“Roger that, boss,” the Betraskan nods. “I’m presuming I still shouldn’t mention the planet-killing genocidal maniac aboard it?”
Tyler rubs his chin. “That’s probably more a face-to-face conversation.”
“Why?” I ask softly, as Elin sets to work on comms.
“You don’t think the Starslayer—”
“No, I mean why are we banned from the council?”
Finally Tyler takes his eye off the World Ship and looks to me. I can see how tired he is. How angry. How sad. “Because this is our fault, Auri. Octavia was our colony. We woke the Ra’haam early. And it consumed our colonists, and they managed to get back to Terra and spend the next two centuries infiltrating the GIA, and nobody fucking noticed. Those agents sliced the heads off every planetary government in the galaxy. Ruined any chance we had to cut the Ra’haam off at the root. And to top all that off, our Trigger disappeared with the only real Weapon we had at the battle where the tide turned.”
My breath’s shallowing and my legs don’t feel right—like I need to sit down, or else I’ll fall. All this, because of me—the smallest of their hurts, as well as the biggest. Kal’s arm goes around me, and I feel the gold and violet of his mind pressing in comfortingly against mine.
“Brother,” he says quietly. “The Terrans stumbled across the Ra’haam nursery through ill fortune. Who is to say any other race would have detected impostors? And Aurora abandoned no one. You are a commander, you are respected here. So there must be some room for understanding.”
“It’s taken me most of my life to prove myself,” Tyler replies. “Forgiveness is in short supply around here.”
“Do you think there’s any chance the council will help us?” I ask, trying to still the new wave of despair inside me.
“Anything’s possible,” Tyler replies. But he’s looking at Sempiternity again, and he won’t meet my eyes.
? ? ? ? ?
We stand off from Sempiternity for another hour before the council sends for Tyler. He boards the Vindicator’s shuttle and heads off to brief them, leaving us to a silent and uncomfortable wait among his crew.
After the third hour, word comes that they’re ready, and Lae and Toshh escort us to Sempiternity. We pull into one of the docking bays along the transparent umbilicals snaking out from the station—last time I was here, they were all full, different aliens endlessly coming and going. Fin and I talked about how his people live underground, and how he didn’t like the stars.
A sky full of ghosts, he said. His words were prophetic.
You’re not dead, I promise him silently. I’ll get back in time. I’ll change the way the story ends.
When we step off our shuttle, the Sempiternity survivors are waiting for us. The corridor is lined with bodies large and small, young and old, dozens of races, hundreds and hundreds of people. Every one of them is dressed in clothes that have been patched and mended to last through the decades, every one of them silent.
Their hollow stares follow us as we walk—Lae in front, Toshh and Dacca behind—and the weight of it is almost impossible to bear. This is all that’s left. These people. Out of everyone in the galaxy. I reach for Kal’s hand, just to feel his skin warm against mine.
It turns out the Council of Free Peoples meets in Casseldon Bianchi’s old ballroom. The lights have been turned on now, the swirling galaxies as long gone as the beautiful red dress I wore here that night. The fantastic aquarium that lined the walls is now full of frames and little buoys, seaweed and algae farms taking up every centimeter—they need it for the protein, I guess. To feed those thousands in the station outside. It’s a huge room, and rows of chairs suggest there’s usually an audience, but now our footsteps echo as we walk up to the table at the far end, where the four council members sit.
The Rikerite is at one end—he’s ancient, his horns sweeping back from his forehead and curling around so far they make up full circles, his expression lost in a sea of wrinkles. The warrior, Tyler called him.
Beside him is a Betraskan woman who doesn’t look that much older than me, her white hair buzzed short. She’s studying a tablet, and only looks up at us for a moment. The pragmatist.
The third is a Syldrathi from the Watcher Cabal, the first of those I’ve met. He looks to be in his fifties, immaculate braids matching his immaculate posture. His glyf is of two circles, one inside the other. The politician.
The last must be the Ulemna. I can’t make out much of them—they wear a dark brown hood drawn over their features, but I can see a pair of navy blue hands folded neatly on the table in front of them. Tyler didn’t say anything about the minority representative, and now I’m wishing I’d asked.