Aurora Rising: The Aurora Cycle 1

by Amie Kaufman

  “That’s its brain,” Dariel whispers, entranced, pointing at a blob of white inside the thing’s see-through head.

  “Jealous that it has one?” I snap. “Keep yours on the job, yeah?”

  He huffs as I switch my screen to Zila’s cam, trying not to reflect on the fact that I sound like my least favorite mother right now.

  I’ve got Kal and Zila on a separate comms channel. Goldenboy’s listening in to make sure he’s across both sides of the action tonight.

  There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere.

  The pair have made good progress, and they’re almost at their entry point, marching down a crowded public corridor and looking only marginally suspicious in their brightly colored and definitely stolen uniforms. Kal has his hands full of flat insulated boxes, marked Uncle Enzo’s—30 minutes or less. Zila’s wearing a pair of earrings with tiny pizza slices dangling from them. And somewhere in a storage cupboard down on level seventeen, there’s a couple of nearly naked fast-food delivery boys who’re gonna wake up with a real hangover later.

  Zila is awfully fond of that disruptor.

  “Okay, Zila, Pixieboy,” I drawl, just to watch him frown. “The cameras in this zone are now on a loop—I’m transmitting footage of empty corridors to the goons at Bianchi Central. But there’s still actual security patrols in the hallways beyond. I’m gonna guide you through them. So you move where I say, when I say. Clear?”

  “Clear, Legionnaire de Seel,” Zila says simply.

  “Get your uni close to the lock, I’ll pop it.”

  The pair reach a heavy blast door marked Authorized Personnel Only. Kal makes a show of dropping the delivery boxes, cursing fluently while Zila sidles up to the control pad. The encryption isn’t a cakewalk, but an academy-issued uniglass isn’t a toy, and while I’m good at fixing things, I’m better at breaking them. It takes me thirty-seven seconds to smash the intrusion counter electronics on the lock to splinters.

  Getting slow in my old age.

  “Okay, corridor ahead will be clear in twelve seconds,” I say. “That uniform suits you, by the way, Kal. You look good.”

  Pixieboy adjusts the ridiculous little hat on his head. “I look like a fool. It is too tight. How am I supposed to fight in this?”

  “I dunno. Sexily?”

  “You are not much of a warrior, are you, Finian?”

  “Well, you’re not …” I bite down on my comeback as the security patrol in the corridor beyond turns and walks around the corner. “Okay, corridor is clear, go, go.”

  Zila opens the blast door and slips inside, Kal right behind. Pixieboy hands Zila his delivery boxes, draws out his disruptor pistol from inside them. It’s not like he can fire it in here without bringing the house down, but he seems the sort who’s more comfortable with a weapon on hand.

  On my go, they make a dash for the next corridor, slipping into a maintenance closet a few seconds before another patrol rounds the corner. I’m watching seventeen cams at once, plotting the patrols’ course on an overhead schematic, trying to predict which way they’re going to move and see my kids through—

  “Great Maker … ,” mutters Dariel beside me.

  My heart lurches and I glance across to see what’s worrying him, only to find a giant silver … thing on the monitor. It has a row of perfectly white, straight fangs that would make a mass murderer proud. And another row of fangs behind that. Scarlett must be fascinated by it, too, because her micro-cam is following it as it swims up to the glass. Its skin ripples in a threat display, silver through to blue through to red.

  “I thought you were an atheist,” I growl, elbowing him as I turn my attention back to Zila, Kal, and the heist I’m attempting to mastermind.

  So hard to get good help these days. …

  But even as I’m complaining—and though Dariel’s about as much use as a waterproof towel—I can’t deny I’m having fun. Swapping family gossip with my cousin between fish talk, breathing in the scent of wet stone by the dim light of the vines and my screens, guiding my squadmates through terrifying adventures … Practically my childhood all over again.

  I weave my pair of assistants through another six hallways and two close shaves before the inevitable moment comes. “Okay, end of the line. Grav-generator room is dead ahead. Time for phase two, kids.”

