If All the Stars Go Dark

Chapter 01

“You don’t belong here.”

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 less athlete and more artist. 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 even exist for 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 with me.”

“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 least someone seems glad to meet me. “Thanks. And yeah, more or less.”

“Vera,” she says by way of introduction, shaking my hand with none of Lament’s hesitation. “And this is Jester.” He gives a salute. “We’re absolutely tickled to meet you.”

“Vera.” Lament pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t be one of the fiercest aviators in the Legion and say things like tickled.”

“On the contrary, being a fierce aviator gives me the right to speak however I please.” She’s practically vibrating with energy, popping up and down on her toes. “For example, I might comment on how rude you’re being, keeping your new gunner all to yourself. Were you planning on introducing us?”

Lament stiffens. “I don’t have a new gunner.”

“Of course you do. He’s standing right there.”

“I’ve spoken to Sergeant Forst—”

“Who told you to play nice,” Vera cuts in.

“This,” Lament replies coldly, “is not a game.”

He speaks like he’s in a theater performance, all proper posture and enunciated syllables.

I notice my own posture, which is still kind of slumped over my sandwich and further hunched with defensiveness.

I try my best to straighten, even though doing so feels like I’m giving in in some way, or maybe giving something away, some piece of myself I didn’t realize I wanted to hold on to.

It’s a confusing thought, punctuated by the fact that Lament clearly wants nothing to do with me.

Vera remains unfazed. “You’re right. Protecting the galaxy is serious business. Why don’t you start by showing Keller the flight deck?”

“No.”

“Or you could see him to his room?”

“He’s already found his room.” Lament’s eyes slice to me. “He’s even unpacked his things.”

This time, there’s no mistaking my humiliation for anger. I drop my gaze to my shoes, wishing the floor would do the decent thing and swallow me whole.

“Lament.” Vera’s sigh is resigned. “Let’s not do this?”

“Agreed,” he clips. “Let’s not.” And then—without trying to defend himself, without even offering an excuse—he spins on his heel and strides out of the kitchen.

I watch his retreating figure, the narrow hips, straight spine. His hair is longish and combed back. His boots tap a sharp rhythm as he disappears through the sliding door.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Vera says with a sympathetic smile. “Lament can be like this sometimes.”

He’ll come around, Jester agrees, the words scrolling red across the shiny black screen of his visor. He just needs time.

“I … yeah. Okay.” I set the sandwich back onto the counter with more care than is strictly necessary, using the extra moment to arrange my face into something less obviously wounded.

I know Lament just lost his former gunner in a space-related accident, which is the only reason the spot opened for me.

And I get that maybe the death of his friend is still raw, that it probably grates seeing me standing here ready to act as his replacement. But Lament’s attitude sucks.

Vera waits until I turn back around before nudging me with an elbow. “Have you explored much of Skyhub yet?”

“Not yet.” The spacecraft that brought me here landed on the Sixth’s private flight deck, so I haven’t had a chance to see the greater arena that is Skyhub Space Station.

“Come on, then.” Her smile changes, regaining some of its former enthusiasm. “Jest and I will show you around, if you’re up for it?”

I appreciate her tacking on that last bit, like she understands I might just want to slink back to my new room and bury my head under a pillow.

Which, yeah, I do want that. But I think of Master Ira, and my origin planet Venthros, and everything I’ve sacrificed to be here.

All the things I’m still hoping to find.

I’ve dreamed of this day for years. It’s not just the prospect of running kick-ass missions or handling top-of-the-line artillery (though I’m itching to get my hands on one of the Legion’s famed Halobringers).

It’s not even the idea that I’ll be standing among heroes, that I maybe even have the chance to become a hero.

A fleet is like a family, and a detachment like a home.

It’s here between these walls that the ten members of the Sixth drink their coffee, take their orders, celebrate wins, and mourn losses.

They belong together. They’d do anything for each other.

I want to be part of that. Sometimes, I want it so badly I can hardly breathe.

And I’m close. So close it doesn’t even seem real.

Newly graduated cadets rarely manage to snag a spot in the Legion straight out of training, let alone in the most famed fleet in the galaxy.

Young gunners like me usually enter the civilian workforce first, gain experience, climb their way up.

The fact that I’m here—hell, that I was recruited—is so unlikely it might as well be planetary alignment.

Which is all to say that this day means something, and I can’t let one grumpy maybe-not-even flight partner ruin it for me.

I give Vera and Jester my best smile. “Let’s do it.”