“Roger that, Chief,” comes Tyler’s reply. “Bring them up.”
The woman hefts her pulse rifle onto one massive arm, motions over her shoulder. “Follow me.”
The inner airlock opens after the woman punches in a code, and we follow her into a broader corridor, the gremp bringing up the rear, with her hand still on her pistol. Stepping out into the main vessel, I see the power settings are low, the lights dim. The plasteel is old, the fixtures faulty and flickering, the steel pocked with corrosion. This ship has seen far better days.
Aurora finds my hand as we move into a larger bay, crowded with people. They are young and old—Betraskans mostly, though I see Chellerians and humans and a few gremps among them. They are ragged and shell-shocked, dirty skin and thin bodies, watching with tired eyes as we follow Toshh. I have seen enough war to know their look in an instant.
“Who are all these people?” Aurora whispers.
“Refugees,” I reply.
Toshh nods. “Survivors of a miner fleet, hiding in an ice belt around a dead sun in the Beta sector.” She shrugs. “The Weeds found ’em anyway. We pulled them out of the fire just as the swarm hit. Managed to evac two of the ships in the convoy before the rest got taken.”
“How many ships were there total?” Aurora asks.
The gremp chatters behind us, little fangs bared.
“I’m sorry,” Aurora replies. “I don’t und—”
“Thirty-seven,” Toshh says. “We saved two of thirty-seven.”
We reach an elevator, the doors hissing wide. Aurora watches a little Rikerite girl playing with a stuffed toy beside a pile of packing crates. She is filthy, terribly thin, small horns budding on a brow stained with old blood.
“Be’shmai?” I murmur.
Aurora blinks, joins us in the elevator, her hand finding mine as the doors slip closed. We feel motion, the gentle hum of magnetized mechanics, and in a moment we are stepping out into the space we saw in Tyler’s transmission—the bridge of his vessel.
I take note of spot repairs and jury-rigs, bundles of cable and wiring spilling from tactical stations—the signs of wear and tear are apparent here too. But nowhere more so than in the man who awaits us in the commander’s chair. He swivels toward us, a battle-scarred mask, a journey of years and blood staining his hands and etched in his one good eye.
“Tyler!” Aurora cries.
She runs forward, suddenly, without warning. Toshh and Dacca both shout in alarm. I see the Syldrathi woman coming to her feet, drawing a null blade from her waist.
I cry out as weapons are raised, stepping toward Chief Toshh, between her and my be’shmai. Tyler rises from his chair, hand slipping to the sidearm at his waist, the Syldrathi woman roars, “SIR, LOOK OUT!” charging toward Aurora. As I kick the gremp’s weapon aside and snatch the pulse rifle from Toshh’s hands, I hear a soft grunt from Aurora, a hiss from Tyler. And he stands there, his whole body tensed as Aurora throws her arms around him and gives him a crushing hug.
Tyler hangs frozen, like a broken mirror, hand still on his pistol. His crew is tensed and ready, the Syldrathi poised, null blade cracking with a harsh purple glow, the gremp and Rikerite holding their breath. I can see love for Tyler in their eyes—the look of a crew who would gladly die for the one who leads them. A crew who believes.
“I missed you so much, Ty,” Aurora breathes, squeezing him tight. “We thought you were …”
None of us said it aloud then—we could not bear to. And the word hangs unspoken in the air now, as if it might attract its own kind, draw darkness down upon the little ship.
Dead.
Tyler stands still for a moment longer. His eye flickering to me. But finally, his hand slips away from his pistol, and slowly, he lifts his arms. His embrace is not ablaze with warmth, not a full surrender; I still see the tension in his frame, the burden on his shoulders. But for a tiny moment, he holds her tight, allowing himself a second of joy in a galaxy that seems otherwise bereft of it. Joy that his friend still lives.
“I missed you, too,” he whispers.
14
KAL
“That’s a hell of a story, Aurora.”
We are seated in the flickering light of the Vindicator’s ready room, a host of unfriendly eyes aimed our way. Aurora sits beside me, hand resting upon my lap. Tyler’s command staff is gathered on the other side of the table. The air is crackling with tension, animosity, mistrust.
Tyler sits in the captain’s chair, the mantle of command resting upon his shoulders as easily as it ever did. But I feel a new weight on my friend, beyond the years and scars, a weight he never used to carry.