“I do not pretend to understand what is happening here,” Zila says, starting for the door. “But this pilot is a part of it. We must speak with her.”
I exchange a look with Scar, and we follow our Brain down the stairs. Trekking down to the cargo bay, I find myself trying to make sense of all this.
I’m not the genius Zila is, but I’m no slouch either, and none of it is adding up. While I’m worried about saving our own hides, worry about Auri is also nagging away at me—what the hells happened to her, to the Weapon, to the Syldrathi fleet we were right in the middle of?
Is the battle on the edge of this system still under way? Is that why this pilot was so jumpy? Thing is, we saw the Betraskan fleet arrive to defend Terra against the Unbroken—we’ve been allies since our war ended nearly two centuries ago. There’s no two planets in the galaxy tighter than Terra and Trask. So why did she freak out when she saw me?
We arrive in the bay. The lighting is dim, the smell of burned plastene sharp in the air. Through the plexiglass on the airlock, I can see the Terran fighter ship now positioned directly behind us. Just like that station out there, it’s no design I’ve ever seen. But truthfully, I got bigger concerns.
“So, listen,” I say. “Last time Flygirl laid eyes on me, she blew us to many small pieces. Maybe I should just, you know, hang back a little?”
“She already knows you are here,” Zila points out.
“She knows something’s up,” I correct her. “We don’t know how much she remembers. I mean, maybe we’re the ones causing this anomaly. Exposure to Auri or the Weapon or the explosion or something. Flygirl might be feeling the side effects to a lesser degree. We don’t know.”
Zila tips her head to one side, wordlessly indicating how unlikely she thinks this is.
“What happens if I die and you don’t?” I ask. “Does the loop still begin again for everyone, or do I just stay dead? There’s too much about all this we don’t know. And to be honest, I don’t want to get shot in the face, okay?”
“Fair,” Scarlett agrees.
“Optimistic,” Zila murmurs.
There’s a clunk outside the airlock, signaling the arrival of our guest. I hide behind a stack of crates, one hand on the grip of my academy-issue disruptor. All three of us are silent as the lock cycles, but tension is singing through me while I watch the hatch through a crack in my cover.
Scarlett and Zila both keep their hands in clear view, and I try to keep my body loose, my grip on my disruptor pistol relaxed. Which isn’t easy, with the same song beating through my head over and over, like a drum.
What. Is. Going. On.
With a hum, the door slides open, revealing a slight figure about Zila’s size and build. She wears a black flight suit, a helmet, and a breathing mask, and holds a heavy sidearm in one hand.
Her opener is not friendly. “Where’s the Betraskan?”
“Hello,” offers Scarlett. “Lovely to meet you. My name is Sca—”
“Where’s the Betraskan?”
Okay, well, it was worth a try.
“I’m here,” I sigh. Before anyone gets shot, I holster my disruptor and stick my hands out around the edge of the crate to show I’m unarmed.
“Come out slow,” she orders. “Real slow.”
I obey, hands high. “You know, usually people don’t want to murder me until they’ve gotten to know me a little better than this.”
I’m trying for cocky, but I can hear the shake in my voice. Maybe I’ve died repeatedly already and somehow come back, but my body doesn’t understand that. It’s pretty sure it’s getting shot, sooner rather than later, and it’s not okay with it.
I study the lieutenant’s gear—it doesn’t look like any uniform I’ve ever seen on a member of the Aurora Legion, the Terran Defense Force, or the Global Intelligence Agency. It’s mostly black apart from some silver insignia. The only color on the whole rig is the design on her helmet, some kind of big bird with wings spread, sharp talons flashing.
I always get mixed up with Terran birds. Canary maybe? Pelican?
No, that’s not right… .
But I can see our visitor has the name K IM stenciled across her pocket, and a lieutenant’s insignia on her shoulders. Lieutenant Kim, then.
Nice to meet you.
“So,” Scarlett smiles. “As I was saying, my name is Scarlett. This is my science officer, Zila, and my engineer, Finian. It’s good to f—”
“Get on your knees,” Kim commands. “Fingers laced behind your head. All of you. Slowly.”
Scarlett is as good at knowing when to shut up as she is at knowing when to speak and what to say. She silently eases down to the deck, and Zila follows with that slightly spacey expression that says there are furious internal calculations taking place. My exo whirs and hisses as I ease down beside them, wincing at the jolts of pain running through my knees.
“What’re you wearing?” Lieutenant Kim asks me. “Is it for combat?”
“Combating gravity,” I tell her. “I need it to walk. There’s no weapons in it, if that’s your worry. Though it does have a built-in bottle opener?”
Zila speaks as if there wasn’t already a conversation under way. “That station is trailing a quantum sail at the edge of a dark matter storm.”
“That’s classified,” Lieutenant Kim snaps.
Zila’s eyes shift, as though she can see through the shuttle’s hull. “My colleague Finian suggested it is trying to harvest dark energy?”
“Except nobody does that anymore,” I say. “Not anywhere.”
“Not anywhere,” Zila whispers, a little creepily, if I’m being honest.
“I’m asking the goddamn questions,” Kim growls. “Who sent you? Are you bleach-head spec ops? How did you find us all the way out here?”
Scarlett tries to smooth things over. “Lieutenant, I give you my word—”
“Your word?” Lieutenant Kim scoffs, points her pistol right at me. “You two are working with this bastard against your own people? Betraying Terra? You know what happens to traitors in wartime?”
“Wartime?” I blink. “Are you drunk? We haven’t been—”
“Shut your mouth, Bleachboy!”
I blink. “Bleachboy?”
“Not anywhere … ,” Zila whispers again.
“Look, what the hell is wrong with her?” Kim demands, glowering at Zila.
Scar waves dismissively. “Oh, she does this sometimes.”
Zila looks at the lieutenant again, nodding toward the airlock doors. “Your fighter ship. It is an old Pegasus model. Mark III, yes?”
“Old?” the pilot scoffs. “Sweetie, she’s so new her paint is still wet.”
Zila nods. “Not anywhere.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Nobody does this anywhere,” Zila says softly. “But Terrans did briefly try dark quantum farming. Back when we were at war with the Betraskans, in fact. During the first days of our exploration into the Fold.”
I realize at last what Zila’s implying, and my brain stutters to a halt.
She can’t be serious.
There’s no way.
Except …
“I don’t recognize her uniform,” I whisper. “And the station is so old-fashioned… .”
This. Cannot. Be. Happening.
“Not anywhere.” Zila nods. “Anywhen.”
“Maker’s breath,” Scarlett whispers.
Lieutenant Kim has obviously had enough and raises her gun. “You will explain what you mean right now. Or I start shooting.”
“You will not believe me,” Zila assures her.
“Try me.”
“What year is it? Right now?”
Lieutenant Kim scoffs. “Are you serious?”
“Please,” Zila says. “Indulge me.”
“… It’s 2177.”
“We are from the year 2380.”
A pause. “You’re right. I don’t believe you.”
“I did warn you,” Zila shrugs.
My brain starts fizzing, this-is-impossible fighting with this-is-so-cool. And underneath it all, a little voice is whispering, Surviving that explosion was impossible. So was getting blown up eight more times. So was being transported wherever the hells we are in the blink of an eye.
I see the precise moment Lieutenant Kim checks out. “All right, this is above my pay grade. I’m taking you in.”
“You are obviously experiencing temporal distortion, too, Lieutenant,” Zila insists.
Kim ignores her, taps a mic on the side of her throat. “Glass Slipper, this is Kim, do you read?”