“You are suggesting we run to Terrans for aid?” Erien scoffs.
“The Aurora Legion is a neutral party,” I insist. “You’re not at war with us. If I could speak to Adams and de Stoy, find out what they know—”
“Earth is our enemy,” Saedii says. “Trask is our enemy.”
“The whole galaxy can be your enemy if you let it, Saedii.”
“Let it?” She smiles, running her tongue across her teeth.
“We love it.”
“The blade grows dull when left in the scabbard, halfbreed,” the veteran tells me. “Were your blood pure, you would understand that.”
“Aanta da’si kai,” another murmurs, touching the glyf at her brow.
We were born for war.
I sigh, shake my head at Saedii. Her smile only grows. She delights in this, I realize. Gets off on it. Struggle. Strife. These people were raised to see conflict as the path to perfection. Maybe that’s why she’s keeping me around.
I see her eyes drift to the bite marks on my throat. I feel a flicker of hunger in my head. But this isn’t a game, and I’m exhausted and I’m afraid for my sister and my friends and feeling like I’ve been running forever and haven’t moved an inch.
And worst of all, I sense that dream, the one that woke me here, still echoing somewhere in my skull as the room begins to spin, and I press one hand to my aching brow.
The walls around me, the color of rainbows.
The ground shaking beneath my feet.
“You look unwell, Terran,” Saedii says.
I lower my hand, growl, “I’m fine.”
She smiles so wide I can see the sharpened teeth at the corners of her mouth. “If you wish to return to bed—”
“Forget me,” I snap, temper fraying. “You’re giving the Ra’haam what it wants. It’s using you, Saedii.”
“I am no one’s pawn.”
“Then don’t act like it. You’re smarter than this.”
“And smarter than you. Forget not whose captive you are.”
“And whose captive would you still be, if not for me?”
“You saved your own skin as well as mine.” Saedii tilts her head, eyes locked on mine. “Do not believe it buys you any favor, boy.”
“I’m not asking for favor,” I snap. “I’m asking you not to be an idiot.”
Saedii’s amused smile fades. An alarm buzzes in my head:
Technical foul on the play. One-point penalty.
Tyler Jones: 2
Saedii Gilwraeth: 1
Whoops. Too far …
The temperature around me drops several degrees. The flicker of Saedii’s mind in mine suddenly vanishes, like she’s slammed an iron door between us. And glancing to her First Paladin, the Templar speaks.
“It appears our guest is wearied after his ordeal, Erien.” She flips a braid off her shoulder. “See him safely situated in appropriate quarters.”
“Saedii—”
“Your will, Templar.”
She turns to her other crew members, begins issuing orders in Syldrathi. But my eyes are on Erien as he rises, looming over me. His beautiful face hard as stone, distorted by his scar, silver hair drawn back in seven thick braids, each decorated by a desiccated Syldrathi ear.
“Move,” he says.
I look at Saedii. But she’s ignoring me now, her mind closed off tight. I shouldn’t have let my temper get the best of me. That was stupid—I backed her into a corner, and she’s come out swinging.
My skull is pounding as I close my eyes, rise to my feet. The air hums with the sound of engines and the growing current of galactic war. My mind still echoing with the voice of my dream.
… you still have a chance of fixing this, Tyler Jones …
But I can’t see how.
Maker help me, I can’t see how.
5
FINIAN
That Terran pilot blows us up three more times before she finally gives up on it. Each time, Scar and I reappear in the corridor outside the engine room. Each time, Scarlett presses her lips to mine as we explode in a white-hot ball of plasma.
Maybe it’s just some kind of universal justice. I finally get to snog Scarlett Jones, and reality implodes because it’s all too improbable.
But after the eighth time our new friend pulls the trigger, Scarlett and I rematerialize outside the engine bay, waiting for the inevitable, and nothing happens. No screaming alarms. No missile lock warning. Nothing.
Scar has her head tilted. Waiting.
“… She’s not killing us,” she mutters.
“Progress!” I’m grinning like an idiot. It’s not just because we weren’t blown up, to be honest.
Scar tries to muster a smile in response, but I can see how weirded out by all this she is. Honestly, I can’t blame her. In the last few weeks, this girl has lost her best friend, her brother, and now, apparently, her whole reality.
I reach for her hands, wrapping my fingers around hers, squeezing gently. “I know this is crazy,” I say softly. “I’m as freaked out as you are. But whatever this is, we’ll figure it out, okay?”
She manages a better smile for that, and despite all the insanity around us, I feel my heart flutter at the sight.
Maker, she’s beautiful.
Scarlett leans close, kisses me soft on the lips. “You’re sweet.”
“Don’t tell anybody. I’ve got a reputation as a wiseass to maintain.”
“Come on then, wiseass,” she smiles. “Let’s go see our Brain.”
We run together to the bridge, find Zila at the controls. Her eyes are locked on the fritzing rainbow displays, her lips pursed.
“Sitrep?” Scar asks as she strides across the cockpit, all efficient, sounding just like her brother for a moment.
Our Brain doesn’t look up from the monitors. “Spatially, our coordinates are identical to our first eight manifestations. We are several hundred thousand kilometers from the cusp of an immense tempest of dark matter. From the brief glimpses of stars we have, the nav computer calculates that we may be somewhere near Sigma Arcanis.”
“But we were in the Terran solar system.” Scar looks at that massive stretch of perfect black, the brief pulses of strange light within it. Her face is paler than usual. “How did we move here?”
“I do not know. But I aim to find out.” Zila taps her wrist unit. “I have set a timer. We must gather as much information as possible about these cycles. We are currently at four minutes, six seconds.”
“What about our trigger-happy friend?” I ask.
Zila looks at the monitor as though it has personally vexed her. “No radio contact this time. But as Scarlett surmised, whatever the nature of this temporal anomaly, the pilot’s actions indicate she is also experiencing it.”
We all flinch as the controls fizz in front of Zila. This ship was ancient when the Waywalkers gave it to us, and hasn’t enjoyed its recent experiences.
“The space station, the dark matter storm beyond it, and my external readings all are identical,” Zila continues. “The only variables in this equation appear to be our actions and hers. She has apparently decided that incinerating us is unfruitful, which is good news. The definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different outcome.”