“Hardly a skirmish, darling,” he pouts. “That little mess could end with Chelleria and Rigel at war again. Although I’m flattered you saw the feed. Our ratings were in the tank after Archon Caersan’s temper tantrum.”
I look him over more carefully. I can see the matte black button of a mic stud on his lapel. The gleam of a minicam in his top button.
“Wait … you’re not recording this, are you?”
His grin grows a little wider. “Never without consent, darling.”
“What are you doing on Aurora Station?”
“Well, aside from basking in the inestimable joy of those dimples, I’m reporting on the summit.” Lyrann takes a sip from a glass of frothing red, makes a face, and hands it to a flunky. “Luddia, darling, flush that out an airlock, will you? And have the chap who served it to me flogged.”
“Esteemed representatives.”
A hush comes over the crowd. I turn at the voice, heart in my throat. A massive holo is being projected in the air above the arboretum, the figure of a towering man with cybernetic arms and a full dress uniform decorated with a dozen medals and the star of the Aurora Legion.
“Admiral Adams,” I whisper.
“Honored guests,” he continues. “Legionnaires. On behalf of Greater Clan Battle Leader Danil de Verra de Stoy and myself, we welcome you to Aurora Station.”
The camera pans to the co-commander of the Legion, standing beside Adams. De Stoy is dour, hair drawn back in a severe ponytail. But her uniform glitters with medals, and her voice is as commanding as her presence.
“Many years ago,” she begins, “in a time of war, the Founders of our Legion forged an alliance that has endured for centuries. It is our fervent hope that even in these dark times, the races of the galaxy can unite again and shine a light that will banish the shadow growing between our stars.”
My belly turns a little at that deliberate choice of words.
Shadow.
Growing.
“Our last attendees will be arriving this evening,” Adams continues. “Tomorrow morning, before the summit begins, Battle Leader de Stoy and I will make a joint address that concerns everyone on this station and, indeed, in this galaxy.” He smiles, grim. “I urge the members of the press attending the summit not to sleep through your alarms. In the meantime, we would like to express our gratitude to you all for attending, especially Greater Consuls Mariun de Roy and Gense de Lin of the Betraskan Clan Coalition, and Prime Minister Tania Ilyasova of the Terran government.”
The camera tracks to the Betraskan consuls standing among their retinue and bowing at the ripples of applause. The screen then cuts to the Terran delegates, Prime Minister Ilyasova smiling and nodding thanks, her gray hair shimmering in the light. Around her are various ministers, attendants, and assistants. But my stomach rolls at the sight of her protection detail.
Should’ve known …
The Terran Defense Force would normally be in charge of ministerial security, and there’s no shortage of TDF troopers in Ilyasova’s retinue. But wherever you find a matter of Earth’s planetary security, you’re also gonna find agents of the Global Intelligence Agency.
They stand among the PM’s group, silent and still. Their suits are charcoal gray, head to toe to fingertips, their faces hidden behind featureless mirrormasks, elongated and oval-shaped. But I know what lurks beneath.
The Ra’haam is here.
“Are you quite all right, darling?” Lyrann asks, touching my arm. “You look as though someone’s danced on your deathstone.”
I swallow hard, jaw clenched.
“I’m all right,” I manage.
But I’m really not.
Because there among them, I see a familiar figure. Her face is covered by that mask, but I’d still know her anywhere. The body under that skintight nanoweave that I once held in my arms. My best friend in the world.
I can see her now, watching while I was tortured on the Kusanagi. Mold on her tongue and tears welling in her flower-shaped eyes as she begged me.
Tyler, don’t go… .
Tyler, I love you.
“Cat … ,” I whisper.
22
FINIAN
“Okay, that should work.”
I try to sound confident as we crowd around Magellan’s battered shell on the workbench, heads bowed like a med team over a critical patient. We’ve got the lab to ourselves right now—the team who should be here is off getting treatment for a dose of radiation. We’re probably scoring one ourselves, but we’ll be fine next loop, and we have urgent business.
