by Amie Kaufman
Scarlett looks after us because she cares.
She catches me watching her.
“Go to sleep, Finian,” she whispers.
I close my eyes and let the slow breathing of my squadmates lull me to sleep.
I dream of home, of Trask, with its red sun and sprawling city hives running deep beneath the ground. I’m topside in my dream and it’s snowing, tiny flakes spilling from the sky and covering the unforgiving white rock surface in an endless thick blanket, far as my eyes can see.
It’s the weirdest thing, though.
Last time I checked, snow isn’t supposed to be blue….
* * *
• • • • •
I wake up to the sound of Tyler and Cat arguing in whispers.
“I don’t care,” she hisses. “This is bloody creepy, Ty. And we’re in it up to our love pillows already. She’s a wanted fugitive. We need to turn her in.”
“We don’t even know what this is,” he points out, just as soft.
Zila’s voice comes next. “It appears to be repetitions of a single image.”
I roll over from where I’m huddled in against the wall. My major servos and muscle-weave activate immediately, though my fingers take a moment to articulate. Cranking open my eyes, I’m greeted with our grungy little room and…
Maker’s bits.
By the light of Cat’s uniglass, I see a design—the same design—daubed over and over again in the luminescent white paint. It’s on every grubby wall, every hatch, every crate, and it’s slowly dribbling toward the floor, where one huge version of the design takes up all the space that wasn’t needed by sleeping squad members.
It’s a figure. Humanoid. But it has only three fingers, which grow longer from left to right. Its eyes are mismatched—the left one empty, the right one filled in white. And there’s a shape drawn on its chest where its heart would be.
A diamond.
Kal wakes, and Scarlett opens her eyes after a nudge from her brother. She props up on one elbow with a groan, arches her back, then freezes in place when she spots the hundreds of glowing figures now decorating our temporary home. The six of us sit and stare at the paint on the walls.
“Zero’s right,” I say quietly, looking around. “This is spooky shit, Goldenboy.”
At the sound of my voice, our stowaway stirs in the bunk where she slept with Zila. She sits up and dangles her legs over the edge, yawning, squinting at the light in Cat’s hand. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she blinks around the room, finally twigs we’re all staring at her.
“What?” she asks. “Was I snoring or something?”
Her fingers are smudged with luminescent white.
There’s a smear of paint across her cheek.
She looks at the pictograms on the wall. Down at the paint on her fingertips. The look on her face when she realizes this was her—or that she did it, at any rate, even if it wasn’t her—kind of breaks my heart. At least, I assume that’s what the ache and contraction in the center of my chest is.
Doesn’t happen too often.
“I don’t…” Her whisper trails off.
Kal drops down silently from the top bunk to peer at the design. He turns his eyes on Aurora, a small frown between his brows.
“Why do you fear?” he asks, his voice cool. “This is a sign. We are in the place we are supposed to be. And now we know something of what we seek.”
It’s definitely the most practical thing anyone’s said so far, but his tone doesn’t help calm Auri down any. She’s got her jaw clenched, eyes wide, and I can see her fighting the urge to scream. Cry. Break. Which is exactly when Dariel opens the door. Without knocking.
He pauses halfway in, blinking slowly. “I see you’ve redecorated,” he says eventually. “I’ll put the cost of that paint on your tab.”
Nobody says a word, because really, what are we going to say? But my cousin doesn’t seem to understand he’s walked into the middle of an awkward situation. He blinks again, then squints at the biggest of the designs, painted on the floor by Scarlett’s feet.
“You people art buffs or something?” he says. “What you painting that old chakk on my floors for anyway?”
The room comes alive.
“You recognize this?” Tyler says, immediately on his feet.
“What the bloody hells is it?” Cat, less delicate.
Scarlett stands in one smooth movement, the groaning of a moment before, the night on the floor, all forgotten. She shoots Cat a shut up smile, turns the high beams on my cousin.
“You really do know this place inside and out. Color me impressed.” She smiles a little wider, leans a little closer. “This…chakk…is something we’re looking for. If you could help us out…?”
A lot of people assume all Betraskans are traders—which is kind of hilarious, if you think about it. I mean, a whole society made up of nothing but? Who’d manufacture anything? Who’d plumb your house, design your latest comms gear? Betraskans are as many and as varied as any other species.
But every Betraskan likes a deal, no question of that. And we know how to get one. Which is where the universal rep came from, I guess.
We know how to bargain, and the de Seel clan is famous for it.
“Mmmmaybe,” says Dariel slowly, with the air of a man realizing he has valuable information in hand. “Yeah, I think maybe I can do that.”
“For a favor, maybe?” I ask.
Dariel smiles at me. “You catch on quick, Cuz.”
I glance at Aurora. At Goldenboy. Hoping Tyler knows what the hells he’s doing and how deep we’re sinking. But it’s not like we’ve got much choice here.
We follow Dariel out into the main room, cluster around him as he sits at his console. Scarlett’s leaning close, one hand on his shoulder, watching the screen as he logs in to the Sempiternity network. I pick a dry spot and lean against the cool of the stone wall, easing a glowing vine out of my way.
“It was an exhibition,” he’s saying, one hand flipping through the air to alter the holographic display. “About a year ago. I made some quick creds putting up the posters. Casseldon Bianchi, art connoisseur and resident of the one and only World Ship, Sempiternity, put it in his museum…. Here it is.”
Dariel’s console projects an advertisement he’s found in 3-D. He swipes again, and the display spins, showing off vases and paintings, necklaces and bowls and sculptures and things I’m not civilized enough to appreciate.
Beside me, Auri abruptly leans in at the sight of a glazed ceramic bowl. “That’s Chinese. How did it get all the way out here?”
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 change 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.
“That’s one word for it,” Cat snorts.
Dariel’s display stops moving again, and suddenly there it is on his screen—our mystery object. 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 archaeologists.”
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 doorframe, 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…”
An 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, and 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 one 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.”
AURORA LEGION SQUADS
▶ HISTORY
▼ WAY BACK WHEN
FIGURING OUT EXACTLY WHEN RECORDED HISTORY BEGAN IS A NIGHTMARE FOR ARCHAEOLOGISTS, HISTORIANS, AND MATHEMATICIANS.
WE KNOW THE UNIVERSE IS AROUND 13.8 BILLION YEARS OLD, BUT CONCEPTS OF BOTH TIME AND RECORD KEEPING HAVE VARIED WILDLY AMONG ALL 475 CURRENTLY KNOWN CIVILIZATIONS IN THE MILKY WAY. THE SYLDRATHI ARE CONSIDERED THE OLDEST CIVILIZATION IN THE GALAXY, BUT THEIR HISTORIANS—MYSTERIOUS BASTARDS THAT THEY ARE—ARE FOND OF INTIMATING WITH KNOWING EXPRESSIONS AND PATRONIZING SMILES THAT OTHERS CAME EVEN BEFORE THEM.
OF COURSE, THEY COULD JUST BE MAKING IT UP. SNOOTY JERKS.
FOR FURTHER INFORMATION, CONSIDER SEARCHES ON THE FOLLOWING GROUPS, RUMORED BUT NOT PROVEN TO HAVE EXISTED:
▶ THE ESHVAREN
▶ THE OCTARINE FLEET
▶ THE SAINE OF ISTA
“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, 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 blonds, 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 grab 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’ve served at Aurora, our academy commander has never steered me wrong. He’s the one who secured me extra time in the simulators 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 said 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 through 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?
Support pillars stretch floor to ceiling, and the place is packed. 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 any eyebrows. 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 its breast. Above her small hat spin a dozen holographic logos, one of which is a question mark.
