01
“You don’t belong here.”
My fingers dig into my sandwich, which is halfway to my mouth. I’m standing in the kitchen of Detachment 94, having just come from my new living quarters in search of lunch. Some people lose their appetite when they’re nervous, but for me it’s always been the opposite—anxiety makes me ravenous.
I have good reason to be anxious. I just spent eight hours on an interstellar flight from ARCAN Aviation Academy to Skyhub Space Station, during which time I had ample chance to work myself up over meeting my new team. Doesn’t matter that I graduated first in my class. Doesn’t matter that after busting my ass for three sleepless years, I emerged the top Academy recruit for every Starfield Fleet in the Legion. As the newest member of the Sixth, I’m a nobody again. Untested. Unproven. I’ll have to establish myself all over, from the ground up. That alone would be enough to put anyone on edge, but as a bonus, I arrived at the detachment while the other nine members of the Sixth were out on duty. The halls, the common room, the kitchen—they’ve been quiet. Empty, like a black screen before the start of a movie. The anticipation has left me starving.
The voice speaks again. “Visitors aren’t allowed in here.”
My back is to the kitchen door, my hips pressing into the counter, shoulders bent over my food. It’s all sort of sloppy, and I flush, feeling caught in the act. (I shouldn’t. My new commanding officer, Sergeant Forst, said I should help myself to the detachment’s pantry. But still.)
I turn, coming face-to-face with the one member of the Sixth who I don’t recognize on sight, because his picture isn’t in any of the records. And yet, I know who this must be, because he’s wearing his whites, and because I’ve already memorized the faces of the other eight Sixers. This is my new flight partner, Lament Bringer.
My first thought is,He’s beautiful.
My second thought is,Shit.
I’d spent ages scouring the Academy’s database for a photo of Lament. The other members of the Sixth were easy to find. Though there are ninety-nine Starfield Fleets and nearly a thousand fleet members, the Sixth tends to make its way into the news more often than most. They’ve had countless articles written about their missions, pictures from award ceremonies and interviews, even a few clips of their spaceflights. As soon as I’d gotten wind I’d be joining their ranks (or, all right, maybe even before then), I started conducting my research, stalking the hell out of the entire detachment. I learned their names and faces, their specializations, where they attended school, who flies which craft. I even found details on Lament’s old gunner, a man named Bast Vinicchi, who was killed on a mission a few months back. And yet, no matter how hard I searched, I couldn’t find anything on Lament.
Now that I’ve finally got my eyes on him, he’s nothing like I expected. He’s tallish for a pilot, with pale skin that fades into pale hair and a build that’s lessathleteand moreartist. He’s around my age, eighteen or nineteen, though he’s been in the Sixth for years—a young recruit. Dressed in his white uniform, he looks both intimidating and totally washed of color, except for his mouth, which is starkly pink, and his eyes, which are green. Or maybe blue? It’s hard to tell with him scowling at me like that.
We stand there for a moment, me gaping, him frowning. As if on cue,the tomato begins to slide out from my sandwich. I squeeze the bread tighter, leaving finger-shaped indents in the pumpernickel. Then I do what I always do when I’m uncomfortable and wheeze a laugh.
Lament’s expression doesn’t change. “Are you listening?” His eyes drop to my sandwich and its escaping tomato. “This area is for members only.”
“I—well, right, but I… am a member?” I try to say this in a way that doesn’t sound like a question and mostly fail. “As of this morning.” I hold out a (somewhat greasy) hand for him to shake. When Lament ignores both my correction and my outstretched hand, I barrel on. “Today’s my first day. I’m your new—”
“Don’t say it,” he interrupts.
“—gunner,” I finish.
The silence that follows this proclamation is awful. The sandwich is still coming undone in my hand, and I’m starving and suddenly kind of sweaty, so I do the only logical thing and make it worse. “I’m your new gunner,” I say again, running the full sentence together. These are the words I practiced on the flight all the way here, repeating the phrase over and over until there was no hitch in my voice, no hesitation. I feel better as soon as they’re out, despite the fact that Lament is looking at me like I’ve sprouted flippers.
“There’s been a misunderstanding.” He takes a step back, like he’s worried my stupidity might be contagious. “I’ve already taken this issue up with Sergeant Forst, but apparently my message didn’t reach the appropriate channels. You’re not going to be my new gunner, because I don’t need a new gunner.”
The first threads of panic—an old feeling, a feeling I hate—start to rise in my throat. Lament can’t kick me out of the Sixth, I don’t think. Pretty sure. Ninety-eight percent sure. Still, the thought is enough to get my heart going. If the Sixth changes its mind about me, would it be too late to transfer to another detachment? Maybe my Academy officers could pull some strings, find me another fleet with an open spot this late in the season, but the idea of failing so soon—of getting kicked out before I’ve even started,after everything I’ve done to be here, killing myself to secure my future when a future shouldn’t evenexistfor someone like me—ties my gut into knots.
“I’ve got my orders in my bag.” I’m still doing my best to keep my tone neutral and still mostly failing. “Sergeant Forst signed the papers herself.”
“The sergeant’s signature isn’t law.”
“You can’t fly without a gunner.”
“I can, actually. I do it all the time.”
“I’ve already unpacked my things.”
“That,” Lament says, “is a child’s argument.”
The sandwich is now mush in my fist. My neck is hot, itchy. I don’t know whether I’m angry or just deeply humiliated. Lament catches the rising color in my cheeks and his expression shifts, not a softening (I’m beginning to suspect he’s incapable of softening), but more like he’s horrified on my behalf. “I’m not saying you have to leave the Sixth,” he reassures in a way that is very much not reassuring. “Just that you won’t be flying withme.”
“Who won’t be flying with you?”
We turn to see two more Sixers enter the kitchen, both of whom I recognize from my research: Vera Bergmont and Jester Blue. Vera is short and compact, with a wild crop of black hair and a dimple in one cheek, while Jester is taller, lankier, sporting a visor that covers his eyes—he’s nonverbal, so when he wants to speak, the words scroll across the visor’s screen. Vera is the Sixth’s split-wing pilot, Jester is the intelligence officer, and their interruption is a relief.
“You must be Keller Hartman.” Vera’s nose scrunches in excitement as she moves toward me. “The sergeant said you’d be arriving today. I’m so glad you made it. And all in one piece?”
My relief doubles, tunneling from my core down my limbs. At leastsomeoneseems glad to meet me. “Thanks. And yeah, more or less.”
