See, I knew Legion regulations like the back of my hand. But Cat knew the station itself like she knew her own name.
Me, her, and Scar all went to school together for five years on Terra—three snot-nosed TDF military brats. The first day of kindergarten, Cat cracked a chair over my head after I pushed her in the back. I’ve had a nice little scar through my eyebrow to show for it ever since. But when her folks got divorced, her mom got assigned to the Lunar Defense Array, and Cat moved with her. She grew up aboard stations, and she knew them inside out. So when we all turned thirteen and signed up for the Legion, Cat made it her business to get to know this station, too.
She used to sneak down here after hours, doctor herself a fake flight plan, jack one of the older ’Bows, then go get practice time, flying so close to the academy’s hull she wouldn’t be detected by its LADAR sweeps. I used to tell her she was crazy for doing it—she could always practice in a simulation, and if she got caught, they’d expel her for sure.
“It’s one thing to fly a sim,” she used to tell me. “It’s another to dance the black. And when it’s my moves keeping your ass in one piece out there, Jones, you’re gonna thank me.”
And that’s exactly what I do. As I duck out of the crush of the main thoroughfare and into a slipway between the auxiliary fuel dumps, crawling on my belly beneath the tanks and into the tertiary ventilation duct, I whisper thanks to my friend.
Wishing like hells she was here.
It takes me five hours to work through the vent system—I don’t know my way around anywhere near as well as Cat did, and Aurora Station is huge. But I have Rioli’s uniglass to light the way, and I slowly traverse the labyrinth of intakes and junctions, the metal lit up by the screen’s soft glow, until finally I emerge in the bowels of the station’s recreation levels.
Crawling out of the duct, I strip off my flight suit, realizing I’m covered in grime and dust—they really oughta run the sweeper drones through these vents more often. Fortunately, underneath, Rioli’s uniform is mostly clean.
It feels weird wearing the white stripes of a Legion Ace across my shoulders, but at least I’m inside the decontamination perimeter now—security shouldn’t be anywhere near as tough. And acting like I belong, I march into the bright corridors, past a few techs and some younger cadets, and out onto the main promenade of Aurora Academy.
Honestly, the sight never fails to take my breath away.
It stretches out before me: a long crescent of polished chrome and gleaming white plasteel. It’s packed with people—a flock of cadets and legionnaires mixing with officials from the planetary delegations, press agents here to cover the summit, and the usual multitude of staff and instructors and crew.
The columns rise into the sky above me, the promenade itself curves away into the distance before me, the storefronts of the shopping district to my left, the cool greens and blues of the arboretum to my right.
Above us, the ceiling is transparent, the station angled to showcase the burning light of the Aurora star, a scattering of a billion suns behind it, the majesty of the Milky Way on display. And in the promenade’s heart, towering above us all, are statues of the two people who made all this possible.
The Founders of Aurora Legion.
One is marble, brilliant white—mined from one of the last quarries on Terra. The other is solid black opal, veined with rainbow hues, transported all the way from Trask.
Their faces are serene, wise. Two women, Betraskan and Terran, enemies in a time of war who rose above the conflict between our peoples to forge something bigger than both of them. An alliance of the galaxy’s best and brightest. A Legion that fights for peace, named for the star the academy they built orbits.
We don’t even get taught their names here at the academy. They had their identities expunged from all official records because they didn’t want their own legend to overshadow the legend of what they built here.
It wasn’t about who they were—just as now, it isn’t about any one legionnaire, or even any one commander. It’s about what we all are together, as a whole. What we represent.
And on the plinth beneath them, carved into the rock, is the Founders’ mantra. Their promise to the galaxy. The words I’ve lived my whole life by.
We the Legion
We the light
Burning bright against the night
Alone as I am here, the sight of the Founders fills my chest with warmth. And as I look at the station around me, all these people gathered from the corners of the galaxy to fight for something more, all of them now under attack by an enemy they can’t even see, I whisper a soft promise.
“I won’t let you down.”
I cruise the edge of the crowd, cap pulled low—I’m not exactly a stranger here, and if a single cadet or legionnaire spots me, or some TDF trooper recognizes me from the feeds, I’m done.
I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, honestly, how I’m supposed to spot this threat I’ve seen in my dreams. But I can feel it inside me, pushing me on: the vision that brought me back to this place, shining like a light in this dark. Saedii told me I was a fool to come here, and for a moment, the memory of her makes my chest hurt. The thought that I’ll probably never see her again …
Mind on the job, Jones.
I cruise into the arboretum, watching the crowd. The foliage here has been gathered from across the Milky Way: gentle water trickling over heartcrystal falls from Ishtarr, whisperwhills from Syldra, fronds and flowers of every color from every world. But the rainbow of colors only reminds me of my dream, the crystal splintering around me, that shadow seeping through the cracks like black blood. Hoping against hope, I dial Adams’s uniglass again, cursing softly beneath my breath as I get his service.
“Hello, you’ve reached the private number of Seph Adams. I’m—”
CLICK.
Do I just leave a message?
How do I know he’ll even get it?
Can I honestly hang the fate of the galaxy on an answering machine?
“Well, aren’t you just a strapping slice of humanity.”
I glance sidelong at the voice. A Chellerian looms beside me, a drink in each of his four hands. His suit is a deep cerulean to offset the lighter sky blue of his skin. His shark’s-tooth smile could be adequately described as “dazzling.”
“Helloooo,” he says, drawling the word as if it tasted like hot chocolate. “And what’s your name, legionnaire?”
“I’m not a legionnaire. I’m a pirate. And kinda busy, no offense.”
“None taken, Captain,” he purrs, looking me over. “And do forgive me if I’m bothering you. I was just wondering whether those dimples of yours are standard Legion issue.”
“Nope,” I reply, scanning the crowd. “You need a specialist license and three years of training before you’re qualified to use them.”
“Aren’t you the little sasspot,” he smirks, twirling the stem of one glass.
“You should meet my sister,” I murmur.
“I’d love to. If that’s your preference. I thought Terrans had an aversion to that sort of thing.” He pouts, considering the glass of sparkling green liquid in his third hand. “Tell me, would it be forward if I offered you a drink? I seem to have rather a lot of them and I’m not even sure what this one is.”
“Listen, friend, I don’t want to …”
My voice fades out as I look at him a little closer. His voice is familiar. His face even more so. His suit looks like it cost the GDP of a small moon.
“I know you… .”
“Not as well as I’d like.” He offers the glass. “But we can remed—”
“You’re a newscaster,” I realize. “You work for GNN.”
“Guilty as charged,” he smiles, waving to the press credentials beside his cravat, then to the small legion of assistants and crew behind him. “Lyrann Balkarri, at your pleasure. Hopefully.”
“You were reporting about the skirmish in the Colaris sector.”