Aurora Rising: The Aurora Cycle 1

by Amie Kaufman

  Dariel stops the spinning with one lifted finger, looking over his shoulder with immediate interest. “You a ceramics expert or something? Because I got—”

  “No,” she replies. “My dad is— I mean, my dad was Chinese.”

  The reminder of the past tense is clearly a kick in the gut for her. Her gaze drops and she presses her lips together, swallowing hard. Dariel notes the drop in mood, but Scarlett’s quick to distract him.

  “So he’s a collector?” she asks, leaning closer. “This Casseldon Bianchi?”

  “He’s the collector,” Dariel replies, turning back to her. “The man on the World Ship. If you’ve got something exquisite and you want to move it, that is. He deals in exotics. Artifacts. Tech. Life-forms, especially. If it’s hard to find, he’s the guy to find it. And if it’s expensive, he’s probably the guy who owns it.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” says a chirpy voice inside Auri’s breast pocket.

  “Magellan, hush,” she whispers, lifting a hand to smother it. “Later.”

  “Seriously,” the uniglass says. “I’m seventeen times smarter than any—”

  “Silent mode,” Tyler snaps.

  I look at Aurora, eyebrow raised. “You named your uniglass?”

  Auri shoots me a quick glance. “It said ‘name your device’ when I turned it on.”

  “Sure, like ‘Fin’s uniglass’ or something.”

  “I’m original,” she says.

  “Got that right,” Cat snorts.

  Dariel’s display stops moving again, and suddenly there it is on his screen—our mystery shape. It’s a sculpture made out of a strange metal. And it’s shaped like our three-fingered friend painted all over the walls of our room. The statue has gemstones for eyes, the left one polished black onyx, the right one gleaming pearl. There’s a diamond embedded deeply in its chest, right where its heart would be.

  “What is it?” Tyler asks, a hint of impatience in his voice.

  “Says here it’s a religious artifact from the … Eshvaren Empire?” Scarlett leans in to read the subtitle, whistling softly. “Supposed to be a million years old.”

  “What a load of crap.” Cat chuckles.

  But Auri’s mismatched eyes have gone wide, and she’s staring at Dariel’s screen like it punched her in the mouth. Her voice is just a whisper.

  “Eshvaren?”

  “It’s a scam,” I assure her. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What do you mean?” Kal asks, scowling at me.

  “I mean the Eshvaren. They’re a ghost story, Pixieboy.”

  “Load of bollocks.” Cat nods, and I make a note to mark my calendar because this is the first time I ever remember her agreeing with me on—

  “Who,” Auri says, her tone growing more strident, “or what, are the Eshvaren?”

  “An old grandmother’s tale,” Dariel says.

  “Ghost story.” I nod. “Supposed to be a race that lived a million years ago. Except there’s no evidence they existed.”

  “Other than the relics they left behind,” Kal says, pointing to the screen.

  “They’re a scam, Kal.” I smirk. “A way for curio dealers to part rich and stupid people from their creds. Parents tell their kids about the Eshvaren when they want them to grow up to be stellar archeologists.”

  Kal glowers at me with those big pretty eyes in a way that makes it hard to focus on what he’s saying. “The Syldrathi are the oldest race in the galaxy. Older than Terrans. Older than Betraskans. And we keep tales of the Eshvaren. They were the first beings to ever cross interstellar distances. The first to find the Fold.”

  “And Terrans still tell stories about the tooth fairy and Santa Claus,” Cat leans on the door frame, folding her arms. “Doesn’t mean they exist.”

  Aurora licks her lips, swallows hard.

  “Does the word … ‘Ra’haam’ mean anything to anyone?”

  We exchange a series of blank looks. Shake our heads or shrug.

  “It’s just … I’ve heard the word ‘Eshvaren’ before,” Auri murmurs. “ ‘Ra’haam,’ too.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Like on that busted uniglass of yours, or—”

  She shakes her head.

  “In my dreams …”

  Uncomfortable silence settles over the room. Cat looks at Tyler and shakes her head. Tyler’s looking at Auri, fingertips brushing the Maker’s mark at his collar. Auri’s eyes are locked on Dariel’s screen, on the image of that sculpture rotating on the display. She looks halfway between terrified and exhilarated.

