by Amie Kaufman
But still, I look into my Alpha’s eyes and see he’s just as confused as me.
“Good morning, legionnaires.” Adams salutes.
We salute back and murmur our good mornings as de Stoy speaks.
“We wanted to wish you and your squad good hunting, Legionnaire Jones.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Tyler replies.
“This is your first step onto a much bigger stage,” Adams says. “The challenges that await you may be unlike any you’ve imagined. But we have every faith in your ability to see it through. No matter what may come. You must endure.” Adams looks directly at Ty as he speaks. “You must believe, Tyler.”
This is just weird. No matter how tight Adams and Ty might be, the senior brass don’t directly brief grunts like us. We’re so far down the chain of command we’re practically invisible, and this mission counts for nothing at all. But here’s both academy commanders addressing us like we’re a First Class squad on a top-tier gig.
And then Adams looks directly at me, speaking the academy motto.
“We the Legion. We the light. Burning bright against the night.”
“…Yessir,” I reply.
“Burn bright, legionnaires,” de Stoy says. “The cargo you carry is more precious than any of you can know.”
“Maker be with you.” Adams nods.
“Um…,” Tyler says. “Thank you, sir. Ma’am.”
Their images hang there a moment longer, like they’re trying to burn us into memory. I wonder what the hells is going on. But with a final salute, the projections fade, replaced with the rotating projection of Sagan Station. We’re all staring at the place our commanders were a moment before, a little dumbfounded. And into the quiet, Zila Madran speaks a single word that sums all our feelings up spot-on.
“Odd…”
Tyler drags his hair back from his eyes, takes a seat. He’s all business once again, though I know he has to be asking himself the same questions I am.
“Right,” he says, leaning down to rub an imaginary scuff off his immaculate boot. “Kal, I want strategies if we come across hostile Syldrathi out there. Scar, I want diplomacy options with the refugees. Zila and Finian, you’re studying Sagan’s systems. We have six hours. Let’s get to work.”
“What about me?” I ask.
Tyler glances at me and raises that scarred eyebrow and his lips curl in that infuriating bloody smile.
“Keep us flying, Zero.”
Just you and me, Tyler.
Staring at each other across that barroom table and all those empty glasses.
We’d known each other since we were five years old.
I turn to my controls and plug in our course.
“Yessir,” I sigh.
Best friends forever, right?
AURORA LEGION SQUADS
▶ SQUAD MEMBERS
▼ TANKS
THEY’RE BIG, THEY’RE BAD, AND THEY’LL HIT YOU WHERE IT HURTS MOST. TANKS ARE THE MEMBERS OF AURORA LEGION (AL) SQUADS TRAINED TO BRING THE PAIN, AND I SUSPECT A DISTURBING PERCENTAGE OF THEM ENJOY IT.
TANKS SPEND ENDLESS HOURS IN GYMS, DOJOS, AND FIRING RANGES, HONING THEMSELVES TO PHYSICAL PERFECTION. GIVEN THE OPTION, THEY’LL SHOOT FIRST AND LET THEIR FACE ASK QUESTIONS LATER.
TANKS ARE SPECIALISTS IN MARTIAL ARTS AND ARE REQUIRED TO MASTER FIGHTING UNDER VARIED GRAVITY AND PLANETARY CONDITIONS. BENEFICIAL TRAITS INCLUDE DETAILED KNOWLEDGE OF MULTI-SPECIES ANATOMY, A TOLERANCE FOR PAIN, AND A RECREATIONAL INTEREST IN HURTING SMALL FLUFFY THINGS.
TANK’S INSIGNIA
The song is always the same.
It is two hours since we returned to realspace through the decrepit FoldGate near Sagan Station. Ninety minutes since the Syldrathi refugees aboard began negotiations. One minute since Scarlett Jones finally broke the news that a member of the Warbreed Cabal was present aboard our ship. Ten seconds since Sagan’s defense grid locked missiles on us.
Humans are such fools.
Well-meaning fools, sometimes.
But fools, always.
