I’m starting to appreciate the Beamer more. Maybe it’s because it’s holding me hostage and I have no other options, but any ship that can put good distance between myself and a dreadnought deserves a little respect. I glance over at Gal, curled up in the copilot’s seat. He’s dressed in an oversized jacket, his feet bare, and everything about it makes him look far too young to be dealing with any of this.
“When did you leave Lucia?” I ask.
Gal sighs. “Originally they had planned to start shadowing me at ten, but then General Iral wouldn’t go down. It wasn’t safe for me to be out among the people, even in secret, while he was out there. When we fried him two years later, I was finally allowed to attend a pre-military school on Naberrie. Then they graduated me to the academy when I was fifteen.”
It matches the story he told in those early days at the academy—though of course, he’d told me he grew up on Naberrie, another fertile Umber core world, instead of Lucia, the Imperial Seat itself, and that his parents were an old military family. He’s even visited Naberrie on personal leave a few times. “And before that?”
“Before that, I barely saw the light of day. I grew up deep inside the citadel. Everything I needed was brought to me. Everyone who interacted with me was vetted and, I assume, threatened. Nurses, tutors, even the chefs who knew there was an extra mouth within the citadel walls to feed. I made some friends on Naberrie, but keeping me in one place for too long was dangerous. And supposedly keeping me in the interior would have made me too complacent, so when I graduated the pre-mil school, they packed me off to Rana and had me start all over.”
He wears it all so heavily. I used to think Gal always looked more tired than he should. Now I understand the weight he’s been carrying all his life. He’s been denied friends, denied normalcy, denied stability and safety. The practice of shadowing heirs—a common one, a necessary one across all levels of galactic government—demands that sacrifice for the sake of his future rule. His own family can’t publicly acknowledge him until he turns eighteen, when he can legally begin the succession process. Until then, he’s a pressure point for greedy system governors to exploit.
“It’s gonna be worth it though, right?” I ask. From the way Gal stiffens, I don’t think I’ve managed to strike the casual tone I was aiming for.
“It’s gotta be,” he says softly, staring at his knees again. “It’s the whole reason I’m alive. But more than that, it’s a chance no one else in the galaxy has. I spent my entire academy career trying to figure out how I could do it my way—how I could get away with doing it my way. No more wars, no more expansion, no more conquest. Just negotiation and levelheadedness.”
“You? Levelheaded?”
“Rut off,” he says with a smirk. “Being part of the Umber royal line means I’m part of something greater than myself. Don’t be so surprised I’ve thought about my life’s focal point once or twice.” Gal lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Look, when I turn eighteen, they’ll walk me out in front of the public and put a crown on my head. Succession spans a seven-year period before my parents step down and I assume my full bloodright, but even when I’m sharing the throne, I think I could still manage some good. And once the crown’s mine alone…If I could make that work then yeah, it’ll be worth it.”
If there were any anger left in me from my outburst, those words wash it away. I have a million other questions that should fill the next spaces in this conversation, but I feel like I’m wringing him out, like every new answer is draining him more than the one before. Gal needs rest. He’s got a big future ahead, one I’m going to fight like hell to make sure he sees.
So the next thing I blurt is, “I’m thinking of naming the Beamer.”
Gal laughs. “You can’t.”
“C’mon, it’s served us well. It deserves something in return.”
He shakes his head. “It’s clearly a stolen military ship. We’re going to have to dump it the second we make berth in Corinth.”
“So?”
“You name it, you’re going to start getting attached to it. I thought you hated it. Seem to recall some feet-dragging at a critical moment.”
I roll my eyes, patting the dash affectionately. “Don’t listen to him, baby. He’s jealous.”
“Ruttin’ hell,” Gal groans, an exasperated twinkle in his eye.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Ruttin’ Hell. That’s what we’re calling her. After your decidedly unprincely tongue.”
“Fine, but you’re the one who’s feeding her and taking her for walks.” Gal chuckles. His laughter deflates as he stares out into the eerie superluminal gray, but a soft smile is quick to replace it. “You know, I’m actually looking forward to this. Is that weird to say?”
I shake my head. I know exactly what he’s trying to get at. For the first time in his life, he’s completely abandoning his responsibility, and the freedom from that weight is like being able to breathe for the first time. We’re on a mad dash to a system completely outside the sphere of his power, an entirely different empire, and even though the risk of being discovered remains, the end of this journey feels full of possibility. It’s just the two of us. No titles. No bloodrights. Nothing but what we carry.
In the span of a day, Gal’s lost the anonymity that kept him safe. He liked being Gal Veres. He wanted the six months between now and his eighteenth birthday, the time the revelation stole from him. Maybe he can get a little of that time back in Corinth.
And maybe there’s a part of me that wants those months too. My gaze slides guiltily over Gal, over the whole of him, over everything I’m just getting to know and everything I might never have.
Gal catches me looking. “Ettian?” he says.
“Yeah?”
“You smell like ass. Go shower.”
* * *
—
The Ruttin’ Hell is surprisingly well stocked. I always assumed the academy kept these things around to give new cadets something harmless to cut their teeth on, but this ship’s outfitted like it’s meant for officer transport. It even has towels.
The shower’s not luxurious, but it does the trick. I scrub for ages, trying to get rid of every particle of dried sweat that clings to my skin. When I emerge at last, feeling raw, my fingers have shriveled like prunes. I grimace at my reflection in the plate-sized mirror bolted to the wall. My eyes are bloodshot, my chin grown-in with wiry stubble. I run one hand over my close-cropped hair, then root around in the cabinets until I find a shaving kit.