3–nil.
The other three members of Squad 303 are on the bridge. Their Ace is at the helm—an old drinking buddy of Cat’s named Rioli. He’s a big guy, sandy blond hair and bright blue eyes. Cohen is at another station trying to resurrect comms. Their Face, a pretty Terran girl named Savitri, is near the entrance. Her helmet visor is up so she can chew a fingernail, long hair floating about her cheeks as she squints into the dark.
“Shouldn’t Bel be back by now?” she asks.
“Relax, Amelia,” Cohen replies. “He’s probably in his quarters deciding which of his favorite murderclubs to break out. What’s our status, Rioli?”
“Still nothing,” the Ace replies. “Whatever hit us—”
He turns at the wet THWACK of Savitri’s face meeting my satkha. The girl pinwheels back with a bubbling gasp, nose spraying blood. She collides with the wall just as I collide with Rioli, slamming him into the console and smashing him so hard in the ribs I hear bone crack.
“Maker’s breath,” Cohen breathes. “Jones—”
I know what she sees as I turn on her. My knuckles and face are spattered with blood, Terran red and Syldrathi purple and Betraskan pink. I must look every inch the criminal, the killer, the terrorist that the GIA painted me as—Aurora Legion’s most promising Alpha, turned into a cold-blooded psychopath.
But thing is, it’s not madness that drives me forward, doubling her up with a shot to her belly. It’s not rage making me slam my open palm into the base of her skull, sending her bouncing off the deck, groaning and senseless.
It’s desperation. It’s fear.
Because I can see it. Even as I strip Squad 303 down to their unmentionables and lock them in my detention cell, welding the door shut with an acetylene lance from the cargo hold. Even as I change into Rioli’s uniform and float back up to the bridge, praying for the Gods of Auto-Repair Systems to work quicker. Even as the power finally flickers and shifts back online, as I slide into the pilot’s chair and whisper thanks to the Maker.
I can see it.
That image of Aurora Academy. Blowing itself to pieces in a halo of fire and shrapnel, ripping apart the last hope for peace in the galaxy.
I can feel it, rising beyond—that shadow, set to swallow the galaxy. And I can hear it—that voice, that plea, begging me to keep going even if I have to go on alone.
I lay in a course for Aurora Academy. Hit thrust on my engines.
… you can fix this, Tyler …
“Damn right I can,” I whisper.
And I’m away.
18
SCARLETT
Finian’s lips are warm and soft, and as they leave a burning trail down my neck, I shiver all the way to my toes. We’re lying on a thin temperfoam mattress, and the sheets are rumpled around us, and the view out the small porthole beside us is perfect darkness, lit by tiny pulses of mauve light. My shirt is untucked, and one of Fin’s hands is tracing soft circles in the small of my back, the metal on his fingertips charged with a faint current that makes my skin tingle in the best ways. I run my fingers through his hair and pull him in tighter, sighing encouragement as I feel his kisses on my neck.
The hand on the small of my back slips lower, roaming down into my pants, and I grab a handful of his hair and pull him back to look at him. Fin’s lips and cheeks are flushed just the faintest shade of pink, and he’s breathing heavy, but he’s frozen now, blinking hard.
“Is that okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Keep doing it.”
And we crash back together, and he’s touching me in all the right ways, and yes, part of me realizes how stupid this all is, given the situation we’re in. But most of me is focused on the warmth of his skin and the feel of him pressed against me and what he’s doing with his hands and how I seriously underestimated the level of Finian de Seel’s game.
We have, as we’ve done for the last five loops, distracted the security patrol that would otherwise have interrupted and executed Zila and Lieutenant Kim in Pinkerton’s office. It took a few trial runs, but eventually, we figured out that tripping a proximity alarm on the lower floor of the hab section would drag the goon squad away long enough to divert them from the office completely—a few minutes after we trip the alarm, all sec staff are called to deal with the fire in Stairwell B, which by now is spreading into the duct system.
This means that once we trip the alarm, Fin and I have a lot of spare time on our hands. I mean, we could go up and help Zila gather more information from the computer systems in Pinkerton’s office. But it’s not like I’d be much help in that anyway, and it’s not like we need to. If we’re just dying and looping, dying and looping, we can keep doing this over and over until we do it perfectly. We have all the time in the world.
So, for the last few loops, Fin and I have stolen away inside an empty hab unit and have been … getting to know each other better. Because even though we seem to have an endless supply of time on our hands, I’m realizing I’ve wasted a lot of time I could have spent getting to know this boy already.
I’m flushed with the heat of him, my heart thump-thump-thumping against my ribs, and I hear him groan as my tongue flickers against his and I sigh into his mouth. Even though the air is filled with alert sirens and the creak of stressed metal, my sighs still seem awfully loud.
“How does this thing come off?”
Fin pulls back and blinks. “… What?”
“Your exosuit,” I whisper, tugging up his shirt and running my fingers over his taut belly. “How do I get it off?”
“You wanna …” He swallows. “You wanna take my exo off?”
“No,” I say, cruising toward his neck and nipping at his skin. “I wanna take your shirt off. The exo’s just a means to an end.”
“Scar …”
My teeth brush his throat and now I feel him shivering, my lips curling in a smile as I feel what I’m doing to him. “Kinda wish I’d paid more attention in mechaneering class now… .”
“Scarlett.”
“Yes, Finian?”
“Scarlett.”
I pull back at the note in his voice. I know Betraskan culture inside out, I know there’s no societal preclusion on what we’re doing in here, and I know he really wants to. But looking into those big pretty eyes, even behind the contacts, I can tell.
I can tell …
He’s afraid.
The structure shudders around us. Flaming vapor lights the black outside the porthole as a voice rings over the PA. “WARNING: RADIATION DETECTED ON DECK 13, ALL DECK 13 STAFF PROCEED FOR IMMEDIATE DECONTAMINATION PROCEDURES.”
“… Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Fin lies, clearing his throat. “I’m good.”
I look him over again, reading expression, body language, the rate of his breath and the beat of his heart, chest pressed against mine. I’ve always been good at this kind of thing, even before I studied at the academy.
Ever since I was a kid, sometimes it was almost like I knew what people were thinking before they spoke. I’m not sure how I do it—I always figured it was just something I was born with. Some people are good at jetball. Other people can sing.