Technically, Squad 312 is wanted for galactic terrorism, so I decide to get a little blurry on the whole “Identify Yourself” thing. I brush my hair back, conjure a smooth demeanor from my bag of tricks, and purr into the microphone.
“I cannot tell you how good it is to see you, Lieutenant! We thought we were in big trouble. Our ship is damaged, our engines are offline, and we’re in need of your assistance, over.”
“This is a restricted area,” the pilot replies, still a touch shaky. “How did you get here? And what the hell are you flying?”
“It’s a really long story, Lieutenant,” I smile, warm and friendly. “But our life-support situation isn’t exactly puppies and sunshine over here, so if you could offer us a tow, I can buy you a drink and tell you all about it.”
A long pause follows, my jaw clenched.
“All right,” the pilot finally declares. “I’m going to fire you a tow cable and bring you into dock. But you make any wrong moves, I will blast your asses across the system without even thinking twice about it.”
I smile. “That is great news, Lieutenant.”
“Thank youuuu!” Finian pops up behind me and waves. “You are as wise as you are beautiful, madam!”
The pilot’s voice turns to ice. What little I can see of her expression hardens to stone. “You have a goddamn Betraskan on board?”
All around us, alarms flare into life, red lights flashing and Syldrathi symbols illuminating, and a loudspeaker barks.
“WARNING, WARNING: MISSILE LOCK DETECTED.”
A tiny line of light appears on our scanners. I look to the others, helpless, wild. We have no engines. No navigation. No defenses.
“Oh shit … ,” I breathe.
“Scar … ,” Fin whispers.
The light draws closer. Our fingers touch.
“Do not be afraid,” Zila frowns. “It does not hurt much.”
“… What?” I ask.
The missile strikes.
Fire tears through the bridge.
BOOM.
2.2
SCARLETT
Black light burns white across my skin. I can taste the sound around me, metallic on the back of my tongue, hearing touch and feeling scent as everything I am and was and will ever be rips itself apart and together and together and togeth—
“Scar?”
I open my eyes, see another pair of eyes before mine.
Big.
Black.
Pretty.
Finian.
“Did you … ?” I ask.
“Was that … ?” Fin says.
“Weird,” we murmur.
I look around, a strange black-cat creepy-crawly feeling of déjà vu spidering its way up my spine. We’re in the corridor outside the engine room. And, joy of joys, we are not, in fact, dead.
But …
Wait …
Didn’t we just … ?
I look at Finian, conscious of how close we’re standing. He looks into my eyes but I have no idea what to say, and I’m saved from the embarrassment of being speechless by Zila.
“Finian, Scarlett, are you still … ?”
“Breathing?” Finian says, his voice a little uneven.
“Apparently so.”
And there it is again. That creepy black-cat-walking-on-your-grave feeling. The feeling that—
“I am one confused boy right now,” Finian says.
“Didn’t we just … explode a moment ago?” I ask.
He meets my eyes again. I see him steel himself, take a deep breath.
“… Lemme check.”
I feel electricity crackle as his fingertips brush across mine and then, oh Maker, he’s kissing me, the sensation sizzling like live current though my lips and—
“Stop,” I say, breaking away. “No, stop, Fin … wait …”
I’m looking at him, and he’s staring back with the same confused expression I’m probably wearing, and somehow, somehow, before he speaks I know exactly what he’s going to say.
“Scar, I’m having the strongest feeling of—”
“Déjà vu.”
He blinks once. “… That’s French.”
“You don’t know any French,” I say, my belly turning somersaults.
He eases away from me, the deck seeming to shift underneath my feet, and there’s a cold lump of ice where my stomach used to be as he stares around us. We’re still in the corridor outside the shuttle’s engine room, the air is still sharp with the smell of burned plasteel, fused wiring, smoke. Looking through the plexiglass, I can still see what’s left of the engines, and I know I’m no expert, but this place, this conversation, somehow …