The odds of any interference with our mission is low.”
“Approximately eight thousand seven hundred and twenty-five to one.”
We all stop, surprised to hear Zila speak. I’d almost forgotten she was on the bridge, to be honest. She’s sitting at her station, sucking on a lock of black, curly hair, dark brown skin illuminated by the displays as her fingertips fly over her keyboards.
“Eight thousand seven hundred and twenty-five to one?” I repeat.
“Approximately,” she replies, not looking up.
“How’d you figure that out?” Finian asks.
Zila cocks a finger, points at her head. “With my brain.”
Tyler clears his throat in the uncomfortable silence that follows.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Regardless, I want you all on high alert. This is our first opportunity to prove our worth. So if you’re of the opinion that you’re more than just a glorified courier”—Ty glances at me—“now’s your chance to step up. Our governments might be afraid of getting the Starslayer offside, but we’re the Aurora Legion. We don’t bow to tyrants, and don’t back down from a fight.”
Even with the colors in monochrome, I can see the fire in Tyler’s eyes. There’s a passion in his voice that raises goose bumps on my skin. For all the griping, all the crap, listening to him speak, I remember why he was the top-ranked Alpha in our year. I remember why, staring at each other across that barroom table and all those empty glasses, I thought we might’ve had a chance.
“Squad 312, this is Aurora Flight Control, over.”
I tap my comms to reply. “This is Squad 312, over.”
“I have Aurora Command here for your Alpha, 312, over.”
I blink at that. Frown at Tyler as he taps the Receive button on his console.
“This is Legionnaire Jones.”
A holograph of Battle Leader de Stoy materializes above our displays. She’s in full dress uniform, hair drawn back in a harsh ponytail. I can see Admiral Adams standing beside her, also in dress, cybernetic arms folded over his barrel-broad, medal-studded chest, washed black and white and gray by the Fold.
Adams and Ty go way back. He and Ty’s dad were best friends back in their pilot days in the Terran Defense Force. Adams took Ty and Scar under his wing when their old man was killed. He and Ty go to chapel together every weekend, and Adams has always shown Tyler a little more attention than other cadets.
But still, I look into my Alpha’s eyes and see he’s just as confused as me.
“Good morning, Legionnaires.” Adams salutes.
We salute back and murmur our good mornings as de Stoy speaks.
“We wanted to wish you and your squad good hunting, Legionnaire Jones.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Tyler replies.
“This is your first step onto a much bigger stage,” Adams says. “The challenges that await you may be unlike any you’ve imagined. But we have every faith in your ability to see it through. No matter what may come. You must endure.” Adams looks directly at Ty as he speaks. “You must believe, Tyler.”
This is just weird. No matter how tight Adams and Ty might be, the senior brass don’t directly brief grunts like us. We’re so far down the chain of command we’re practically invisible, and this mission counts for nothing at all. But here’s both academy commanders, addressing us like we’re a First Class squad on a top-tier gig.
And then Adams looks directly at me, speaking the academy motto.
“We the Legion. We the light. Burning bright against the night.”
“… Yes sir,” I reply.
“Burn bright, Legionnaires,” de Stoy says. “The cargo you carry is more precious than any of you can know.”
“Maker be with you.” Adams nods.
“Um … ,” Tyler says. “Thank you, sir. Ma’am.”
Their images hang there a moment longer, like they’re trying to burn us into memory. I wonder what the hells is going on. But with a final salute, the projections fade, replaced with the rotating projection of Sagan station. We’re all staring at the place our commanders were a moment before, a little dumbfounded. And into the quiet, Zila Madran speaks a single word that sums all our feelings up spot-on.
“Odd …”
Tyler drags his hair back from his eyes, takes a seat. He’s all business once again, though I know he has to be asking himself the same questions I am.
“Right,” he says, leaning down to rub an imaginary scuff off his immaculate boot. “Kal, I want strategies if we come across hostile Syldrathi in the Neutral Zone. Scar, I want diplomacy options with the refugees. Zila and Finian, you’re studying Sagan’s systems. We have six