Kal steps forward, shouting, “Father!”
For an instant I feel the fury that flashes through my love’s mind, his instinct for combat. But Caersan only chuckles softly, and his power ebbs. Slowly, I lower my guard, the tension in the air fading.
The Waywalkers around the Starslayer are pale, sharing uneasy glances—they know that they have no hope of overcoming Caersan now, or me. Lae is whispering in Tyler’s ear, one hand on his shoulder. The Watcher remains on his feet, his gaze on the man who murdered his people.
“This is their overture?” he scoffs, looking around at his fellow councilors. “We should send these beggars back to their ship at once.”
“Or,” I say urgently, butting in before the two of them can unzip and start comparing, “we can talk about how we can save lives. Not just yours. Not just ours. Everyone’s. Then and now. Believe me, I understand how you feel about the Starslayer. I feel the same way. But he’s the one who knows how to transport the Weapon back home. I don’t. We need him alive.”
“And if you reach your home?” the Rikerite asks. “What then?”
“Then Caersan and I will have a little … discussion,” I say.
The Starslayer’s projection watches me, cool and imperious. Even if we make it through this alive, somehow make it back to when we came from, we can both feel that conflict rushing toward us headlong. I know if I win, I’ll fire the Weapon. I’ll give everything I have to destroy the Ra’haam.
But mothercustard, that’s a big If.
“The simple fact is, I can’t get back to our own time without him. So please, please, hard as it is, we need to set whatever we’re feeling aside and figure out a way to pull this off.”
The Rikerite shakes his head. “You ask much.”
“She asks for nothing she is not willing to give herself,” Kal replies.
“… Meaning what?”
I square my shoulders, breathe deep. “Meaning it’s—it’s not a renewable resource. This power inside us. We can only use it so many times before we …” I trail off, my hand lifting to the cracks around my eye. “Firing the Weapon enough times will kill the Trigger.”
Kal squeezes my hand. I try not to dwell on the fear in his eyes.
“You see?” Caersan sneers. “Even this girlchild is willing to give her life in the fight to save you. But you will not fight to save yourselves?”
The Rikerite scowls, and the Watcher draws breath to spit more insults, and I can see the whole thing spiraling around the drain. But then, finally, the Ulemna moves, reaching up to draw back her hood.
She’s intoxicatingly beautiful, her skin a marbled blue and purple, and it swirls with what look like miniature galaxies beneath the surface, each in constant, hypnotic movement. Her eyes are silver, and her voice sounds like a musical chord in a minor key, three notes all at once.
“Even if we do as you ask, Terrachild,” she says, “and even if you could repair the Weapon and transport yourselves back to your own time, what then? If you defeat the Ra’haam in the past, you ensure this future does not come to pass. You are effectively unmaking all of us.”
“Only this version of you,” Kal says. “Other versions will live on. In a galaxy at peace. A galaxy without the Ra’haam.”
“And what about the people born after the Ra’haam bloomed?”
We turn to Tyler, standing among his crew. Lae meets her commander’s eyes, but he’s looking at Kal, at me, his jaw clenched.
“You go back and change things, who’s to say they’ll exist at all?”
“Destiny, Brother,” Kal replies. “Destiny.”
“You could always allow them to linger here,” Caersan says. “Consigning them to slow suffocation and consumption into the collective.”
“We cannot trust him,” the Watcher glares. “Cho’taa. Sai’nuit.”
“You have no honor,” Lae scoffs at Caersan. “Your name is disgraced. Your blood is shamed. We cannot trust a single word you say, murderer. And you honestly wish us to fight for you? To lay down our lives? For you?”
The Starslayer glances around the room. I remember what this place looked like that night Squad 312 came to Sempiternity, not so long ago. The galaxy spinning above us, beautiful people, fabulous gowns. But now it’s flickering lights, and broken fixtures, and a stinking algae farm to feed the starving dregs huddled downstairs in the growing dark.
“You call this,” Caersan sneers, “life?”