by Amie Kaufman
A large bar sits like an island in the middle of the room, wreathed in light pink smoke. A row of screens rotates around it, showing a dozen fast-moving games. I might not recognize the sports they’re playing, but I know that’s what I’m seeing.
“Grab a table, Kal,” Tyler says. “I’ll scope out something to drink.”
I guess I’m not part of the team in Ty’s head when it comes to decision making, which ticks me off a little. I know I’m a newbie in all this, but I don’t like being treated like baggage, either. So instead of waiting to be led, I head off in a circuit of the room, Kal stalking along behind me.
When I find an empty booth with a good view of the whole bar, I slide in among the empty glasses and look up at the Syldrathi boy.
“Good enough?”
Kal glances around, and apparently happy with my choice, sits on the opposite side without a word. He presses a button on the table, killing the display of tiny 3-D figures playing space sportsball across it. I push myself into the corner, but he stays on the edge, watching the room rotate. The aliens here are all different shapes and colors, wearing everything from grungy mechanics’ jumpsuits to iridescent robes, and every level of formality in between.
I feel like I’m dreaming.
I feel like maybe I’m going insane.
My brain’s not hurting anymore at least, but my aching muscles remind me of what happened on the Longbow’s bridge. In my head, I can still see the image of myself on the vidscreen, throwing Scarlett into the wall without ever touching her. I can still hear the words I spoke with the voice that wasn’t my own. I force myself to look around the bar again. Is there some hint here I can find, something to help me guess why I—or whatever possessed me—insisted we come here?
“He will not be long.” Kal’s voice startles me.
“Huh?”
He nods at Tyler. “Do not worry. He will not be long.”
I hadn’t been worrying about that in particular. If anything, Kal looks more concerned than I do. I realize he’s not watching Tyler anyway—he’s got his eyes on a group of Syldrathi at the bar, all of them dressed in black.
“Friends of yours?” I ask, peering at the group.
“No.”
The word is heavy and lands between us like a weight.
“…Well, who are they?” I ask.
Kal just ignores me, his eyes never leaving the other Syldrathi. I find myself getting ticked off again. Tired of the way he speaks to me, or doesn’t speak to me at all. He might be six and a half feet of va-voom, but son of a biscuit, he’s infuriating.
“Let me guess,” I say. “I’m beneath their concern?”
“Almost certainly,” he replies, still not looking at me.
“So don’t worry my pretty little head about it, basically?”
“Correct.”
I breathe deep, my temper finally getting the better of me. “Are all Syldrathi as full of themselves as you are?”
He blinks, deigns to look in my direction.
“I am not full of myself.”
“If your nose were turned up any higher, it’d be in orbit,” I scoff. “What’s your problem with me? I didn’t ask to be here. I was supposed to wake up on Octavia III with my dad, and instead I’m in hiding on a pirate space station with a messed-up eye and stupid hair and a condescending jackass.”
A slow frown creases his tattooed brow. “What is a jackass?”
“Check a mirror, Elrond.”
The frown grows more quizzical. “My name is Kal.”
“You. Are. Insufferable.”
I fold my arms and glare. He stares at me, tilting his head.
“Are you…angry with me?” he asks.
I just stare at him, gobsmacked.
“Why are you angry?” he asks. “I have been protecting you.”
“No, you’ve been treating me like a little kid,” I say. “I’m not stupid. You haven’t taken your eyes off those other Syldrathi since we sat down, and your hand’s never left your pistol. So if you want to protect me so much, maybe help me understand why you’re on edge instead of ignoring me?”
He stares at me for a long, silent moment. I wonder if he’ll even answer. This boy’s lukewarm one minute, ice-cold the next, and I don’t understand him at all.
But finally, he speaks.
“My people are divided into what we call cabals. Weavers. Workers. Watchers. The Syldrathi you met on Sagan Station were Waywalkers. The most mystical of our number, devoted to the study of the Fold.” He taps the tattoo etched on his forehead. “We all wear a glyf here. The sigil of our cabal.”
I feel my temper calm a little. He’s still talking like Lord Snooty McSnootface, but at least he’s talking. That’s a point in his favor.
“Your glyf was different from the others on Sagan,” I say.
“Yes.” The word is heavy once again. “I am Warbreed. We are warriors.”
I consider him. Yes. That’s exactly what he is. Looking him over, I realize Kal was built for violence. The way he walks, the way he talks—every move he makes communicates it in subtle ways. There’s an anger in this boy, smoldering just below the cold, composed surface. He keeps a leash on it, but I could sense it when he squared off against Aedra on Sagan Station. And I can sense it again now as he turns back to look at the other Syldrathi.
“So which cabal are they?” I ask, nodding toward the group in black.
“None,” he replies. “They are Unbroken.”
“I thought you just said—”
“My people and yours fought for many years,” he interrupts, erasing all his brownie points and just annoying me again. “The war between us was bitter. I am one of only a few Syldrathi to have joined the Aurora Legion after the peace treaty. Most still mistrust me. That is why I was left to join the squad of Tyler Jones. But even after the hostilities ended, some Warbreed still refused to acknowledge the treaty between humans and Syldrathi. They called themselves the Unbroken, and they now war against those Syldrathi who supported peace with Terra.”
“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 are 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?”
“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 CEASE-FIRE, 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, wait
ing for him to speak.
He touches the chain around his neck, the ring hanging at the end of it, a faraway look in his eyes. I remember him doing the same thing in the med center. “My dad…he was a senator. But he was former Terran 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 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 sweet, sparkling liquid seems to almost vibrate on my tongue, 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 day by day I’m learning more about this galaxy I’ve found myself in. And I’m going to find the truth 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 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. They all carry themselves the same, though—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 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 springs from 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 his 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 perfect deadly 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 shoves a Table Rock player, steals his stick, and draws 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 is on the 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 full of bulging shopping bags. Scarlett steps in to do her diplomat thing, but her first words are drowned out by 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 flicker back to life once more.
And every single one of them is showing a picture of me.