  “So Casseldon Bianchi owns this thing?” Scarlett says, breaking the silence.

  Dariel comes to his senses, nods. “This and half the sector, yeah.”

  My cousin taps his keyboard, and the image of an alien appears on a second monitor. He’s Chellerian—tall and bipedal and broad shouldered. His skin is smooth and pale blue, his jaw heavy, his head hairless. He has four eyes, perfectly circular, bright red. The muscles in each of his four arms strain the fabric of his blindingly expensive suit. His grin is white and wide and full of razor-sharp teeth.

  “That’s Bianchi?” Scarlett asks.

  “The one and only.” My cousin nods. “Thank the Maker.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Dariel finds his smirk again, and shakes his head. “Oh, sweetheart, fairy stories aside, ain’t none of you doing a deal with him. He practically runs this place. He lives inside a reconditioned luxury liner—one of those old-time cruise ships that Tesellon Inc. used to run through the Thiidan Nebula. Nobody gets into that joint without an invitation, and most people who get invited never come out again. He runs the security force on the whole World Ship. Keeps holding cells underneath his ‘estate,’ where people go to disappear. If your business is bringing you into Bianchi’s orbit, then I recommend you either alter course, or settle up with me before you get yourselves cadaverous.”

  “He’s that dangerous?”

  “He’s worse than the Lysergia plague and the Selmis pox put together.”

  I look around the room at the faces of my squad. Cat’s a tiny ball of suspicion, staring right at the back of Auri’s head. Kal has his lips pursed in thought, even Zila looks a little put out. Scarlett glances at her brother, but Tyler is still peering hard at the image on the first monitor screen.

  The statue Aurora painted on the walls.

  “You notice anything about its eyes?” he says softly.

  I look at the display. Skeptical as I am about the artifact’s origin, I can’t help noticing that its gemstone eyes bear an awful similarity to Auri’s.

  One dark.

  One white.

  The younger Jones twin takes hold of Dariel’s chair, swivels it to face him.

  “Okay, Big Time,” he says. “Tell us everything you know.”

  16

  Tyler

  “Wow,” Scarlett breathes.

  It’s not often my big sister is reduced to being monosyllabic. Our father told us that when we were kids, Scar was speaking full sentences while I was still struggling with “dada.” But as we walk through the Bianchi Museum—visitors welcome holograph and into the ship’s grand entry hall, I can’t help but agree with her assessment. My eyes roam the graceful archways above our heads, the smooth curves of the alien architecture, the milling crowd and the beautiful exhibits. We’re here hunting down information about Aurora’s mysterious artifact, and tensions are high in the squad after her impromptu painting session last night. But even if we’re in it up to our eyeballs on this little adventure, this place is still breathtaking.

  “Yeah, it’s a sight,” I murmur.

  “Didn’t think you liked blondes, Bee-bro,” Scar replies.

  I raise a brow, look at my sister sidelong. And that’s when I realize she’s not admiring the architecture or crowd or exhibits; she�
��s checking out the security guards posted beside the door. Both are human, handsome, well armed and kitted out in dark blue power armor. Scar catches the blond one’s eye, gives him a wink. The guard grins with all due enthusiasm.

  “Come on, let’s take a look around,” I say.

  “I am looking around,” my twin protests.

  I take Scarlett’s hand and haul her inside, mind on our mission. Wondering for the hundredth time if I should have my head examined, if I wouldn’t be smarter just turning Aurora over to the authorities, if this wild-goose chase is going to lead me anywhere but a dishonorable discharge and a prison cell.

  “You must believe, Tyler.”

  That’s what Admiral Adams told me. And in the five years I served at Aurora, our academy commander has never steered me wrong. He’s the one who organized extra time in the simulators for me when I needed to practice zero-gee combat. He’s the one who arranged for me to take my astronav exam over again when I only scored a ninety-eight and he told me I could do better. He’s the one who sat with me in chapel, telling me stories about my dad—how they came up through the TDF together, both of them gun pilots. Rivals turned best of friends.

