire in here. I’m surprised his brain can keep up with it.

  About forty minutes go by before the rest of our squad shows up, and Dariel and I spend most of it on family talk. Whenever you get two Betraskans together, we figure out where folks in our extended family have ended up lately. Cat’s pacing by the time the others arrive, walking a circuit of the room that weaves between boxes and crates and stacks of junk.

  Our squadmates clearly found somewhere to hole up and change, and the results are impressive. Both the Jones twins look completely edible, him in a stretchy show-my-muscles kind of shirt, her in an equally stretchy bodysuit made of … some kind of black … something.