LEAVE MESSAGE? the computer prompts.
“I don’t get it!” I bellow. “How could you know to leave us the Zero, Admiral? To send us that coded message? How could you know about Kal getting shot, about me being captured, about Cat not making it off Octavia, and not know to ANSWER YOUR DAMN UNIGLASS?”
I don’t curse. I consider it a sign of poor self-control. Scar used to say swearing was a natural impulse—that it’s a proven stress reliever and dopamine-release mechanism. But if you’ve got something important to say, it’s worth taking the time to say it without resorting to language you’d hear in a toilet. I can count the number of times I’ve said a bad word on one hand.
“Fuck,” I say.
The computer beeps.
“Fuck,” I repeat, louder.
LEAVE MESSAGE?
“FUCK!” I shout, swinging at the air. “Fuck! Fuck! FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!”
I sink down to my haunches. Breathe a heavy sigh.
“Yeah, okay,” I admit. “That feels a little better.”
But not much.
Adams is probably slammed, a voice whispers in my head. He’s the joint commander of a spacefaring peace corps, hosting thousands of delegates from hundreds of worlds, trying to keep the galaxy from spiraling into a dozen different wars. It’s the night before the summit. He won’t have time to breathe, let alone answer private comms.
He’s probably not even carrying his uni.
And I see it again. Like a splinter in my mind, digging deeper each time. The image of the academy blowing itself apart from within. The shadow rising beyond. That voice at the edge of hearing, pleading, begging.
… you can—
“Fix this, Tyler,” I snap, wincing in pain. “I know, I know already!”
So this is it.
After all this way. All that risk. I’m at the goal line and can’t even warn my own team about what’s coming.
My squad’s gone, I’ve got no line to station command, I’m shoot-on-sight for Terran and Legion personnel, and the Ra’haam is somehow going to blow this station and everyone in it to pieces.
And there’s nobody to stop it but me.
I slip a fresh supply of rations through the hatch into the detention cell, ignoring Cohen’s roar of protest, de Renn’s vows to rip my spine out through my … well, I won’t go into detail, but it sounds like it’d hurt.
I pull the brim of an Aurora Legion cap low over my eyes and turn up my flight suit collar, whispering a prayer. My pulse pistol is stuffed down the back of my pants, the blade Saedii gave me strapped to my wrist.
The thought that I’m alone here is a stone in my chest.
The knowledge that I’ve trained years for this is iron in my spine.
And the memory of that dream, that shadow rising …
“Get moving, legionnaire.”
? ? ? ? ?
First rule of tactical: Knowledge is power.
I have no idea what the Ra’haam has planned, and there’s any number of ways it might trigger an explosion if it got an agent on the station.
But from that vision repeating in my head, I know the explosion comes from inside Aurora Academy, blossoming out like a burning flower and engulfing all around it.
The Galactic Summit is scheduled to begin 09:00 Station Time tomorrow. It’s 15:57 ST right now, so I’m on the clock in three different ways.
I’ve got forty hours, if all goes well, until maintenance crews find Cohen and Co. stuffed in that detention cell and the alarm is raised.
Worse, I’ve got an unknown number of hours until someone notices Cohen hasn’t reported in to her deck commander. Maybe they’re too busy to notice for a while. Maybe they cut her some slack because she’s usually a high performer. Or maybe that tips them off that something’s up.
But regardless, I’ve got seventeen hours and three minutes until the summit begins. So it’s time to get to work.
If I know anything about politicians, galactic or otherwise, I know the night before they get to work, they’re probably going to the bar.
So, seems I need to get myself a drink.
I bail out of the Longbow loading bay into a crush of foot traffic—a group of dockhands, mech and tech crews, and a handful of legionnaires returned from duty. I make it through the first two security checkpoints without much drama. Rioli’s flight suit is a little snug in the crotch （not to brag）， but I look enough like him to flash his ident tag and pass muster with the overworked security teams.
This is kid stuff, though. Once I get though decontamination and on to the metal detectors and biometrics—facial tracking, retinal scans, DNA idents—I’m screwed.