  Kal peels away from Zila like a ghost. She stands perfectly still, waiting for him to move into position, dark eyes fixed on the ceiling, dark skin almost gleaming in the light of the overheads. She’s good at that—if she doesn’t need to be doing something, she doesn’t. Maybe so she can channel any extra brainpower she has into her master plan for taking over the galaxy. …

  “Okay, go,” I whisper, and she strolls out and around the corner in her delivery-girl outfit, looking lost.

  The four guards on the heavy blast doors at the other end of the hallway freeze in place. They scope Zila’s uniform and boxes, do a bit of confused math in their heads, then raise their weapons anyway.

  “Halt!” one shouts, and Zila obliges, going so far as to drop the boxes and raise both her hands as an added precaution.

  “This area is restricted!”

  “What’re you doing back here?” demands another, coming no closer until he has a better idea of whether she’s dangerous. Though I can already see the cogs turning. She’s so small. She’s ten meters away. How could she be dangerous?

  “I have a question,” she says, in that solemn way she has.

  The quartet look at one another blankly.

  “In entertainment sims,” she continues, “I’ve often seen scenes in which groups of guards are accosted by a seemingly harmless infiltrator, while a larger, more dangerous infiltrator uses the distraction to incapacitate them. I was wondering if you thought this was realistic behavior for trained security personnel.”

  The four blink at her, the way people often do around Zila Madran.

  “Are you c—”

  The guard doesn’t get any further before Kal drops from the air vent above and clocks him at the base of his skull. In a handful of seconds, he’s laid out the other three with barely a muffled shout. No disruptor required.

  “I genuinely believed you would get shot there,” Zila muses.

  Kal turns to look at her, eyebrows raised. “You said I had an eighty-seven point three percent chance of success.”

  She tilts her head. “I did not want you to be nervous.”

  “Okay, you two,” I say. “I gotta check on the A-Team. Grav-generators are just through those blast doors. Kal, hide the bodies. Zila, you’ve got my instructions.”

  “Is she dating anyone right now?” Dariel whispers, eyes on Zila.

  “I will cut your toes off,” I tell him. “One by one, and then you can watch as I feed them to your damned fish, if you don’t stop interrupting me.”

  He holds his hands up in a whoa no problem what’s your deal gesture, and I grit my teeth, turning back to the cameras.

  I’m scanning the jam-packed ballroom sector by sector, looking for the distinctive blue of Bianchi’s skin. But that stands out like a Betraskan in a snowstorm, which is to say not at all. He’s blue, and thanks to the light cast by the aquarium and the star-studded ceiling, so is every other thing in the room. Doesn’t help that every being at the party is wearing a damn mask over their faces.

  I keep my search methodical, working through each grid square, until finally I find him. He’s got all four hands in the air, waving them in time to the bone-shaking beat, razor-sharp teeth bared in a wild grin. He’s surrounded by what I can only describe as a harem, a dozen beautiful young things of a dozen different species, male and female, both and neither, all clustered around him. They’re dancing along with him, turned toward him like maza flowers to the sun.

  Beyond them is a ring of security personnel I’d safely describe as terrifying. They’re Chellerian
like Bianchi—big and blue, with more teeth than head. Their muscles barely fit into the suits they’re wearing, and given the quality of Bianchi’s tailors, that’s probably a deliberate choice. They stand in the crowd around their boss, four eyes apiece watching the throng, suspicious bulges in their jackets.

  “Okay, kids,” I tell my team. “Bianchi’s in the northwest corner. The amount of security he’s got around him, there’s only one way you’re getting close.”

  “And that is?” Goldenboy asks.

  “Dance like there’s ass in your pants.”

  “On it,” Ty says without hesitation, grabbing Aurora’s hand and hauling her into the crowd. I can just make out her squeak over the low thud of the music.

  Scarlett and Cat stay by the aquarium a moment longer. Scarlett’s studying the others who line the wall, but on her micro-cam I can pick up the nearest fish on the periphery, and now Dariel’s got me looking at the damn things, too.

