CIGARILLOS!”
Most of the faces around the table still look baffled.
“Well, I know what a business card is,” says Auri. “It’s a piece of paper with your personal details on it. You give them to people so they can contact you.”
I frown. “You don’t just bump uniglasses?”
“No uniglasses in my time,” she says.
“DARK DAYS INDEED!” Magellan beeps.
Kal frowns. “I am not in possession of business cards,” he informs her gravely, as though this might be a problem.
She glances down at Magellan. “Magellan, define cigarillo.”
“NOTHING WOULD MAKE ME HAPPIER, BOSS! A CIGARILLO WAS A SMALL CIGARETTE!” It pauses, absorbs the confused silence, and tries again. “A PLANT KNOWN AS TOBACCO WAS ROLLED INSIDE A THIN SHEET OF PAPER, THEN SET ON FIRE, AND TERRANS INHALED THE SMOKE FOR STIMULATION!”
“This sounds hazardous to one’s health,” Zila opines.
“CORRECT!” Magellan says. “THE PRACTICE FELL OUT OF VOGUE IN THE TWENTY-SECOND CENTURY, AFTER TERRANS DISCOVERED IN THE TWENTIETH THAT IT KILLED YOU!”
“It took them two hundred years to stop doing it?” I ask, bewildered.
“ISN’T THAT INSANE?” Magellan says. “HONESTLY, DOESN’T THAT SOUND LIKE A SPECIES THAT WOULD BENEFIT FROM SOME KIND OF BENEVOLENT MACHINE OVERLORD?”
“Silent mode,” Tyler says.
“AW.”
We share a series of blank stares, pondering the box in Kal’s hand. Our Tank studies the little metal case one more time, then tucks it into the breast pocket of his uniform, with a small shift of posture that’s as close to a shrug as our most dignified squad member ever seems to come.
Now it’s time for my present. I won’t lie: I’m excited to see what it is. But my excitement fades when I unwrap the paper and discover a small, plain metal cylinder. It’s something like a stylus, but there’s nothing electronic about it.
“What’s it for?” I ask. “Is it some kind of tool?”
Auri reaches over to take it from me and presses her thumb against one end, producing a clicking sound. A little point springs out from the other.
“It’s a ballpoint pen,” she says, handing it back to me.
“It’s a what now?”
“It’s a writing implement from my time,” she says.
“I’ve been ripped off,” I inform her. “I do not need an old-fashioned writing implement.”
“I’ll trade you for my boots?” Tyler offers.
“Or my smoking box that does not open?” Kal says.
I press my thumb to the end like Auri did and retract the point. I will admit the click is a little satisfying. Scarlett reaches into the box again and pulls out a package marked with our squad designation, 312, which turns out to contain a whole pile of red and gold Dominion credit chips.
“Nothing for Auri, I’m afraid,” she says.
“I already got my gift,” Auri replies simply.
“… You did?” Tyler asks.
“Yeah. You guys.”
She gazes around at Squad 312 and makes a face.
“Holy cake, that sounded unbearably cheesy, didn’t it?”
“Unforgivably,” Scar grins, dropping the cred chips onto the console. “But except for the papers directing us to the ship and the passkeys, this is everything.”
“At least we will not be lacking in funds,” Kal nods.
“This is not a credit chip,” Zila says, retrieving a chip bearing a turquoise stripe from under the red and gold. She passes it to me, as I’m sitting in front of a data slot.
I pause for a moment, because I have a policy of never putting a chip a stranger gives me into my equipment, unless, you know, that whole sentence is a metaphor. But if our benefactors wanted to drop us in it, they’ve already had their chance and then some. So, with a wince, I push it home.
The main screen above us flickers to life, and we’re greeted by Admiral Adams and Battle Leader de Stoy. They’re in full dress uniform, the sigil of the Aurora Legion emblazoned on their shoulders. Adams raises one cybernetic hand in greeting, and de Stoy favors the camera with a small nod, her black eyes unreadable even to another Betraskan.
“Greetings, legionnaires,” Adams says gravely. “First, well done on deciphering our code. Battle Leader de Stoy and I regret we can’t be there to brief you personally, but if you are watching this message, it’s our hope that you’re aboard the Zero and headed for the Hephaestus convoy.”
He pauses, which is helpful, as it leaves room for a collective “Whaaaaat?”
Before the creeped-out disbelief from all around the table gets too out of hand, de Stoy picks up the narrative.
“This will doubtlessly be strange to all of you, legionnaires. We know you must have many burning questions. Unfortunately, and for reasons that will one day