Our heroes are back . . . kind of. From the bestselling co-authors of the Illuminae Files comes the second book in the epic Aurora Cycle series about a squad of misfits, losers, and discipline cases who just might be the galaxy's best hope for survival. First, the bad news: Anancient evil--your standard consume-all-life-in-the-galaxy deal--is about to be unleashed.The good news? Squad 312 is here to save the day. As soon as they'vejust got to take care of a few small distractions first. Like the clan of gremps who are holding a serious grudge against the squad. And a bunch of illegit GIUTA agents with creepy flowers where their eyes used to be. Then there's Kal's long-lost sister, who's not exactly happy to see him.But with the reappearance of the colony ship that Auri was found on, new clues about Auri--and her powers as a Trigger--begin to come to light. And just in time. Because if Auri can't learn to master her powers, the squad going to be soooo dead.Shocking revelations, bank heists, mysterious gifts,inappropriately tight bodysuits, and an epic firefight will determine the fate of the Aurora Legion's most unforgettable heroes--and, you know, the rest of the galaxy. “ Nonstop action, romance, and a few satisfying surprises …. A thrilling space epic that will fly off the shelves.” – Kirkus Reviews “A positively explosive cliff-hanger end will have readers on the hook for book three.” – Booklist Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff are the New York Times bestselling co-authors of the Illuminae Files. Amie has also cowritten (with Meagan Spooner) the Starbound and the Unearthed trilogies. Jay is the author of the LIFEL1K3 series, as well as the Nevernight Chronicle and the Lotus War series for adults. Collectively, Amie and Jay stand 12'5" tall and live in Melbourne, Australia, with two long-suffering spouses, two rescue dogs, and a plentiful supply of caffeine. They met thanks to international taxation law, and stuck together due to a shared love of blowing things up and breaking hearts. You can learn more about Amie at amiekaufman.com or @AmieKaufman; look for Jay at jaykristoff.com or @misterkristoff. 1 Tyler  The disruptor blast hits the Betraskan right in her chest. She shrieks, and her armload of e-tech goes flying as she collapses in a drooling heap. I vault over her as she falls, ducking as another disruptor shot hisses past my ear. The bazaar around us is crowded, the mob parting before me in a panic as more blasts ring out behind us. Scarlett is running right on my heels, flame-red hair plastered to her cheeks with sweat. She leaps over the unconscious Betraskan woman and her scattered goods, offering an apologetic shout. “Sorryyyy!” Another blast rings out. The gangsters chasing us roar at the crowd to step aside. We leap over the counter of a semptar stall, past the gobsmacked owner, and out the back door into another packed, humid street. Hovercraft and rotor bots. Pale green walls around us, red skies above, yellow plascrete beneath our feet, a rainbow of outfits and skin tones ahead. “Left!” Finian shouts over comms. “Go left!”  We left it, barreling into a grubby alleyway off the main drag. Hucksters and fienders stare at us as we sprint past, boots pounding, trash flying. The tiny gangsters chasing us reach the alley mouth, filling the air with the BAMF! BAMF! of their disruptor blasts. The whoosh of charged particles rushes past my ear. We skid behind a dumpster full of discarded machine parts, looking for some kind of cover. “I told you this was a bad idea!” Scarlett gasps.  “And I told you I don’t have bad ideas!” I shout, kicking through a doorway. “Oh no?” she asks, cracking off a shot at our pursuers.  “No!” I drag her inside. “Just less amazing ones!”   Yeah, let’s back it up a little.   About forty minutes, maybe, before things got quite so shooty. I know I’ve done this before, but it’s more exciting this way. Trust me. Dimples, remember? So, forty minutes ago, I’m sitting in a crowded booth in a crowded bar, music thumping in my ears. I’m outfitted in a tight black tunic and tighter pants, which I presume are stylish--Scarlett chose them for me, after all. My sister’s squeezed into the booth beside me, also in civilian wardrobe: blood-red and formfitting and cut as low as she likes it. Sitting opposite us are a dozen gremps.  The place we’re in is a dive, all pulsing light and smoky air, stuffed to the rafters. There’s a broad pit in the center of the room where I guess they hold some kind of blood sport, but fortunately nobody’s killing anyone else in here right now. Drug and skin trades are going on all around us, the small-time hustlers of the station and their daily grind. And along with the smell of rocksmoke and the speakers’ thudding deepdub, a single question is buzzing in my head.  How in the Maker’s name did I get here?  The gremps sit across from us--a dozen small, furry figures crammed into the other side of the booth. Their slitted eyes are fixed on the uniglass Sc