  Casseldon Bianchi really does have one of every species in the galaxy, as best I can tell. This fish is serpentine, two meters long, as fiery orange as Scarlett’s hair. The real party trick, though, is the pair of huge venom sacs on either side of its face, each one bigger than its head, giving it the appearance of wildly ballooning cheeks. Its white eyes bulge, as if it’s as surprised by this development as I am.

  Cat, on the other hand, is staring straight at our Alpha and our stowaway, like she has been all night.

  I don’t like where this kind of fixation leads. We already saw one outburst, and even after she slunk back to Dariel’s den smelling like Larassian semptar, there’s been an uneasiness about her.

  “Uh, Zero,” I say. “Can you give me a sweep of the room?”

  She obliges, turning in a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree arc, giving me a good look at the crowd. There’s nothing to be seen that I couldn’t pick up through the overhead cams, but as expected, our infallible Face doesn’t miss the cue in my tone. She turns her attention back to the Ace beside her.

  “Why should they have all the fun?” Scarlett asks, suddenly grabbing Cat by the hand, pulling her out into the crowd.

  Cat’s spluttering, and Scarlett’s laughing, and despite the tension zinging through me, I grin, too. Scarlett has a great laugh. And now she’s sweeping our pilot into her arms, and dipping her over backward in an extravagant move.

  There are so many different species here that everyone’s dancing in their own way. In ones and twos and tens, hands linked, bodies intertwined or not touching at all. After five years at Aurora Academy, the hallways only ever populated by Terrans, Betraskans, and recently the odd Syldrathi, I’m not as used to this kind of mixing bowl as I used to be. I grew up with my grandparents on a station like this, and I love it.

  I’ve missed it.

  Scarlett and Cat have struck up the most ridiculous dance now, joined hands pushing out in front of them.

  “What are you doing?” I laugh down the line.

  “A tango. Traditional Terran dance, very romantic,” Scarlett tells me, though Cat’s laughter makes me wonder if they’re even close to how it’s supposed to go.

  Goldenboy and Aurora really don’t know how to dance together, but they’re both picking it up by sneaking looks at the crowd around them, and it’s kind of satisfying to see there’s something he’s not instantly on top of. But more importantly, they’re getting closer and closer to one Casseldon Bianchi.

  “Okay, you need to get near enough for me to snatch the signal,” I tell them as I sweep the cameras again, looking for trouble. “Not so close that those goons decide to bite your head off. Remember—”

  “One meter,” Ty and Auri chorus together.

  “They can be taught!”

  Zila speaks up on comms. “Finian, is this appropriate positioning?”

  I flick my gaze across to my other screen. Crap, they’re at the grav-generators already. I gotta keep juggling, gotta keep all my balls in the air.

  Heh, balls in the air.

  “That looks good,” I say. “Charges need to go on the secondary buffer.”

  “I am aware,” Zila agrees.

  “There’s a second patrol heading in your direction,” I say, “You might wanna have a plan to deal with them in case they notice those missing guards and stick their heads into the gen room. A distraction of some kind, maybe.”

  “Kal, did you brush your teeth this morning?” Tyler asks over comms.

  “Thankfully I do not think it will come to that,” Kal replies.

  Tyler laughs in answer and I hear Auri ask him what’s so funny. I make a mental note to ask him myself. Later. For now, I’m busy.

  “Set remote detonators and leg it back here,” I tell Zila and Kal.

  I glance to my other screen to check Goldenboy and Aurora’s progress. They’re getting close now—I can see Bianchi on their micro-cams. There’s just two rows of masked dancers between them and their quarry. They’re weaving through his security, lost in the swirl of light and color, so close now to the magical meter. The guards look wary, but not bitey. I’m guessing Ty and Auri look just the right flavor of pretty and gormless, grinning at each other like idiots.

  But they might just pull this off.

  My fingers are poised over my uplink, ready to jump the signal if Bianchi’s hand touches his bio-key. I dunno if I’ll manage it; there’s already a ton of traffic in that room. Snatching a specific stream is going to be like catching a knife while a thousand others are thrown at me, and I was never a very good catch in school.

