Black light burns white across my skin. I can taste the sound around me, metallic on the back of my tongue, hearing touch and feeling scent as everything I am and was and will ever be rips itself apart and together and together and togeth—
“Scar?”
I open my eyes, see another pair of eyes before mine.
Big.
Black.
Pretty.
Finian.
“Did you … ?” I ask.
“Was that … ?” Fin says.
“Weird,” we murmur.
I look around us, a strange black-cat, creepy-crawly feeling of déjà vu spidering its way up my spine.
We’re standing in the corridor outside the engine room, just where we were a minute ago when the Eshvaren Weapon fired a whole beamful of planet-destroying badness into our favorite faces and then blew itself to tiny shinies. But, joy of joys, we are not, in fact, dead.
This comes as good news for a couple of reasons.
First, of course, and speaking frankly, it would be a bad move on the universe’s part to waste an ass like mine by incinerating it in a fiery explosion in the depths of space. Honestly, they come along, like, once a millennium.
Second, it means the boy standing opposite me isn’t dead, either. And strangely, that’s a whole lot more important to me than I would’ve admitted a few hours ago.
Finian de Karran de Seel.
He’s totally not my type. Brains not brawn. Chip on his shoulder as wide as the galaxy. But he’s brave. And he’s smart. And standing this close, I can’t help but notice that tumble of white hair and smooth pale skin and lips I almost kissed as we were about to die.
But that’s the only reason I did it.
Because we were totally about to die, right?
We stare at each other, conscious of how close we’re still standing. Neither of us is moving away. He looks into my eyes and I open my mouth, but for the first time in as long as I can remember, I have no idea what to say, and the only thing that saves me from the embarrassment of being speechless, when the only thing I’m really good at is talking, is Zila’s voice crackling over comms.
“Finian, Scarlett, are you still … ?”
“Breathing?” Finian says, his voice a little uneven.
“Apparently so.”
And there it is again. That same creepy black-cat-walking-on-your-grave feeling. The feeling that—
“I am one confused boy right now,” Finian says.
“Didn’t we just … explode a moment ago?” I ask.
He meets my eyes again. I can still feel that almost-kiss between us, and I know he can too. And I see him steel himself, take a deep breath.
“… Lemme check,” he says.
I feel electricity crackle when his fingertips brush mine. He takes my hand in his and he stares at me for just a second longer in silent question, and he’s totally not my type but I’m still not moving away. And now he’s leaning closer, and closer, and even though we’re not about to die anymore, he’s kissing me, oh Maker, he’s kissing me, the sensation sizzling like live current though my lips and all the way down my spine. I feel myself surge against him, kissing him back, tingling as I feel his hands slip over my hips, down to that ass even the universe wouldn’t dare waste, and squeeze in all the right ways.
Well, Finian de Karran de Seel. Bless my stars.
Who in the galaxy would’ve guessed you had game?
Our lips break apart, and a part of me aches as he leans away, speaking into comms again.
“Yeah,” he reports. “We’re definitely still alive.”
“I am investigating,” Zila says. “Please hold.”
The comms channel crackles out, leaving us alone. Fin and I are still pressed against each other and that kiss hangs between us now, and if one of us doesn’t say something, I know we’re going to start again. Given the circumstances, that’s probably not the smartest idea.
I glance down at his hands.
Yep. Still on my ass.
“You know, when Zila said ‘Please hold,’ I’m not sure that’s what she meant, de Seel.”
He laughs, nervous, releasing his grip. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
And I lunge for his mouth again, just a brief collision, hard and hot. Biting his lip as I break away to let him know I’m still hungry.
“But we need to figure out what the hells just happened.” “Yeah.” He breathes deep and steps away, dragging his metal-tipped fingers through his shock of white hair. “Yeah, we do.”
We’re still in the corridor outside the shuttle’s engine room, doors still sealed. The air is sharp with the smell of burned plasteel, fused wiring, smoke. Looking through the plexiglass, I can see what that railgun round did to our engines when it hit us, and I know I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure engines aren’t supposed to come in fifty different pieces.
“We need those to fly,” I say.
“Who said you couldn’t have been a Gearhead?”
“Every instructor I ever had at the academy, along with my guidance counselor and the head of the Engineering Division.”
Finian smirks and glances around us. His dark eyes roam the ceiling, the ruined engine room. And then his stare drifts to my chest. His jaw goes a little slack, and I can practically see his eyes glazing over behind his contacts.
What is it with boys and boobs, honestly?
“Hey.” I snap my fingers. “I know they’re sensational, but seriously, mind on the job, de Seel.”
“No.” He taps his throat. “Your necklace. Remember?”
I reach up to my throat. To the necklace we found in the Dominion Repository back on Emerald City. Each of us had a gift waiting in that vault, courtesy of Admiral Adams and Battle Leader de Stoy. Tyler got his new boots, Kal the cigarillo case that saved his life. Finian got a ballpoint pen, which he was hilariously annoyed about; Zila got a pair of earrings with hawks on them. And I got this diamond necklace, inscribed with the words Go with Plan B. Except right before we were about to be blasted into our component molecules, Fin realized it wasn’t diamond at all.
“It’s Eshvaren crystal.”
And yeah, that is weird. We’d found Eshvaren crystal in the Fold before—the probe that led Auri to the Echo. But that doesn’t really explain why the academy commanders gave me a necklace of the stuff.
Or why we’re not dead?
