“There are so many more than I ever knew,” I murmur. “I’ve barely had a chance to see anything. I’d never even heard of the Ulemna.”
“We were few in the time you came from.” Her eyes peer into mine, old and sad and tired. “And now I am the very last. Of the whole of my people, I am all that remains to remember our songs, our stories. When I am gone …”
I’m silent. What can you say to something like that?
“I will leave you to rest. You must recover as best you can while we prepare Sempiternity.”
She rises slowly, looks to the walls around us, and sighs.
“For her final trip.”
• • • • •
It’s some time later when Kal wakes. I’ve been lying quietly, studying his face. He’s so impossibly beautiful. I’m sure if I was asleep in a chair, I’d be drooling or my head would have dropped down and given me a double chin, but I’ve never seen him look out of place, and he doesn’t now.
My warrior with the gentlest of souls.
I wish we’d had more time together. It seems so unfair.
I feel his mind stir first. He mentally flexes and stretches, instinctively checking for me, then settles as he finds me. And then his lashes lift, and he looks at me gravely.
We have no secrets now—he can sense my resolve.
“You mean to do this thing,” he says quietly.
“I have no choice,” I reply, lifting one hand to beckon him closer. I still feel like I’ve been run over by a grav-lifter.
He walks over to settle on the edge of my bed, fingers lacing through mine. “Perhaps there is another way,” he says, violet eyes meeting mine.
“But there isn’t.”
“Would you search for it, if you thought it was there for the finding?”
I blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His fingers squeeze mine. “We are linked, be’shmai. We are a part of one another. You take a warrior’s joy in the kill; I can feel it as if it were my own. You enjoy the dance of blood. And you wish to dance again.”
“Would it be better if I felt bad about it?” I ask, my hackles rising. “If I sat here and whined like a kid? It doesn’t change what I have to do.”
“Is it what you have to do?” he presses. The rest of the sentence hangs between us—he couldn’t hide it from me even if he wanted, and he lifts his chin as the words echo in my mind.
Or is it what you want to do?
“Is dying piece by piece what I want to do?” My voice rises. “I’m all ears, Kal, if you see another option.”
“I do not,” he admits, but rushes on before I can interrupt. “Yet. But there is still time to seek another answer. We have overcome the impossible before. We will do so again. You rush toward this fate needlessly.”
“Needlessly?” I snap, and a part of me knows that I’m ready to fight because he’s threatening to take it away—it, my godhood. But the rest of me knows the truth: “This is the last safe place in the galaxy. It’s the only spark left that can light the fire we need. If these people can’t get me home, it’s over. We can’t wait until the next time the Ra’haam finds us and more of them die.”
“Them? I do not want you to die!” he snaps, dropping my hand, coming to his feet, swinging away to pace helplessly to the end of the room.
It’s the desperation in his voice that snuffs out my own anger.
“Tens of thousands of people are about to give up their lives, Kal,” I say quietly. “Just to get us closer to the Eshvaren homeworld. To give us a shot at repairing the Weapon. At taking it home. At winning the fight. How can I ask any more of them than I’m willing to give myself?”
He bows his head, his back still to me. “To die in the fire of war is easy,” he says softly. “To live in the light of peace, much harder.”
“This won’t be easy,” I say quietly. “Please, Kal, are you with me?”
He turns to face me, eyes bright with tears. And he inclines his head. “With every breath I have left.”
• • • • •
They don’t let me help with the jump this time. They want to preserve what’s left of my mental energy for the repairs to the Neridaa. For the jump home. For the battle with Caersan, and then the Ra’haam.
“We will not need anything left once this is over,” a Waywalker said to me as he turned down my offer. “We need spare nothing when there is no tomorrow.” His face was blank, his mind calm. Reconciled to what’s coming.
Today the last survivors in the galaxy will jump us to the Theta sector. The thickest patch of Weeds in the galaxy. And there they’ll die, holding the Ra’haam off as long as they can, buying us time to get the Neridaa home.
If we fail, humanity’s history—the history of every sentient species in the Milky Way but one—ends today.
And even if we win, today will be the last day of their lives.
I’m standing on the bridge of the Vindicator with Tyler and his crew—Kal and I have come to say our goodbyes before we transfer to the Eshvaren ship. And I’m feeling so very, very small as I stare out the front viewscreen at Sempiternity. At the tiny lights that speckle her surface, every one of them a room that’s home to someone.
Today each of those lights will be snuffed out.
I’ll make you a different future, I promise them silently. I’ll give up every last part of my soul to change this.
As if he can sense my thoughts, Tyler silently wraps an arm around my shoulders. We watch as Sempiternity’s ragtag fleet takes up position, ready to plunge through the rift the moment the Waywalkers tear it open.
Then a voice crackles across our comms, loud and cheerful.
“Hey, Vindicator. Jones, you got your passenger there?”
Tyler exchanges a glance with Elin, the Betraskan, and Elin leans into the mic to reply. “We’re about to offload her. What is it, Redlich?”
“Well, I was thinking when she gets back where she’s going, maybe she can do me a favor,” says the voice. “It’s been bothering me all these years, and at last I’ve got a chance to set the record straight. You see, I’m pretty sure I left the convector on back when we evacuated Radin IV. Maybe she can drop me a line, tell me to be more careful this time, if things go south.”
There’s a soft rumble of laughter around the deck, and some of the tension goes out of the air.
“Relaying that now,” says Elin, grinning.
“That’s Redlich’s ship right there,” says Tyler, pointing at a battered red shuttle with AUTHORIZED TUGBOAT stenciled down one side in faded letters. As I watch, the tug flashes its cabin light off and on again.
“And that’s a salute,” says Toshh from behind us.
Before anyone else can speak, the line buzzes again.
“Hey, Jones, you think your friend there could place an order at Eizman’s? A couple of thousand bagels, delivery date today?”
And again. “If we’re doing this, can she find my brother and tell him it was me who broke his yellow truck?”
“… tell me to stay in school, this really is a dead-end job …”
“… blow the lot on a trip to Risa. Turns out I won’t get to go later …”