  Good thing we’re not in school anymore.

  “Okay, just a litt—”

  The door of the den bursts inward off its hinges, smashing into a stack of Dariel’s junk and flinging it in every direction. The leaves of the flic vines burst into bright light at the sudden impact around them, and a stalactite breaks off the ceiling, missing me by a hair’s breadth before it shatters on the ground.

  Adrenaline kicks me in the gut, and I lunge without thinking for the cables connecting my makeshift rig, yanking them free. All my screens cut to gray static, and my view of the team is gone.

  A squad of goons burst through the breach, weapons up and locked. They’re in unmarked tac armor, but it’s hard to miss the fact that every one of them is Terran. Military haircuts. The physiques of humans who spend a lot of their day lifting up heavy objects and putting them down again.

  Dariel gawps like one of his damn fish.

  “You’re not supposed to be here yet!” he shouts.

  My stomach sinks as two figures walk in behind the thugs. Featureless gray suits, with featureless gray helmets, every possible hint of their identity hidden.

  Crap, crappity, craaaap.

  It’s the GIA.

  I hit the Mute button on my uniglass, slide it under an empty packet of Just Like Real Noodelz!™ And then one of the figures speaks, its voice an electronic monotone.

  “Hello, Legionnaire de Seel.”

  22

  Cat

  “Finian, we’re in position.”

  Tyler’s report crackles over squad comms, almost lost under the music. I’m watching through the swirling crowd, the flashing lights, the strobing blue. The beat is thudding in my ears and my pulse is thudding in my temples as I watch Tyler and O’Malley dance. They’re close now, close enough to Bianchi for Finian to work his magic. Tyler leans in as if he’s whispering something in O’Malley’s ear. She smiles as if it was funny. My jaw clenches.

  “Finian?” Tyler asks. “Do you read me?”

  No answer.

  I feel the butterflies in my stomach flutter then. They’ve been growing louder since the bar last night, since those G-men said their farewells and bumped my uniglass to transmit the paperwork—official documents, emblazoned with the GIA seal, signed off with my thumbprint. Words like immunity and cooperation and capture written in
bold. Words I don’t want to think about right now.

  “Has anyone got Finian on comms?” Tyler asks.

  “Fin, do you read me?” Scarlett asks beside me.

  Nothing.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

  Tyler leans in close to O’Malley’s ear again to mask the motion of his lips.

  “Zila, Kal, report status?”

  “Charges are set,” Pixieboy replies. “We have just left Gravity Control.”

  “We may have a problem. Finian is off comms. If he can’t snatch the signal, we can’t open the door to Bianchi’s office.”

  “Why is he off comms?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out. Head back to Dariel’s squat. Expect trouble. Scar, I want you to go with them as backup.”

  “And what are you going to do?” Scarlett asks.

  I look through the crowd, find Tyler’s masked face in the pulsing light. The mass of bodies is rolling and swaying around him, Bianchi and his concubines, people of all shapes and sizes moving in unity with the beat. But he stands perfectly still. Brow furrowed. Eyes narrowed. Mind racing.

  “Cat, meet us near the restrooms.”

  Scarlett meets my eyes, and I see the uncertainty. But once Ty has given an order, she’s not going to buck on him in public. She’s as loyal to him as I am.

  As loyal as I am.

  “Be careful, roomie,” I warn her.

  “You too,” she nods.

  We part ways, Scar moving off toward the exit, me diving through the crowd. Tyler and O’Malley are working their way out of Bianchi’s swarm of bodies, slowly, not attracting attention. I run my hand along the aquarium as I walk, watch a dozen luminous worm-things follow the path of my fingers across the glass. My heart is thumping. The music is so loud.

  “You all right?” Tyler asks when he sees me.

  “Five by five, sir,” I reply on instinct.

  I try not to notice the way O’Malley is hanging on to his arm. Tell myself she’s more overwhelmed by all this than I am. That she doesn’t know. Can’t know.