“…And I respect that, sir,” Scarlett Jones is saying, trying to ignore the large MISSILE LOCK flashing on our displays. “But Legionnaire Gilwraeth is our combat specialist. If we’re to fully examine your defenses—”
“No member of the Warbreed Cabal will set foot upon this station while I am First Walker!” comes the reply. “By the spirits of the Void, I vow it!”
I study the holographic projection Scarlett is speaking to. Taneth Lirael Ammar is an elder—at least two centuries old by the look. His skin is marred by faint wrinkles, and the silver sheen in his hair is darkened by age, swept back from the small sigil of the Waywalker Cabal etched on his brow. The glyf reminds me of my mother. How far I am from home.
What is left of it, anyway.
It is often said among other races that we Syldrathi are arrogant and aloof. That we hide our feelings behind walls of ice and stares of stone. But still, Taneth is clearly outraged at my presence. His violet eyes flash as he speaks, and a faint flush of anger shows at the tips of his tapered ears.
Tyler Jones raises his hands in supplication, trying to calm him. “First Taneth, Legionnaire Gilwraeth is a member of the Aurora Legion, and I can—”
“He is Warbreed!” Taneth glowers. “He is not welcome here!”
I look at my squad leader and bite down on the words I told you thus.
It has been two years since the war between Syldra and Terra ended. Twenty months since I tried to forge a new future as a member of the Aurora Legion, despite my mother’s protests. I have studied among the Terrans. Lived and worked and fought among them. And I still do not understand them.
They are like children. The youngest race among the galactic milieu. Oblivious in their righteousness. Firmly convinced that any problem can be solved with enough faith or good hard work or, when all else fails, bullets.
But they have not seen their sun die. Their people burn. Their world end. And they do not know, yet, that there are some breaks that cannot be fixed.
“Maybe there’s a compromise?” Scarlett Jones suggests to Taneth, running one hand through her flame-colored hair. “If you’re willing to let Legionnaire Gilwraeth into the cargo bay, he can deliver the medical supplies while the rest of us see to Sagan’s onboard systems?”
Hmm.
I look at the human who would speak for me.
A wise one.
First Taneth remains silent, stroking his brow in thought.
“Honestly, sir, the faster we work, the sooner we’ll be out of your business,” Tyler Jones assures him. “I give you my word, Legionnaire Gilwraeth will follow all AL protocols while aboard Sagan Station.”
I look at the human who would be my leader, eyes narrowed.
A trusting one.
Despite our diplomat’s assurances, I still do not believe Taneth will agree. Syldrathi are a noble and ancient people. The warriors who followed the Starslayer, who refused to accept peace with the Terrans, named themselves the Unbroken in their hubris. Even those of us who accepted the peace still felt our pride stung by the treaty. Though we Syldrathi are fallen far from what once we were, we do not accept charity from others. Especially not those who made their first stumbling steps into the Fold only a few hundred years ago.
And so I am surprised when Taneth purses his lips and bows his acquiescence. Looking at the shadows under his eyes, the desperation on his face, I realize their situation must be more dire than I imagine.
All is not as it seems here.
* * *
• • • • •
Our Longbow’s airlock hisses open, and I immediately taste stale oxygen and old sweat. Faulty lighting flickers in the cargo bay, and I see half a dozen Syldrathi waiting for us. They wear traditional robes, glyfs of the Waywalker Cabal etched i
n the flowing fabric, Void crystals strung on silver glass about their necks. They are tall and graceful. But thin. Haggard. Many have centuries behind their stares, and aside from a psi-blade at the waist of their youngest, none are armed.
Physical contact is an intimacy among my people. Syldrathi do not touch strangers, but I know it is custom among Terrans to shake hands upon meeting others. And so I am surprised when Scarlett Jones walks forward to Taneth, raising her fingers to her eyes, then her lips, then her heart in perfect greeting.
The First Walker repeats the gesture with a small, puzzled smile, obviously pleased to see a Terran so well versed in our ways.