I’ve already networked my uni, Zila’s, and Scar’s together, and with a dab of solder and a short prayer to the Maker, I’m putting the final touches on my hot-wired masterpiece.
“The combinational logic circuits … ,” Zila murmurs, sounding dubious.
“Ugh, I know. Nari, hand me another one of those pinchy metal things.”
“You mean a bulldog clip?”
“Right. Why are they called that?”
“I …” She frowns, plucking one from the sheaf of plasdocs. “Actually have no idea.”
“A bulldog invented them?” Scar suggests.
“You have a creature that’s both a bull and a dog? Actually, I’ll buy that. I mean, you people used to farm quantum— Ow!”
A small zap runs through the fingers of my exo—if the galaxy’s most annoying uniglass wasn’t digitally unconscious, I’d say that happened on purpose—and with a soft hum, the dead glass starts to power up.
“Yessss!” I raise a hand to Scarlett, and she obliges with a high five, curling her fingers through mine to pull me in for a kiss. A way, way better zap runs through me as our lips meet, and this is definitely how all high fives—
“HEY THERE! I MISSED YOUR F-F-F-F-FACES!”
We pause the kissing, watching as the four uniglass screens run through a series of digital patterns cut with lines of static.
“That doesn’t look right,” Scar mutters.
“It’s not. But I’m working with primitive tools here.” I glance up at Nari. “No offense, Dirtgirl.”
“None taken, bleach-head,” she murmurs.
“Hey, when the war ends twenty years from now and Trask becomes Terra’s closest ally, on a scale of one to ten, how stupid are you gonna feel?”
“Not half as stupid as you’re gonna look with my boot up your—”
“Children,” Scarlett sighs. “Please.”
“Even if we were not running out of time,” Zila says, “we still would have no time for pointless hostilities. We are all friends here.”
Kim scowls at me, gives a grudging nod to Zila. And the way she stares at Z tells me that maybe Lieutenant Dirtgirl is thinking she’d like to be something more than friends with our little Brain. But like Zila says, we’re running out of time.
“Hey, Magellan,” I say as the start-up screen finishes. “Good to see you again, buddy. We got some math for you.”
“HEY, POTPLANT! TEACUP TERRIER-TERRIERT-T-T-TERRIER! HERE BE DRAGONS. BARET, JEANNE. STARK, FREYA. BIRD WALTON, NANCY. LIST OF EXPLORERS INCOMPLETE. HAS ANYONE GOT A BISCUIT?”
I add another spot of solder. “Magellan! We’re kind of on a clock here, buddy, and we need you to do some math and save our tails.”
“Before the snake eats its own,” Zila murmurs.
All the activity on its screen pauses, and for a heart-stopping moment I think I’ve made things worse. Magellan flashes, a ream of decidedly nonstandard code scrolling down the cracked glass. The screen of my glass, then Zila’s, and then Scar’s begin to pulse in time, and the word OUROBOROS coalesces across all three, disintegrating into a cloud of ones and zeroes.
Scarlett frowns. “Did you see that?”
Magellan beeps again. A cool blue light washes its surface. And with a soft, pleased hum, the display resolves into a normal query screen.
“ON A CLOCK, HUH?” it chirps. “DOES THAT MEAN WE’RE FINALLY BACK IN 2177? I THOUGHT WE WERE NEVER GOING TO GET HERE!”
For a moment there’s silence, except for the fizz and pop of a couple of workstations behind us. Scarlett and I exchange a wide-eyed glance.
“We’re … what?” I manage.
“Magellan, please repeat last statement,” Zila says.
“OH, NOW WE’RE INTERESTED IN HEARING WHAT I HAVE TO SAY, HUH?” It flashes obnoxiously. “EVERYONE SICK OF THEIR LITTLE RUNNING JOKE?”