Iral turns in his chair, his gaze locking onto the photos that paper his back wall. I drift away from the powersuit, closer to his line of sight. Some of the pictures are informal—soldiers with their arms slung around one another, a laughing woman lit from underneath like she’s sitting next to a fire, a sleeping baby curled around a stuffed animal. One shows Iral smiling alongside a carbon copy of himself who can only be his twin brother, Omat. Next to it, where the general’s dark-eyed stare has fixed, there’s a picture of three people standing on the raised dais of an imperial court—Iral in the middle, with Henrietta emp-Archon and Marc emp-Archon flanking him on either side.
I haven’t seen pictures of the emperor and empress in years. I take another step forward, nearly tripping over one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. Iral startles at the clatter. The tautness in his eyes softens. “They took a vested interest in my career after I made that choice. Everything I am today, I am by their grace.”
“What were they like?” That question sounds even more childish than my ones about the knights. Iral was a tool in the imperials’ hands. Seeing him stand next to them is like seeing a man walk among the gods, and expecting him to speak to their true nature is just as unlikely.
But the general only nods. “No ruler is perfect. A good leader will always have faults and failings, and the things that may endear them to one person might be the same reasons another can’t abide them. The most you can do is try to do right by everyone who depends on you. That was the principle that governed our empire while it stood. A leader was a servant to their people, not the focal point of their power the way our conquerors see it.” He pauses, then bows his head. “And the most important thing I could tell you about the Archon imperials was that they were always trying. They listened to their people, they served with dignity through that hellish war, and the galaxy is worse without them.”
The room feels far too small for everything in it.
After a long moment, I decide I might as well ask one last stupid question. “Do you think someone could ever wear that suit again?” I glance back at it, my eyes raking over its deadly edges even as the persistent fact of its emptiness drives a stake into my heart.
Iral shakes his head. “I think Iva emp-Umber did exactly what she meant to at Knightfall. No one believes in the heroes of old—not after she showed us how cruel this galaxy truly is. Even if someone wanted to take up the mantle, they’d only be daring her to take aim again. And then there’s the matter of finding someone brave enough to strap four starship engines to their extremities and hurtle into battle. It’s not the most common quality.”
For a moment, I imagine myself in that suit. Imagine what it would be like to rocket through air and space at starship-level speeds without thousands of pounds of metal around me. Imagine the ability to hold up a crumbling building, to steer a foundering ship to safe landing, to do the kind of mythic deeds only a suited knight would be capable of. But then I remember what I’m doing here, what I am. I don’t deserve to wear this suit. If I had any commonality with the suited knights, it died with the Archon Empire.
Iral leans back in his chair, turning to face the wall. The corners of his eyes tighten like he’s staring into a bright light. “I keep the past behind me when I work. But it’s always here waiting for me when I walk into this room. All the things I’ve done. Everything I couldn’t do.” He spins slowly back around to face me. “The past is always here to drive us, but when I work at this desk, I’m looking forward. And from where I sit, the future of our empire looks bright.”
His gaze is searing, and I lower myself into a chair to avoid meeting it. It feels twisted and wrong to build up Maxo Iral’s hope. He’s devoted the past seven years to resurrecting the empire. He works with the shadow of his failure always looming over him and the hollowness of Torrance con-Rafe’s empty suit staring him in the face. And Gal and I plan to turn on him. The assault we’ve just convinced him to launch will ruin him. And Gal will use the general’s head to secure his throne.
I don’t know how much longer I can stand to be in the same room as Iral, thinking of a future that’s not distant enough. “Sir, I came by to talk about Wen Iffan,” I blurt.
Iral’s brow creases. “Ah yes, the Corinthian. I’ve been meaning to ask you what she’s doing here.”
I grimace. “I understand, and I want to give her an opportunity to contribute more meaningfully. She’s a pilot too, you know.”
“Is that so?”
“So she tells me.” I steel myself as the plummeting sensation in my stomach sharpens. “But if she’s going to be a part of our future, I need a favor.”
CHAPTER 20
ON THE MORNING that marks our first full week at Henrietta Base, Gal and I awaken not to drums—which he’s grown used to—but to a sharp knock that sends him scrambling back against the wall of the bunk. I prop myself up on my elbows and meet his frenzied gaze, torn over whether I should reach out and reassure him.
“If they knew,” I hazard softly, “they wouldn’t be knocking.”
Still, I’m the one who answers the door. I’m the one who greets the tired-looking soldier who’s come to tell us Wen Iffan has been detained for trespassing and attempted sabotage.
“I thought you said you were going to keep her occupied,” Gal hisses the moment the door is closed again.
“I did—I was…I’m working on it,” I mutter, rubbing the heels of my hands over my eyes. “Iral was supposed to…” Well, it barely matters what Iral was supposed to do now. According to the soldier, they caught Wen in one of the hangars, elbows-deep in a ship’s guts. There might be a rational explanation for what she was doing, but probably not one that the resistance will see as justified.
I pull on fresh clothes and stagger into my boots, avoiding Gal’s glare. He’s not leaving the bunk. This is clearly my problem to deal with. And the look he’s giving me is saying everything he wishes he could scream—that Wen causing trouble is going to bring scrutiny on us, going to get us caught, going to get us killed.
I’m halfway across the base when I realize how thankful I am to leave him behind in the dorm. The sky overhead is rosy with dawn and tinted blue by one of the moons, and the grass on the drill fields glimmers with undisturbed dew. Ever since we put this scheme in motion, I’ve found myself second-guessing every minute I’m around Gal, waiting for his mask to slip again. But for a moment, I can lose myself in the steady rhythm of my strides. I can let things be simple.
Then I reach the detention block, and simplicity goes out the window. For nearly an hour, I’m batted back and forth between the supervisors as each of them tunes out my attempts to negotiate and deflects me to their counterpart on the other end of the building. By the time they give up and let me have her, the sun is high and the dew’s been trampled by the morning drills.