Scarlett Jones introduces the other members of our squad. “Tyler Jones, our commander. Zila Madran, science officer. Finian de Seel, engineer. Catherine Brannock, pilot. And finally, Kaliis Idraban Gilwraeth, combat specialist.”
One by one, the Syldrathi close their eyes and turn their backs on me, until only Taneth remains facing us. And he does not spare me a glance.
“The five of you are welcome here,” he declares to the others. “Though we do not ask it, we will gratefully receive any assistance the Aurora Legion offers.”
Tyler Jones looks about the cargo bay, notes the fluctuating power, the wires and circuitry spilling from tears in the walls, the staleness of the air. He sees their plight as swiftly as I do. This station was abandoned by its original owners years ago, and without money and maintenance, it is falling apart. The people here are in obvious need. But still, a part of me is saddened to see those of my race lunge so eagerly for help. To prostrate themselves like beggars before children.
Once we walked the dark between the stars, unequaled.
What have we become?
“Where are the rest of your people?” Tyler asks.
Taneth blinks. “The rest?”
“Legion Command told us there were close to seven thousand refugees here.”
“We are a hundred at most, young Terran.”
Tyler Jones shares an uneasy glance with his sister. Zila Madran simply blinks, like an automaton storing data for later inquiry. Finian de Seel has the same question in his large black eyes as Cat Brannock does. As I do.
Why travel so very far, risk so much, for so few?
“Do you have a command and control center?” Tyler Jones asks. “We need a better look at your systems so we can prioritize repairs.”
“And a chapel maybe?” our Ace mutters, peering about the bay. “So we can ask the Maker what the hells we’re doing here?”
“We have a central control,” Taneth nods. “Please, follow me.”
He turns to the youngest among them—the female with the psi-blade at her belt. “Aedra, please oversee the delivery of the medical supplies. And watch”—a glance at me—“that. Carefully.”
The female glares at me with cold violet eyes. She replies in our own tongue. “Your voice, my hands, First Taneth.”
Tyler Jones looks at me with one eyebrow raised in question. I bow in reply, assuring him all will be well. My squad accompanies the Waywalkers into an elevator that looks older than Taneth, and twice as decrepit.
“You kids play nice, now,” Finian de Seel smiles.
The elevator rises slowly to the upper levels, clunking as it goes. It shudders to a brief stop for no apparent reason, and our Gearhead thumps the control panel to get it moving again. Finally, my squad disappears from sight.
I find myself alone with the female.
She is tall, willowy. Her skin is tanned, her hair silver, tied back from her brow and spilling in gleaming waves over her shoulders. Now that we are out of sight of the Terrans, she allows her disdain for me to show more openly, curling her lip, hatred glittering in her eyes. I know she is scanning me telepathically—my mother was also of the Waywalker Cabal, and she taught me the signs. I can feel the gentle press of Aedra’s mind on my own as she skims my surface thoughts.
I glance down to the hand on her psi-blade, see the glyf encircling her forefinger. She seems young to have answered the Pull. And yet, from the single teardrop inside the circle, I know her lifelove has already died and returned to the Void.
“May the spirits guide him home,” I offer.
She moves. Swift as a sunbeam. An arc of energy springs from her psi-blade’s hilt—mauve, crackling, reflected in her eyes as she raises it to my throat.
Something surges inside me as she brandishes her weapon.
The call in my blood.
The Enemy Within.
But I push him back. Forcing myself to be calm.
“You may have deceived those childlings you call your comrades,” she growls, “but I see your soul. You are born to brutality. Drenched in the blood of our homeworld. You and all your wretched kin.”
I know this song. Every Syldrathi cadet at the academy sang it. Every Syldrathi I have met since our star was burned to ashes. The glyf at my brow tells them who I am before ever I have a chance to speak. But I speak anyway, hoping the tune will be different this time.
“The Unbroken are no kin to me,” I say. “The Starslayer betrayed us all when he destroyed our homeworld. I bleed as badly as you.”
“Not yet, Warbreed,” she spits. “But speak to me again, and you shall.”