The adrenaline of almost dying and almost kissing and then definitely not dying but, yes, definitely kissing is wearing off now, and my hands feel shaky. But my eyes still roam Finian’s body as he looks around the corridor in that annoyed/ confused way he has, like the universe has decided to inconvenience him specifically. Limbs wrapped in the silver cladding of his exosuit, ghost-pale skin, and pitch-black eyes narrowed as he tilts his head.
“Not that I’m complaining,” he says carefully. “But we’re dead-stick in a Syldrathi ship during a massive fleet battle inside Terran space. Even if we survived the blast from the Weapon … shouldn’t some Terran fighter jock be blowing us to pieces right now?”
I frown, tapping comms.
“Zila? What’s happening out there? Can you see the Eshvaren Weapon? What’s the status on the enemy fleet? Are we in danger?”
“We …” Her voice fails.
“Zila?”
And I look at Finian, and I can feel it in him, just like I can feel it in me. That creepy-crawling right up our spines. That feeling like …
“Scar, this conversation seems … awfully familiar.”
“I know what you mean.”
He shakes his head, frowning. “It sounds crazy, but I’m having the strongest feeling of—”
“Déjà vu.”
He blinks. “What the hells is déjà vu?”
“It’s a sensation. The impression you’ve said or done this before.”
“Oh. Right.” He nods vigorously. “Yeah. I’m definitely having that. But Betraskans call it tahk-she.”
“Yeah, I know. But on Terra we call it déjà vu. It’s French.”
“I don’t know any French.”
“Stick around,” I wink. “I’ll teach you some.”
Zila’s voice breaks over comms again, laced with urgency. “Scarlett, please hurry to the bridge. Diplomacies are required.”
And again, I’m struck with that feeling. That we’ve said, done, lived this moment before. And more, that it ended really, really badly. I hold out my hand, and Fin takes it without thinking, and we’re running up the corridor together. Fin’s exosuit seethes and hisses as we sprint, boots pounding the metal as we take the stairs up to the cockpit.
Zila is seated in the pilot’s chair, looking slightly frazzled, which for her almost constitutes a complete nervous breakdown. At first glance, our vis-systems all look dead—nothing but blackness on any of our viewscreens. No planets, not even any stars, which is kinda—
No, hold up. Some cams are still online at least. I can see a small, dumpy-looking space station on one viewscreen, trailing a heavy cable out into that otherwise perfect darkness.
This makes no sense… .
We were in the middle of a massive space battle on the edge of Terran space a few minutes ago. Where did the fleets go? Where did this station come from? And why aren’t there any stars out there?
Zila meets my eyes as I look to her for explanation, and I know it sounds insane, but a part of me knows knows KNOWS …
“I take it you are also experiencing a sensation that suggests this moment is repeating itself,” she says.
“It’s French!” Finian declares.
A pulse of light flares on the viewscreens. It’s dim, deep mauve, only a few seconds long. But my stomach does an ugly little flip as I realize it’s not just darkness out there. There’s some kind of … storm happening. A greasy, rolling collision of dark tendrils, so big it almost breaks my brain.
Fin blinks. “Is that … ?”
“A dark matter tempest,” Zila murmurs. “Yes.”
I glance to the commscreen, the taste of burned metal on my tongue, luminous Syldrathi script crawling across the readouts. I can see the features of what’s definitely a Terran on the monitor—female, young—but her face is mostly obscured by a pilot’s breather and helmet. She has two diamond insignia on her collar marking her as a lieutenant, but that’s definitely not a Terran Defense Force uniform she’s wearing. My first impression is she’s a 17th-level badass. But her voice sounds just a tiiiiiiny bit uncertain.
“Listen … you need to identify yourself and provide clearance codes. You have ten seconds.”
Technically, Squad 312 is wanted for galactic terrorism, so I decide to get a little blurry on the whole “Identify Yourself” thing. I brush my hair back, conjure a smooth demeanor from my bag of tricks, and purr into the microphone.
“I cannot tell you how good it is to see you, Lieutenant! We thought we were in big trouble. Our ship is damaged, our engines are offline, and we’re in need of your assistance, over.”
“This is a restricted area,” the pilot replies, still a touch shaky. “How did you get here? And what the hell are you flying?”
“It’s a really long story, Lieutenant,” I smile, warm and friendly. “But our life-support situation isn’t exactly puppies and sunshine over here, so if you could offer us a tow, I can buy you a drink and tell you all about it.”
A long pause follows, my jaw clenched.
“All right,” the pilot finally declares. “I’m going to fire you a tow cable and bring you into dock. But you make any wrong moves, I will blast your asses across the system without even thinking twice about it.”
I smile. “That is great news, Lieutenant.”
“Thank youuuu!” Finian pops up behind me and waves. “You are as wise as you are beautiful, madam!”
The pilot’s voice turns to ice. What little I can see of her expression hardens to stone. “You have a goddamn Betraskan on board?”
All around us, alarms flare into life, red lights flashing and Syldrathi symbols illuminating, and a loudspeaker barks.
“WARNING, WARNING: MISSILE LOCK DETECTED.”
A tiny line of light appears on our scanners. I look to the others, helpless, wild. We have no engines. No navigation. No defenses.
“Oh shit … ,” I breathe.
“Scar … ,” Fin whispers.
The light draws closer. Our fingers touch.
“Do not be afraid,” Zila frowns. “It does not hurt much.”
“… What?” I ask.
The missile strikes.
Fire tears through the bridge.
BOOM.