Gal doesn’t. He flinches like he’s been struck, and his own greeting gets caught in his throat. “Berr…Governor Berr sys-Tosa. Well met,” he manages.
The governor laughs. “I’ve never known an imperial with a sense of humor.”
“And I’ve never known a system governor to survive what you’re attempting,” Gal shoots back, sitting straighter in his chair.
Berr sys-Tosa’s lips go thin. “You float, my prince. You have no leverage. No tether. No ships at your command, no power at your disposal, no troops to follow your orders.”
Not true. Gal has a single soldier on his side, and gods of all systems, I hope I’m enough.
“The only cards you hold are your blood and your name,” Tosa continues. “And those are not enough to stop a dreadnought.”
“You would risk the wrath of Iva emp-Umber? Of Yltrast emp-Umber? Of the full force of the Imperial Fleet, of the hundreds of dreadnoughts at their command?”
The way they’re talking is making my head hurt. Imperial-speak. Umber imperial–speak. You wouldn’t hear this kind of talk from any Archon leader, but the Umber Empire is rank with the notion that the value of a ruler boils down to how much power they can wield. It often ends with the little people diving out of the way as larger powers try to prove their point. It’s the kind of posturing that gets worlds destroyed. I try not to look sick, and give thanks for the way my darker complexion masks the blood draining from my face.
The governor gives us a grim smile. “Your parents don’t know you’ve been revealed yet, Majesty. The academy hasn’t released the information, and I’ve given the head instructions to keep your little secret under wraps until you turn yourself over.”
Gal shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “You expect me to come willingly? Why trust you not to pull—”
The governor cuts him off with a bold laugh. “Child, there is no trust. Not in this empire. There is only blood-proven power. Bow to mine, and you may stand a chance of inheriting yours. When you come of age, of course—which you could do in the comfort of my court. I can even offer my heirs at your disposal, should you wish to factor my blood’s power into your ascension.”
A flicker of disgust shows on Gal’s face. “Are you…threatening me into taking refuge with you? Even if the empress doesn’t find out, how do you imagine that plays out for you when I begin my succession?”
“A lot can change in six months.”
Gal scoffs. He’s trying to project the cool confidence, the negotiator exterior. It isn’t working, and I hope I’m the only one who can tell how much this situation unnerves him. “Governor, you’ve yet to make a concrete proposal of how you intend to use all this power of yours. What’ll it be? Boltfire if we dare to move? Will you be sending an emissary to fetch us, or are we meant to come to you? Which ship are we bound for?”
I slide my hands forward, the controls slipping under my fingertips. Better to have the engines ready to go.
Gal’s response has thrown the governor. Seems he hasn’t decided what he wants to do with us. He glances back over his shoulder, no doubt to the officers he commands. “I’m a man with a generous heart, Gal emp-Umber. I’ll give you a chance to handle this with dignity and nobility. Prove I don’t have to fetch you like the child you are. I await you aboard the Fulcrum. Your…ship…should be able to identify it.”
Gal gives me a nod. “Adjust our vector.” He points on the console.
Not to the dreadnought our readouts identify as the Fulcrum, but to an empty space slightly above it.
His other hand taps quietly on his side of the controls. I map my gaze to the equivalent on my instrumentation. My stomach drops. I shake my head.
“Do it, Nassun,” Gal demands through his teeth. “We’re outmatched against the governor. This is our only course.”
Berr sys-Tosa beams. “I’m glad you see reason. You’ll make a fine leader someday.”
I spur the thrusters, setting the Beamer on a vector bound directly for the Fulcrum. I can feel the weight of Gal’s anxious stare on my neck as I lean forward over the controls and urge the Beamer up to speed.
“I look forward to meeting you in person, Gal emp-Umber,” Berr sys-Tosa says, giving us a sickening smile.
I nudge the Beamer’s vector—barely enough to be noticeable, but enough to start a gentle list toward the empty space Gal pointed to.
Gal meets the governor’s eyes, flashing a taut smile. “Likewise.” He closes the line, and the two of us let out a long, needed sigh.
Acceleration sinks us back in our seats as we close on the Fulcrum. From far away, the cityship was barely more than a point of light. The closer we get, the more we comprehend its scale. Dreadnoughts are assembled in the metal-rich asteroid belts of solar systems, free from the gravity of a planet. Free to be built like steel-wrapped gods. From tip to tail, the Fulcrum is twenty miles long, every inch of it carved for domination.
No purer emblem for the Umber war machine exists. The Umber interior is littered with mined-out belts, depleted both by the power-hungry system governors battling for influence within the empire and by the imperials struggling to keep them in line over the past thousand years. When Umber’s need for more dreadnoughts eclipsed the resources in their territory, they set their sights on their Archon neighbors, who had never fathomed a need for ships this big and brutal. The empress told her soldiers that the Archon imperials had mismanaged their sparse resources and were allowing their citizens to starve. Propaganda packaged the war as a humanitarian effort to save these territories from their leadership. But anyone with half a brain knows in the end, it was all about that metal.
I have no doubt that every single one of the ships in this blockade is less than seven years old.
I don’t like what we’re about to do. I don’t like that I’m about to do it in a Beamer. I don’t like any of this. But when it comes down to it, this is our best option—as long as they don’t catch on in time.
Another hail pops up as we approach. Gal answers again. “Fulcrum, this is the Umber heir.”
“Apologies, Your Majesty.” It’s not the system governor this time—instead, a nervous-looking communications officer appears onscreen. “Our telemetry shows you drifting nearly a mile off-course. Adjust accordingly.”
Gal flashes that irresistibly charming apologetic smile he keeps tucked away in his arsenal. “Sorry, it’s the Beamer being an asshole. Never can get these things to handle properly, am I right?”
We’re seconds away from getting busted, and he knows it. He slides his hand onto the empty spot on his side of the dash. Taps once, twice, three times, each more insistent than the last. Do it, he’s saying. Do it now, before we lose this window. Do it, or I’ll jump across the cockpit and do it for you.