  Adams gave the eulogy at my dad’s funeral.

  Adams has always had my back.

  Always.

  But this time …

  “You must believe, Tyler.”

  Scar and I walk into the foyer of the Bianchi Museum, simulated sunlight illuminating the large open space. I couldn’t even guess the origins of this part of the station, but the structure is huge—maybe it was a cargo ship or freighter?

  Tall support pillars stretch floor to ceiling, and the place is filled by a milling crowd. Betraskans and Rigellians and Lierans and Terrans. Dozens more goons in power armor cover the entries and exits, but in our civilian clothes, we don’t raise an eyebrow. We’re surrounded by artwork and sculpture and displays from all over the galaxy. According to Finian’s cousin, this museum stretches over seventeen floors. So what we really need to find is—

  “Information?”

  Scar and I turn at the sound of the voice. A young Betraskan woman is standing behind us, smiling warmly in my direction. She wears a formfitting blue uniform with the star-shaped crest of Casseldon Bianchi on the breast. Above her small hat spin a dozen holographic logos, one of which is a question mark.

  “Do you require directions?” She smiles. “Mister Bianchi’s museum can be a little overwhelming at first. Is there a particular exhibit you’re interested in?”

  “Oh, thank you, that’s so sweet!” Scar smiles. Reaching into a pocket in her long, red coat, she holds up a picture of the sculpture that Auri scrawled all over the walls last night. “We’re looking for this?”

  The Betraskan woman looks at the pic, a tiny LED in a memory implant at her temple flickering. Reams of glowing data roll down her black contact lenses for a moment, her lashes fluttering.

  “Unnamed religious artifact from the Eshvaren Empire,” she finally says. “I’m afraid that exhibit closed quite some time ago. That particular artifact is now part of Mr. Bianchi’s private collection.”

  “Is there any chance we could get a look at it?” Scarlett asks, turning her smile up to eleven. “I’m studying galactic history, you see, and my thesis is …”

  The woman sadly shakes her head. “It wouldn’t be much of a private collection if it were open to the public, I’m afraid. Although we do have some other ancient artifacts on level th—”

  We hear a loud alarm blare, the lighting overhead dims to red. A Terran in a jetball cap and an I ♥ Earth T-shirt looks alarmed as eight heavily armed and armored security guards surround him and the glass case he’s leaning on. A shrill electronic voice spills out of the PA in a dozen different languages.

  “Please do not touch the exhibits.”

  “Sorry,” the guy says. He picks his greasy StellarBurger up off the glass case and the priceless alien relic inside. “I didn’t—”

  He yelps as the security goons hit him with a sickstick, drop him to the ground in a puddle of vomit. Grabbing him by the armpits, they haul the groaning man to his feet, dragging him through the crowd toward the exit. Our walking information booth follows the drama with a small scowl.

  “Your security takes things seriously around here,” I murmur.

  “They’re not ours,” the Betraskan mutters, looking at the guards with distaste. “Mr. Bianchi has put on extra personnel for the masquerade later this week.”

  “Masquerade?”

  The woman points to a projection on one of the walls. “It’s the fiftieth anniversary of the World Ship. There’s to be a grand celebration. Mr. Bianchi will be throwing one of his parties. Very exclusive. Very exciting.”

  “Oh, riiiight.” I nod. “Of course. The masquerade.”

  She blinks, looks me up and down. “You don’t have an invitation, do you?”

  “Um, no,” I say. “I just arrived.”

  “Pity.” She purrs. “I look amazing in a backless dress.”

  I let my dimples off the leash, and with a flirty smile, she turns away, moves off to help more lost visitors in the crowd. I watch her go, the words backless dress echoing in my head. It’s only when I look around that I realize I’ve lost Scarlett.

  My twin is almost six feet tall with bright blue eyes and flaming orange hair—it’s not as though she’s easy to misplace. I stand on tiptoes, looking around the throng, finally catching a flash of fiery red near the entrance. I realize Scar’s talking to the two security guards, laughing and smiling as the blonde leans in, one elbow on the wall above her head in that classic Intergalactic Romeo pose. She grins, toying with the secure-coded ID badge hanging around his neck.

