Fin is still confined to the med bay, but as I limp into his room, he and Scar break apart with an audible pop, so I figure he can’t be too bad. My sister straightens her tunic, brushes a stray lock of newly dyed red back from her flushed lips, settling in on the medi-cot beside Fin. I rumble to a stop and raise an eyebrow, looking back and forth between them.
Fin’s blushing, which is kinda weird for a Betraskan.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” I say.
“He is resting,” Scarlett says breezily.
“You stabbed a pen into his throat, Scar. You might wanna give him a few more days before you start licking his tonsils.”
“Very droll,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And very graphic. But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I wave at my face. “You know, this cybernetic eye they gave me can see into the thermographic spectrum. Your cheeks get almost 0.2 degrees warmer when you lie.”
She screws up one of Fin’s many pillows, hurls it at my head.
“Should’ve gotten you a damn eye patch.”
“That might be pushing the space-pirate thing too far, even for me.”
“Avast, matey,” she grins.
“Hoist the mizzen,” I smile. “Jolly the Roger.”
“Yarrr,” Fin growls, in a small, broken voice.
Scar turns on him in mock outrage as she pokes his chest. “You’re not supposed to be talking!”
Fin shrugs and grins sheepishly, and she puts one hand to his cheek, kisses his lips. I watch them break apart slowly, eyes fixed on my Gearhead. Fin pretends not to feel my stare, but eventually he glances at me sidelong.
“You know,” I say, “when all this is over, you and I are gonna have to have us a little chat about my sister, buddy.”
Fin waves at the derm patches wrapped around his throat and shrugs apologetically, mouthing the words Not Supposed to Be Talking.
“My burly protector,” Scar says, hand to heart and lashes fluttering.
“I’m not worried about you,” I scoff. “I’m worried about him.”
She rolls her eyes, looks at the satchel I’m carrying.
“What’d you bring me?”
I sit beside the cot, rummaging around before tossing her a few packets of Just Like Real Noodelz!™ My sister stares at me, trading mock outrage for the real deal. “You brought me ship rations? Tyler, we’re on station, they have real food here, what the … ?”
Her voice fades out as I produce a tub of ice-cold quad-choc gelato and an academy-issue spork, toss them into her waiting hands.
“Oooooh, you are a good man, Tyler Jones. I pardon you.” Fin winces, speaks in a whisper. “Can’t believe … you’re hungry.”
“You’re not supposed to talk.” Scarlett eases off the top of the gelato tub like it contains the answer to the question of life, the universe, and everything. “And when in doubt, eat your way out.”
Fin looks at the holo projected on the wall, mumbling. “Just … feels strange to be celebrating.”
Scar and I follow his gaze to the holo, drinking in the sight. Battle Leader de Stoy stayed behind aboard Aurora Station to oversee the assault. But Adams is sending us a feed direct from the bridge of his flagship, the Relentless. He said we’d earned ourselves front-row seats to history.
And sure enough, history is playing out before our eyes.
After almost two weeks of Folding, the assembled ships of the coalition fleet have finally reached the Octavia gate and are now poised to commence their attack, wiping out the first seed world of the Ra’haam.
They gather like spears in the Fold’s black and white, silhouetted against the gate. Like all the systems where the Ra’haam hid its nurseries, the Octavia gate is a naturally occurring weak spot in the fabric between dimensions. Instead of the hexagonal gates we Terrans use, or the teardrop portals of the Syldrathi, this one looks like a shimmering rip right across the face of the Fold. It’s tens of thousands of kilometers across, edges rippling with bursts of black quantum lightning. Over its horizon, the view sheers and shifts like heat haze, and beyond, I can see a faint glimpse of the Octavia star, burning blood-red in the rainbow hues of realspace.
Last time we saw this, it was just the seven of us. Squad 312. We all know what we lost on the planet. What was taken from us. For a moment, the anger and hurt are so bad it’s all I can do to breathe.
“Strange to celebrate the death of the Ra’haam?” Scarlett scoffs, leaning back and taking a big bite of quad-choc. “Are you kidding? Should’ve brought some damn beers.”
The crackhisssss of a pressured seal echoes in the room, and I hand Scarlett an ice-cold bottle of Ishtarrian ale.
“Oooooh, you are a gooooood man, Tyler Jones.”
“Thought … you didn’t drink,” Fin whispers.
“I’m making an exception,” I reply, taking a slow mouthful. “Want one?”
Fin shakes his head, looking back at the screens. I can feel his trepidation, his fear, and a part of me shares it, honestly. If the Eshvaren went to all that trouble to get us the Weapon, to plot their assault on their ancient enemy over the course of millennia, it seems a touch overconfident to expect we can just brute-force our way through this.
But thinking about it rationally, for all their power, the Eshvaren lived a million years ago. We don’t know if there were any other inhabited planets during their time—maybe they were all alone. They probably had no concept of the firepower a coalition of a few hundred star-spanning species could generate if they got motivated enough. This fleet, this force … it’s like nothing the galaxy has ever seen.
And besides, it’s our only hope.
Adams and his fellow commanders aren’t fools either, and they aren’t charging in blind—they’ve already launched a wave of recon probes through the gate to scope the system. From the reports coming in, Octavia III looks almost exactly as it did when the seven of us were last there—a run-of-the-mill M-class rock. Seventy-four percent ocean, four major continents. Dull as a Saturday night in my dorm room—unless you’re into chess, I guess.
But I know those blue-green land masses and stretches of blue-green ocean aren’t really earth or water anymore. They’re the skin of the Ra’haam. Beautiful fronds and rolling vines and curling leaves, basking in the heat of the planet’s core. It’s a mask, hiding the face of the monster growing beneath.
But from all the data, all the readings …
“It’s still asleep,” Scar murmurs.
“Looks like,” I nod.
“You really think this is gonna work?” she asks.
I clench my jaw, watching as the order is given and the fleet begins flooding through the gate. I try not to think about all we need but don’t have, all we gave up to get this far. Cat and Zila and Kal and Auri.
“It has to,” I breathe.
The approach is textbook perfect, the armada descending out of the gate like the hand of the Maker. Wave after wave of Rigellian endsingers and Chellerian scythes and Betraskan saht-ka, cutting through the dark like arrows skimming the skies of some ancient battlefield, the crows already singing for the slaughter.
Behind them come the capital ships—the massive silhouettes of orbital bombardment platforms from Ishtarr, Aalani warstars, gremp battlehulks, Nu-laat warp-throwers, Aurora Legion carriers, surrounded by endless flights of Longbow escorts. I realize I’m breathing faster just at the sight of it all, the rush of it crawling in goose bumps on my skin. A part of me wishes so desperately I was there to land this punch, I can taste it.