by Amie Kaufman
“Right out of the Legion, that’s for sure,” I say. “Dishonorable discharge. Probably prison. You worked for this since you were thirteen years old, Tyler. Are you so mad about missing the Draft you’re willing to throw your whole career into the recycler?”
“This isn’t about the Draft,” Tyler growls. “You heard what Adams told us. ‘You must endure. You must believe.’ ”
“But why?” I demand. “What about her makes you want to?”
“I don’t know.” Tyler shrugs, looks at O’Malley. “But I do. That’s what faith is.”
I grit my teeth. Resist the urge to slap him. To roar in his face. I look at Scarlett and she just shakes her head. Finian’s face is a mask, but it’s clear he’s reckless enough to go along for this ride. Zila’s watching me like I’m some kind of bug she’s trying to classify. Kal is silent, those cold violet eyes slightly narrowed. I’m outnumbered. Outgunned.
“Hells with this,” I spit, snatching up my jacket and marching toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Scar asks.
“I need a damn drink.”
“I didn’t dismiss you, Legionnaire Brannock,” Tyler warns.
“Then court-martial me!” I snarl.
I know slamming the door as I leave is a kid’s move. I know I’ll look like a little girl having a tantrum, mad because she didn’t get her way. I know it in my bones. All the way to the tips of my wings.
But I slam it hard enough to bust the hinges anyway.
* * *
• • • • •
“Gimme another.”
The bartender raises three of their eyebrows, proboscis quivering.
“Are you certain?” they ask. “You have consumed six already.”
“You know, your impression of my mum is getting really good,” I growl, tapping the lip of my glass with my finger.
The bartender shrugs, tops me up, and turns back to their other customers.
This place is a dive, neon lit and smoky, deep in the low-rent section of the World Ship. The band is loud and abrasive, the floor sticky. It’s the kind of place you end up at three in the morning when you want to brawl or bang. Not sure which way I’m leaning—yet.
Tyler.
I slam back the cheap ethanol in one shot, wince at the chemical burn in the back of my throat. Trying to figure out why I’m so mad. Is it really because he’s seriously considering this scam? Or because of who he’s doing it for?
“You must believe, Tyler.”
Tyler’s good at believing. Admiral Adams knew it. They went to chapel together every Saturday. You’d think religion might not have survived in the age of interstellar travel. The notion of faith was all but dead as humanity started reaching out to the stars. But after we discovered first one, then ten, then eventually hundreds of species, it didn’t really escape anyone’s notice that all of them were bipedal. Carbon based. Oxygen breathers. The odds of that were just too remote to be plausible. Stuff like that doesn’t happen by chance.
So hey presto, say hello to the United Faith.
I touch the Maker’s mark at my collar. That perfect circle etched in silver. Wishing I believed like Tyler did. Because I can’t. Because I won’t. Because even though we’ve been friends since I busted that chair over his head in kindergarten, because even though I followed him to the end of the Milky Way, he didn’t believe in me—in us—the way he believes in her.
“O’Malley,” I growl, nodding to the barkeeper again. They’re about to pour when a gloved hand covers the mouth of my glass.
“PLEASE ALLOW US.”
I turn, wondering if this is my bang for the night. My muscles tense as I realize it’s the exact opposite.
It’s wearing charcoal gray, head to toe to fingertips. Its face is hidden behind a featureless mirrormask, elongated and oval shaped. I can see my dull reflection in the surface. My eyes wide with surprise.
Holy crap, GIA.
I rise from my chair and a second gloved hand clamps down on my shoulder. There’s another agent behind me, I realize. Sitting with my back to the door in a bar this loud, liquored this hard, I didn’t even notice them sneaking right up on me.
Sloppy.
I’ve got no chance here. But my hand wraps around my glass in preparation for my swing anyway. If you gotta fall, fall fighting.
“PLEASE REFRAIN FROM UNNECESSARY VIOLENCE, LEGIONNAIRE BRANNOCK,” the first agent says, its voice sexless and hollow. “WE ONLY WISH TO SPEAK WITH YOU.”
“Everything okay here?” the barkeep asks, those three eyebrows rising again.
I look at the G-men. The pistols bulging beneath their jackets, the distance to the door. Crunching the odds as the music crashes in my ears and the booze thumps in my blood. And slowly, I sit back down in my seat.
“We’re good,” I say.
“ANOTHER DRINK?” the G-man asks.
