Kal reaches for my hand, and doesn’t ask again if I can survive it. But I feel the flicker of hope inside him, and I keep the truth from him.
Just for a few minutes more.
He weaves his fingers through mine, braiding us together, determined to stay with me for as long as possible.
You are not alone, he says, deep in my mind.
And I resolve to cast him free at the last moment, to send him on to live the rest of his beautiful life without me, in the world I’m going to make for them—but for now I hold him close.
He was always going to live a century longer than me, and there is so much for him to see, and so much for him to do. I wish I could be there, at his side. But I’ll willingly give myself, knowing I’ve made it possible for him.
In the calm before the storm, I reach out to caress the places I will protect, and I find there’s no limit to how far I can stretch.
I run my fingertips across the shining hull of Aurora Station, and the fleet, and then I throw myself out farther—I see Emerald City, I see Sempiternity, as gorgeously grubby and alive as ever, teeming with life and with promise. I brush past the hulking wreck of the Hadfield to the worlds where Dacca’s people and Elin’s people and Toshh’s people are still alive, still safe. I see broken FoldGates, the planets that have shut themselves off in the vain hope of survival, and far away I see Earth, where my story began.
I am boundless now, and I know why.
It’s because I’m not holding anything back. Not keeping any part of myself safe. I don’t need to have anything left when this is finished.
I just need to last long enough to see it through.
Beloved, Kal says, so small in this endless galaxy, but never, ever unheard. We must act.
Gently, so gently, he tugs my attention back to the place my body is, and I see it—of course. The battle continues. And around me, tiny lights like fireflies are snuffed out one by one.
A ship explodes into a million glittering fragments, and five small specks of life that were there before are gone.
It’s as I am contracting in to focus on this time and this place—Aurora Station, the Ra’haam’s armada—that I see the flicker of his mind.
I almost miss it, amid the chaos.
TYLER!
He is so, so young, he is not yet exhausted, he is, he is, he is
my friend
and he is
so bright
and in this time and place he still is
so I gather myself and will everything around me to
STOP.
And it does.
The defenders are held stationary. Nobody can fire. The Ra’haam ships are frozen, unable to reach out for them with their endlessly questing vines. The battle becomes a tableau, everything suspended, both sides staring at each other from suddenly unresponsive ships.
And as I hold myself so carefully, so carefully in check so I don’t hurt him, I let the tiniest part of myself crash joyfully into Tyler, and Kal comes with me, and Tyler’s mental shout is the most beautifully vibrant yellow, like sunshine, like fields of wheat, like spun gold.
I learned in the Echo to live half a year in a few hours, and now I am stronger, I can live an eternity between heartbeats.
So I have time.
I have time for this.
It takes only the tiniest nudge and … there we are. In one of my favorite places, one last time. Because why shouldn’t we be?
The three of us—Kal, Tyler, and me—are sitting at a round table of synthesized wood, in the kitchen of a modest apartment belonging to Ad Astra Incorporated. The countertops are covered in jars and containers of food, and cooking pots hang from hooks on the ceiling. My parents liked to cook as often as they could as they prepped for the Octavia mission.
“You should always have a place to feed your friends,” Mom told Callie and me when we complained about having to squeeze around the table to get out into the hall.
Now music is playing softly in the background, and I can smell my mother’s soda bread baking in the oven. There’s a big bowl of peas sitting in the middle of the table, and I pull it toward me to start shelling them. Dad used to grow them by the window, and this was always my job.
“Where are we?” Tyler asks, twisting to look around in surprise.
“Home,” I say quietly. “Just for a minute.”
“You honor us by sharing your hearth,” Kal murmurs, and because our minds are nested, I feel the weight of tradition behind the Syldrathi phrase.
“Was that you?” Tyler asks, still studying the place. “Stopping everything?”
“Yes,” I say, studying him a little closer. “Did you feel it?”
Something’s slowly coming into view between us, sort of reverse-fading into existence. They’re … threads. Midnight blue for me, violet for Kal, and yellow for Tyler. Strung between us like a spider’s web.
They are our minds, I think—or rather, the way our minds show up in this moment I’ve made for us.
I run my fingers along the beautiful yellow thread of Tyler’s that ties to my wrist, and I learn something new about him.
“It wasn’t just Lae! You’re part Syldrathi too, but you never knew.”
“Who’s Lae?” he asks, reaching up to touch the thread between us.
Kal and I exchange a glance, a sad smile.
“A kinswoman of mine,” Kal says simply. “My family’s greatest pride, Brother.” He smiles. “I hope you meet her one day.”
Now that I’ve found our threads, it’s easier to see the others, a rainbow tied to our wrists and snaking away into invisibility. So I reach out and follow them, searching for the rest of our family.
A moment later, Scarlett is at the table, bound to us by bright red, her uncanny empathy finally making sense—a gift from her Waywalker mother. Her threads tie her to me, and to Kal, and a thousandfold more intricately to her twin, their bond woven between them like a tapestry of red and gold. I see the moment her mind connects with his, the moment she sees the truth of their mother. I hear her gasp, and I feel her loss.
Then comes Finian beside her, emerald green and full of life. It’s harder for him—he has no Syldrathi blood, no Eshvaren training, his mind wasn’t made for this. But he is Betraskan, and those at this table are his clan, his chosen family, and that binds him to us, his vibrant green thread a part of our whole. He’s always had so much love inside him.
Each of us holds tight to him in return, and when he flickers, we help him stay, strengthen his part of our woven rainbow with our love.
I search for Zila next, and then more urgently, scrambling for the thread I know must be there, but there’s nothing. Scarlett looks at me, tears in her eyes, and our minds connect and
oh, Zila.
Zila.
I hope you loved her, I hope you were happy.
And just as I think we’re done, I see there are more—black threads stretching away from Tyler and from Kal, and when I tug on them, I see …
Saedii Gilwraeth sitting at my parents’ table, eyebrow raised.
Wordlessly, Tyler reaches into the bowl and hands her a pea pod to shell, and something passes between them. A few more lines of thread, yellow and black entwining like a swarm of bees—vibrant but dangerous—and she takes it from him and breaks it open.