All the better for a lone pawn to slip through the line unnoticed.
I trail her through the crowd, outfitted in my new dark suit, the press credentials that Lyrann Balkarri gave me around my neck. The ID will only hold up to a cursory examination, but like the Ra’haam, I’m hoping security will be too pressed to focus elsewhere. I’m also hoping Balkarri can live up to his end of the bargain. I offered him the scoop of a lifetime, and he is a fan of the dimples. But there’s a lot riding on my gamble.
Only delegates, personal security, and press are allowed into the summit itself—the entourages and hangers-on, academy staff and legionnaires are all gathered in the caff joints and eateries beneath the statues of the Founders. Adams and de Stoy’s promise of a special address has curiosities piqued, and the promenade is packed.
I lose Cat three times, heart hammering in my chest as I search the mob. But I eventually find her again, cutting like a knife through the crowd, headed back in the direction of the docks.
Makes sense.
It’s the place she, and therefore the Ra’haam, knows best.
Cat rides a turbolift to the lower levels. I sprint down the stairs, earning a few strange looks from a maint crew. Is she headed for the fuel dumps, maybe? The munition stores? Lotta explosives down there …
Cat walks casually through the security patrols, flashing her GIA credentials; I do my best to skirt around them. It feels like I’m in a contest of cat and mouse, but I’m not sure who is who, and it strikes me as strange—that this whole game might be decided by two tiny pieces on this massive board, a million years and billions of lives in the making.
We’re down on Theta Deck when she gives me the slip. I have to pause in a stairwell to let a sec patrol roll past, and when I emerge into the corridor, I realize Cat’s just … gone.
I scan the deck, dash to the level below, eyes wide.
Where did she … ?
I retrace my steps, desperation growing, pulse and headache hammering. The image of the academy’s end flaring again in my mind.
Nononono …
The thing about chess is, you’re not really playing the game—you’re playing your opponent. Trying to scope what they’ll do before they do it.
And I think I just got outplayed.
I look around me, growing frantic now. Glancing at my stolen uniglass, I see it’s 08:27 Station Time—only thirty-three minutes until Adams and de Stoy are scheduled to speak. If the Ra’haam is concerned like I am, if it spotted that inflection as de Stoy talked about shadows and growing like I did …
And then I see it. A tiny glowing sign above a nondescript door.
RESTROOM.
I dash inside, bumping into a thin young Betraskan in academy livery, smiling an apology as we brush past each other. I scan the room, butterflies surging as I spot the ventilation duct.
Fresh scratches in the paint around the grille.
I walk toward it, pulled up short by the voice behind me.
“Holy chakk …”
Glancing over my shoulder at the cadet, I see him lingering in the restroom doorway. He’s staring at me, big black eyes gone even wider.
“Tyler Jones,” he whispers.
I recognize him at last.
“Jonii de Münn,” I murmur.
Champion of last year’s Aurora Academy chess tournament.
“Jonii, wait, I can explain… .”
I lunge for the pulse pistol inside my jacket. He lunges for the exit. The stun blast strikes the space he stood a second before, my second shot knocks the door off its hinges. But he’s running now, out the exit and down the corridor, fumbling for his uniglass, yelling for station security.
Game over.
I dash into the cubicle, wrench off the grille, and drag myself up into the vent, fastening the cover behind me. It won’t buy me much time, sure. But it’s going to be a minute at most before Aurora Legion security is notified that one of the galaxy’s most wanted terrorists, Alpha gone rogue, mass murderer, and space pirate （yarrrr） Tyler Jones is loose on the station.
So now this game is on the clock in a whole new way.
I crawl into the vent, using my uni to light my way. These ducts are a maze, and normally I’d be hopelessly lost a few junctions in. But like I said, they really should run the sweeper drones through here more often.
Ahead of me, I can see—clear as I can see the firing squad waiting if security catches me—the handprints and knee tracks of my best friend, scuffed on the grubby metal surface.
And so I crawl.
Like the life of every sentient being in the galaxy depends on it, I crawl.