“If you’re buying.”
“THE LARASSIAN SEMPTAR,” the GIA agent says. “THREE, IF YOU PLEASE.”
The barkeep complies, pouring us three bullets in three fresh glasses. The first operative sits on my right side. The other stays behind, staring at me in the mirror over the bar.
Once Old Three Eyes has shuffled off to serve their other customers, the first agent reaches into its gray suit. Moving slow and deliberate, it places a uniglass on the counter in front of me. Above the device I can see a small holographic projection of a third G-man—the creepy badass dressed all in white who nabbed the others aboard Sagan Station. From the instrumentation behind it, I can tell it’s standing on the bridge of a Terran destroyer.
“GOOD EVENING, LEGIONNAIRE BRANNOCK,” the figure says, its voice expressionless. “WE HAVE NOT BEEN INTRODUCED. YOU MAY REFER TO ME AS PRINCEPS.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.”
I lift my glass to my lips and tip it back slow. Taste smoke and faint sugar and notes of sheer bloody adrenaline on the back of my tongue.
The other two glasses sit in front of the operatives.
Untouched.
“YOU ARE A VERY LONG WAY FROM HOME, LEGIONNAIRE BRANNOCK,” the small holograph says.
“No home like the black,” I reply, smiling around the old Ace saying.
“THE INSIDES OF THE CELLS AT LUNAR PENAL COLONY ARE NOT BLACK,” Princeps replies. “THEY ARE GRAY. NO SKY. NO STARS. JUST GRAY. FOREVER.”
“You trying to scare me, G-man?” I hold out my glass to the bartender again with one rock-steady hand. “Because I’m shaking.”
“I KNOW IT IS DIFFICULT TO SEE,” Princeps says as the barkeeper pours. “BUT THERE IS A WAY OUT OF THIS. FOR YOU AND YOUR SQUAD.”
“WE DO NOT WANT YOU,” the one behind me says in my ear, electronic voice crawling on my skin. “WE ONLY WANT AURORA O’MALLEY.”
“THE REST OF SQUAD 312 WILL BE FREE TO LEAVE ONCE SHE IS IN OUR HANDS,” Princeps nods. “RETURN TO THE ACADEMY. YOUR CAREERS. YOUR FRIENDS. YOUR LIVES. YOU NEED NOT THROW AWAY ALL YOU HAVE WORKED FOR, LEGIONNAIRE BRANNOCK.”
I blink hard. Shake my head. “I’m sorry, Princess, could you repeat that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of all the shits I don’t give.”
I slam back my shot, stand up slow.
“Thanks for the drink.”
The operative behind me grabs my arm with one gloved hand. The grip is perfect. Hard enough to hurt. Soft enough to let me know it could hurt a lot worse.
“THE GIRL YOU ARE HARBORING IS AN ENEMY OF THE TERRAN PEOPLE. THE ENTIRE TERRAN DEFENSE FORCE IS NOW ON ALERT AND DEVOTED TO HER CAPTURE. AND SHE WILL BE OURS.” The agent’s voice goes soft and dangerous. “WITH OR WITHOUT YOUR HELP.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s why you’re skulking around dive bars at ungodly o’clock in the morning, huh?” I sneer, motioning at the uniglass on the bar. “This guy isn’t even in the same bloody sector as the rest
of us.”
“THE BELLEROPHON IS EN ROUTE TO YOUR LOCATION EVEN AS WE SPEAK, LEGIONNAIRE BRANNOCK,” Princeps says. “YOU CANNOT ESCAPE FROM US. BUT A TDF INVASION OF THE WORLD SHIP WILL CAUSE UNNECESSARY LOSS OF LIFE. WE HOPE TO RESOLVE THIS ISSUE WITHOUT VIOLENCE. AURORA O’MALLEY HAS KILLED ENOUGH OF OUR AGENTS ALREADY.”
My eyes narrow at that.
“YOU DID NOT KNOW?” Princeps asks. “SHE MURDERED TWO OPERATIVES ABOARD THE BELLEROPHON. CRUSHED THEM LIKE PAPER CUPS WITH A THOUGHT.”
Princeps disappears from the screen, replaced with an image of what might be an interrogation room. Two charcoal-gray suits. Blood and guts smeared along the floor and three meters up the walls.
My stomach surges. I swallow hard. “Maker…,” I breathe.