I look into her eyes, fighting the urge to meet rage with more rage. To succumb to what I was raised to be. The call is so strong, the anger so real, it feels like a flame in my chest. Threatening to burn me alive. Screaming for release.
Instead, I bow slowly, my palms upturned. Slower still, she lowers her blade. And turning to the Longbow’s airlock behind me, I clomp inside, busying myself with unloading our medical supplies.
I do not blame her for hating me.
I try to speak every time.
But the song is always the same.
* * *
• • • • •
“Kal, this is Tyler, do you read?”
The voice crackles from my uniglass as I step back into the cargo bay for the fifty-third time, placing the med container on the loading ramp with a thud. The containers are large, almost too heavy for me to carry. The work would pass twice as swiftly if Aedra would deign to help me, but she simply follows as I work, one hand on her psi-blade’s hilt, eyes on me at all times.
“I read, sir.”
“How’s it going down there?”
I glance at Aedra, who is studying the wall and trying to appear as though she is not listening to my every word. Her lip curls to hear me call a Terran “sir.”
“Slowly,” I reply.
“Well, take your time, we’re gonna be a while. Zila is getting life support back up to speed. Finian and Cat are checking defenses.”
Cat Brannock scoffs on her channel. “Such as they are.”
“It’s not exactly state of the art down here,” Finian de Seel agrees. “Their missile grid has been cobbled together from the skiffs they flew here in, so the good news is they probably couldn’t have shot us down even if they wanted to. But that’s also the bad news. Short-range scanners should be back online any second, though.”
“I will be finished unloading the supplies within the hour,” I say.
“Roger that,” my Alpha replies. “Anything you need in the meantime, sing out.”
“I would like to ask a question, sir.”
Scarlett Jones pipes in. “Is it the one about where babies come from?”
“No.”
“Someone’s going to have to explain it to you sooner or later, Spunky….”
I suppose she is trying to be funny.
“Since Syldra’s destruction, there are millions of Syldrathi refugees scattered over the galaxy. All of them in need. All without home or succor.”
“I’m not hearing a question, legionnaire,” Tyler Jones says.
“Of all the places they could send us,
why would Legion Command choose here? A derelict station in a nowhere system, with only a hundred people aboard?”
I can tell from the silence over the feed that my comrades were all asking themselves the same question. We may be the dregs of Aurora Academy. Most of us are in this squad because nobody else would have us. But it seems we are being punished for something we haven’t done yet.
“I don’t know, Legionnaire Gilwraeth,” comes our Alpha’s reply. “But I do know you and I swore an oath when we joined the Legion. To help the helpless. To defend the defenseless. And even though the—”
“Um, sir?” Finian de Seel says. “We might have a problem.”
“You mean aside from you interrupting my speech? Because I’d been practicing it in my head for an hour and it was gonna be great.”
“And I can’t tell you how distressed I am about that, sir, but I got scanners online as promised, and you know how Legionnaire Madran and her brain told us the odds of the Unbroken stumbling across us out here were eight thousand to one?”
“Eight thousand seven hundred and twenty-five,” Zila Madran corrects. “Approximately.”
“Well, maybe ‘approximately’ means something different on Terra, because a Syldrathi war cruiser just dropped in from the FoldGate. Fully armed. Wraith-class. They’re flying Unbroken colors. And they’re headed this way.”
Aedra looks at me across the cargo bay, her eyes growing wide.
“Um, totally unrelated question,” Scarlett Jones says. “But did anyone bring a spare pair of pants, perchance?”
“Yeah,” our Gearhead replies. “But I think I’m going to need mine.”
“Knock it off.” Our Alpha’s voice is hard with command. “Finian, I want those missiles hot. Zila, you’re on comms. Kal, I need you up here. Move!”
Adrenaline kicks me in the stomach, and I heft my crate of medical supplies, shuffle over to the perfect stack I’ve been building. We have perhaps ten minutes before that Unbroken ship is in range. A Wraith-class cruiser is small, with a crew of twenty-seven adepts. But still, with only our Longbow and this station’s crude defenses, we are outgunned and outmatched. The promise of violence tingles in my blood.