  I walk over behind my sis, clear my throat.

  “Hey, Bee-bro,” she says. “This is Declan and Lachlan.”

  “Hey,” Blondie says, not looking at me. The other simply nods.

  “They just transferred here,” Scar explains. “This is only their fourth day on the World Ship. Declan came all the way from the Martian colonies, isn’t that amazing?”

  “Scar, we gotta go,” I say. “Remember we got that thing?”

  Blondie whispers in Scar’s ear and she laughs, smacking his armored chest. I rub my temples, try not to let too much frustration creep into my voice.

  “Scarlett?” I sigh.

  She shoots me a death stare, turns back to Blondie, and bumps her uniglass against his, transferring her contact details. “Don’t be late.”

  “The Great Ultrasaur of Abraaxis VI couldn’t keep me away.” He smiles.

  I wait patiently as they whisper a little more, then Scar takes my arm and, with a final wink at Blondie, walks me out of the Bianchi Museum. We wander along the promenade, back in the direction of Dariel’s flat. The colors and sights and sounds of the World Ship wash over us like a rainbow, and I wait till we’re well out of earshot before I speak.

  “Hot date tonight?” I ask.

  “Seven o’clock,” she replies. “Right after he gets off shift.”

  “That means he’ll still be dressed for work. And still carrying his ID badge.”

  “I told him I have a thing for guys in uniform.”

  “Clever girl.” I nod.

  “I am a Jones.” She smiles, squeezing my arm.

  I squeeze her back, suddenly grateful all over again that she’s with me. She might never miss an opportunity to give me a hard time, but I know my sister would follow me to the edge of the galaxy if I asked. If blood is thicker than water, Scar and I are practically concrete.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t have an ex working on this station already,” I say, stepping into a turbolift down to the hab levels. “You seem to run into one every other place we go.”

  “Are you passing judgment about my number of relationships, Bee-bro?”

  �
��Maker forbid.” I grin.

  “It’s not my fault I get bored. Or that boys get boring.” Scar pouts, taps her lip. “There is one tiny problem, though. More of a six-foot-seven problem, actually.”

  “The other guard?”

  “Yeah. Declan’s buddy asked if I had a friend.”

  “I hope you said no.”

  “I needed to sweeten the pot. I said I knew a girl just Lachlan’s type.”

  I fold my arms as the lift begins to descend. “Scar, you can’t take Zila on a double. She’s liable to shoot her date with a disruptor just to see what happens.”

  “I’m not talking about Zila, Ty.”

  “Well, you can’t bring Aurora, there’s a bounty on her head!”

  My sister rolls her eyes. “I’m not talking about Aurora, either.”

  I blink, putting the math together in my mind.

  “Oh no, you didn’t?”

  Scarlett chews her lip and nods.

  “I did.”

  •••••

  “No way,” Cat declares.

  “Look, it’s simple,” Scar insists. “Just sit and smile, let me do the talking.”

  “No. Bloody. Way.”

  “Come onnnn, roomie,” Scar wheedles. “This is just like old times. You and me? Two space queens on the prowl? It’ll be fun!”

  “It won’t be fun, it’ll be fu—”

  “Stop being such a pessimist!”

  “I’m not a pessimist, I’m a realist.”

  “Well, good because they’re rrrreal cute.”

  “I see what you did there.”

  “Cute.”

  “No.”

  “Cuu-uuuute,” Scar sings, wiggling her fingers.

  “Maker’s breath, I hate you so much right now, Jones …”

  We’re gathered back at Dariel’s damp stone den, sitting around his tiny lounge room while the life-support system rattles and hums overhead. The light in here is a little too dim for a human, provided mostly by the vines that cascade down from the ceiling.

  Aurora is curled up on the couch, knees beneath her chin, flicking through the history of the World Ship on the uniglass I gave her. Kal is sitting nearby, studiously ignoring the girl beside him and studying the imported stalactites instead. I’m not entirely sure what’s going on between those two, but it’s something I have to keep a watch on.