“THIS IS THE GIRL YOU ARE HARBORING. SHE IS NOT WHAT SHE APPEARS, LEGIONNAIRE BRANNOCK. SHE IS DANGEROUS. TO YOU. TO THOSE YOU CARE ABOUT.”
I shake my head. “It’s not my call. An Ace backs her Alpha. Always.”
I glance at the agent behind me, staring at my reflection in that faceless mask.
“Always.”
“YOUR LOYALTY TO TYLER JONES IS ADMIRABLE,” Princeps says. “BUT SURELY YOU MUST HAVE WONDERED AT HIS RECENT DECISIONS? DOES HE TRULY SEEM HIMSELF?”
“AURORA O’MALLEY CAN CRUSH PEOPLE WITH HER MIND,” the second operative says. “DO YOU NOT WONDER WHAT SHE CAN DO TO THE MINDS OF OTHERS?”
“Are you saying she can…control us?” I demand. “Control him?”
“WE ARE SAYING YOUR MOTHER WAS A LOYAL MEMBER OF THE TDF UNTIL THE DAY SHE DIED,” Princeps says. “AND WE ARE HOPING HER DAUGHTER SHARES HER LOYALTIES.”
The GIA operative releases its grip on my arm.
I look toward the door. I look at my face in its mask.
Tired. Wired. All the way scared. I glance at the picture on the screen of the G-man’s uniglass. Think about the Longbow shaking like a leaf as we tried to change course. Scarlett being thrown back into the wall with a flick of O’Malley’s wrist. Tyler pushing us closer and closer to the edge.
Lying with him on those crumpled sheets the morning after, shivering as he traced the lines of my tattoos with his fingertips.
And it still wasn’t enough.
“WE CAN OFFER ASSURANCES. IN WRITING. FOR YOU AND YOUR SQUAD.”
I chew my lip. Grit my teeth. And sitting back down on the stool, I look at the G-man’s featureless face and hold out my glass to the bartender.
“Gimme another.”
There is no way we’re getting in and out of Casseldon Bianchi’s private office without getting caught.
“I can’t believe you thought this would fit me,” Cat grumbles behind me, yanking at her jumpsuit again. “The girls are going to fall out of this thing, Scar.”
“I did offer you one of my bras,” Scar replies.
“I thought you were being sarcastic.”
Scarlett shoots Cat a sympathetic smile. “Maybe a little.”
We’re standing in the long, winding line for Casseldon Bianchi’s grand gala, Ty and me, with Cat and Scarlett behind us, decked out in the fanciest outfits Scarlett’s bargaining and Dariel’s connections could offer. Scarlett and Tyler look smooth as always, but Cat couldn’t look more uncomfortable in formalwear if the stuff was woven out of poison ivy. We’re slowly shuffling up toward the doormen (door aliens?) who’ll check our invitations.
And everybody’s nervous.
“Your girls will be fine,” Scarlett promises Cat again, adjusting her mask. “It’s meant to fit like that. You look great. Wow, so do I. I love this dress.”
I hear Fin’s voice, crystal clear through my tiny earpiece but sounding a bit uneven. “Maker’s bits, Scarlett…Not that you don’t have an appreciative audience back here at base, but if you’re going to give us a view like that, maybe a little warning? Dariel just dropped a mug of hot caff all over me, I think he’s short-circuited something in my suit.”
“Just doing my bit for morale,” Scarlett purrs, smug as can be.
“I mean, normally I wouldn’t complain,” Fin adds.
“I’ll give you something to complain about,” Cat mutters.
We’re nearly at the front of the line, and now I’ve got a clearer view of the pair of aliens—both perfectly identical—who are checking invitations. They have leathery brown skin and small heads that remind me of binoculars, huge eyes dominating their faces. Their necks look a little too thin to support them, and their arms are long and spindly. As I watch, one leans right out over its silver podium to extend a long twig-like finger and trail it slowly across the invitation that a particularly tall, pink-skinned woman is offering up for inspection.
“They’re really looking at the invites carefully,” I murmur, and at my side, Ty tilts his head in closer to mine to get a look.
“Confidence,” he murmurs. “Slow breaths. Play it like you belong here.”
My gut does a slow flip. I don’t belong. Not just here, but anywhere in the galaxy. I was supposed to live two centuries ago. The tiredness and the fear feel as though they’re stretching the bonds that held me close to my family until they’re dangerously thin, ready to snap and leave me utterly alone.
I’m not sure what will happen then.
