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.”
“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.”