see half a dozen Syldrathi waiting for us. They wear traditional robes, glyfs of the Waywalker Cabal etched in the flowing fabric, Void crystals strung on silver glass about their necks. They are tall and graceful. But thin. Haggard. Many have centuries behind their stares, and aside from a psi-blade at the waist of their youngest, none are armed.
Physical contact is an intimacy among my people. Syldrathi do not touch strangers, but I know it is custom among Terrans to shake hands upon meeting others. And so I am surprised when Scarlett Jones walks forward to Taneth, raising her fingers to her eyes, then her lips, then her heart in perfect greeting.
The First Walker repeats the gesture with a small, puzzled smile, obviously pleased to see a Terran so versed in our ways.
Scarlett Jones introduces the other members of our squad. “Tyler Jones, our commander. Zila Madran, science officer. Finian de Seel, engineer. Catherine Brannock, pilot. And finally, Kaliis Idraban Gilwraeth, combat specialist.”
One by one, the Syldrathi close their eyes and turn their backs on me, until only Taneth remains facing us. And he does not spare me a glance.
“The five of you are welcome here,” he declares to the others. “Though we do not ask it, we will gratefully receive any assistance the Aurora Legion offers.”
Tyler Jones looks about the cargo bay, notes the fluctuating power, the wires and circuitry spilling from tears in the walls, the staleness of the air. He sees their plight as swiftly as I do. This station was abandoned by its original owners years ago, and without money and maintenance, it is falling apart. The people here are in obvious need. But still, a part of me is saddened to see those of my race lunge so eagerly for help. To prostrate themselves like beggars before children.
Once we walked the dark between the stars, unequaled.
What have we become?
“Where are the rest of your people?” Tyler asks.
Taneth blinks. “The rest?”
“Legion Command told us there were close to seven thousand refugees here.”
“We are a hundred at most, young Terran.”
Tyler Jones shares an uneasy glance with his sister. Zila Madran simply blinks, like an automaton storing data for later inquiry. Finian de Seel has the same question in his large black eyes as Cat Brannock does. As I do.
Why travel so very far, risk so much, for so few?
“Do you have a command and control center?” Tyler Jones asks. “We need a better look at your systems so we can prioritize repairs.”
“And a chapel maybe?” Our Ace mutters, peering about the bay. “So we can ask the Maker what the hells we’re doing here?”
“We have a central control.” Taneth nods. “Please, follow me.”
He turns to the youngest among them—the female with the psi-blade at her belt. “Aedra, please oversee the delivery of the medical supplies. And watch”—a glance at me—“that. Carefully.”
The female glares at me with cold violet eyes. She replies in our own tongue. “Your voice, my hands, First Taneth.”
Tyler Jones looks at me with one eyebrow raised in question. I bow in reply, assuring him all will be well. The rest of my squad accompanies the Waywalkers into an elevator that looks older than Taneth, and twice as decrepit.
“You kids play nice, now.” Finan de Seel smiles.
The elevator rises slowly to the upper levels, clunking as it goes. It shudders to a brief stop for no apparent reason, and our Gearhead thumps the control panel to get it moving again. Finally, my squad disappears from sight.
I find myself alone with the female.
She is tall, willowy. Her skin is tanned, her hair silver, tied back from her brow and spilling in gleaming waves over her shoulders. Now that we are out of sight of the Terrans, she allows her disdain for me to show more openly, curling her lip, hatred glittering in her eyes. I know she is scanning me telepathically—my mother was also of the Waywalker Cabal, and she taught me the signs. I can feel the gentle press of Aedra’s mind on my own as she skims my surface thoughts.
I glance down to the hand on her psi-blade, see the glyf encircling her forefinger. She seems young to have answered the Pull. And yet, from the single teardrop inside the circle, I know her lifelove has already returned to the Void.
“May the spirits guide him home,” I offer.
She moves. Swift as a sunbeam. An arc of energy springs from her psi-blade’s hilt; mauve, crackling, reflected in her eyes as she raises it to my