Dariel swore the invitations were as good as real—which isn’t the same thing as real, but Fin seemed to trust him. Our Betraskan squadmate looked a little sick at asking the favor, and I could tell that somewhere in the complex web of family obligations, he’d just racked up another big one. He’s been talking a little extra, a little more obnoxiously, ever since. Covering his nerves, I think.
I’m slowly learning them, these six young soldiers who hold my life in their hands. Though even if I’d met them five minutes ago, I couldn’t miss Cat’s simmering frustration. I’m standing arm in arm with Ty, and she’s behind us, arm in arm with Scarlett, and I can feel her gaze burning two holes right between my shoulder blades. My skin gives an uncomfortable twitch.
The outfit that’s bothering her so much is the most incredible tailored jumpsuit I’ve ever seen. It’s the same one I saw in my vision of her—navy blue, strapless, and, despite her protests, structured enough to keep everything where it belongs. She’s paired it—or rather, Scarlett’s paired it—with silver boots that look like someone smashed a mirror to a million pieces, then glued it onto them in a perfect mosaic, and the mask covering her eyes is made of the same stuff.
She wears a thick, gleaming gold belt and no other jewelry—her tattoos are gorgeous, and they do the work for her, the jumpsuit’s back cut low enough to show off the spectacular hawk inked across her shoulder blades, matching the phoenix across her throat. Skin pale, eyes dark, and hair darker, she looks fearsome. The sort of person I want on my side, if only I could be sure she was.
She keeps looking at me in a way that makes me wonder.
Scarlett’s dress is a perfect complement to her Ace’s outfit, a deep turquoise gown that hits the floor—again, the exact same one I saw in my waking dream, though she brought it home without me ever describing it to her. A shiver went straight down my spine when I saw it.
How did she know which one to buy?
Scarlett’s strapless gown (down which Fin and Dariel just had the view of a lifetime, I’m pretty sure) picks up the shattered-mirror motif from Cat’s boots with a thousand silver beads, which are scattered over her dark skirts like the first stars in the night sky. About three hundred buttons travel from her mid-back to the floor. It took Zila and me—the pair with the smallest fingers—half an hour to get them all fastened. Her mask sets off her big blue eyes with more flecks of silver.
Both of them look so fit, so fierce, now that they’re not hidden under their Aurora Academy jumpsuits. I know I should be nervous, but I can’t help but feel a little fiercer beside them.
My own dress is the cutest thing
I’ve ever worn. It’s exactly what I would have chosen for my prom, if I’d ever had one.
I wonder what Callie wore to hers.
The fitted bodice is red-and-gold embroidered silk swirling in intricate designs. It has perfect cap sleeves and an upright collar hooked closed at the neck. The top half is just like my qipao at home, but the knee-length skirts are a thousand flouncing layers of red tulle. I wanted to twirl like a freaking ballerina when I put this thing on, but Scarlett was looking at me super intently.
“I wasn’t sure if the silk was right,” she said.
I looked down, smoothing it with one hand. “It’s perfect.”
But her gaze had lingered, and it was a long moment before she spoke again, uncharacteristically hesitant. “You said your father— I mean, I know it’s not actually Chinese, but…”
And that was when I realized she’d tried to get me something that would remind me of home. And I found I’d lost my breath, as well as my words.
“It’s…” I took a second swing at it. “It really is perfect, Scarlett, thank you. I think he’d have loved it. Keeping our culture alive was important to him.”
It sounded like someone else speaking, talking about my dad in the past tense. I could hear how careful my voice was, a fraction too cheerful, overshooting the mark by just enough to show her how hard I was trying.
Keeping our culture alive in our family was important to him. When I was growing up, the way to put off bedtime just a little longer was to ask for another traditional story from the big, old-fashioned book on the shelf. After he left mom behind, I was so angry at him I’d have said story-time routine was just another example of something mattering more to him than his family. He wouldn’t spend extra time together for me, but he would for the all-important traditions.
But maybe he just wanted an excuse to spend a little more time together as well.
Scarlett busied herself neatening my hair, carefully blacking out the white streak, and gluing the micro-cam disguised as a beauty spot in place on my cheek. It was an intimate moment, but the touch didn’t feel like an imposition. It felt like a comfort. “Ty and I, we understand,” she said quietly. “We know what it’s like to lose a parent. Cat, too, and Zila. If you need to talk about it, I’m your girl.”
