Catherine Asaro: Aurora in Four Voices

Soz and Jato stared at each other. Then they scrambled to their feet and sprinted for the airfield. Alarms were blaring, coming from the distant airtower and speakers along the field’s perimeter. As they ran through the gate, which was no more than a few bars that swung to one side, Jato saw a Jag starfighter out on the tarmac. It gleamed like alabaster, as much a work of art as any sculpture.

When they reached the Jag, its hatch dilated like a high-speed holocam. As soon as they lunged through the opening, it snapped closed. A membrane irised in the nose of the ship, revealing a cockpit. As Soz squeezed into the pilot’s seat, it folded an exoskeleton of controls around her like a silver-mesh glove. Jato stood behind her chair, hanging on to its back while his nausea surged.

"Neck and lower spinal nodes blocked," an androgynous voice said.

"Ankles," Soz said, intent on her controls.

While her hands flew over her forward controls, a robot claw pulled off her boots and a mesh enfolded her feet, plugging into her ankle sockets. After that Jato heard nothing; the ship was communicating directly with her internal systems.

Suddenly Soz spun around her chair and pulled down Jato’s head. He fell forward, grabbing the arms of her seat to catch himself. She kissed him hard, pushing her tongue into his mouth.

He jerked away. "Are you craz-"

"I’m giving you the antidote. In my saliva. My web figured it out and my meds made it." She pulled him back into the kiss.

So he kissed her, while guns boomed from the port defenses and the ship shook. Although the Nightingale port claimed only a small arsenal, it could still do damage. He just hoped the Jag could protect itself while its pilot and her passenger took their medicine.

Then Soz pulled away from him and smiled. The cockpit elongated and a second chair rose from the deck. "Co-pilot’s seat," she said. "You take."

He slid into the seat, and a slender probe from it extended to his ear-in time for him to hear a voice shout, "Skyhammer-36, acknowledge!"

He nearly jumped out of the chair. Then he realized he was hearing Soz’s communications with the aircontrol tower.

"You are not cleared for take-off!" the voice said. "I repeat, you are not cleared for take-off."

"Tough," Soz said. Then she fired the rockets.

Jato knew a stealth craft like the Jag could come and go with barely a whisper-if that was what its pilot wanted. They took off in a thundering roar of rockets. For her parting salute to Nightingale, Soz blasted the holy hell out of that tarmac.

As acceleration pushed them into the seats, a holomap came on, showing Nightingale receding into the spectacular bones of the Giant’s Skeleton Mountains. The peaks withdrew until they were no more than wrinkles in the vast panorama of the world.

Gradually Jato’s mind absorbed the situation. He was free. Free .

Or at least, he thought he was free. "What happens now?" he asked.

Soz glanced at him. "I’ll take you to headquarters. You can clear your name." She hesitated, a blush on her cheeks. "I can help out, if-if you would like."

Her uncertainty floored him. He had seen her face death by Promenade collapse, clockwork venom, and snuff-art, all with remarkable composure. Yet asking if he wanted her to stick around made her nervous.

He smiled. "Yes. I would like that."

Her face gentled. She glanced at the statue he still held. "I felt what it took for you to offer your sculpture to me. Thank you."

"It’s not much."

"It’s spectacular, Jato. Both the bird and the fugue."

He swallowed, at a loss how to tell her how much her words meant. So instead he motioned at her holo display. "Soz, look."

Together they watched the sun rise over the rim of Ansatz.