The meeting explodes into shouting again—the Watcher, the Rikerite, and even the Betraskan raise their voices as the Ulemna sits back, drawing up her hood once more. Lae is pointing at Caersan and yelling something at Tyler, who’s throwing up his hands and talking past her to Toshh.
Kal tightens his hand around mine, and I close my eyes. This is hopeless—the room is full of fear and anger, and the Weeds are out there in the black searching for us, and we’re trapped in the middle as the last life in the galaxy waits for its turn to die.
And then the sirens start wailing.
The dim lighting dims even further, the arguments stop, fear and confusion in the eyes of the councilors washing through their thoughts.
“Is that … ?”
“RED ALERT. RED ALERT. RA’HAAM FLEET DETECTED AT MARKER OMEGA. REPEAT: RA’HAAM FLEET DETECTED. ALL HANDS, BATTLE STATIONS.”
“That’s impossible,” Tyler whispers.
“Were you followed?” the Rikerite demands.
“Of course not!” he snaps. “We jumped half a dozen times to get here! We followed all inbound protocols!”
“Then how is it they have found us so soon?” the Betraskan demands. “Their last attack was only ten days ago! They should never have …”
“Oh, son of a biscuit …”
All eyes in the room turn toward me as I whisper, “They can sense me.” I look to Caersan, heart sinking. “Sense us.”
He inclines his head. “… Possibly.”
I swallow hard, look Kal in the eye. “We brought them here… .”
“RED ALERT. RA’HAAM FLEET INBOUND. ALL HANDS, BATTLE STATIONS.”
“You have brought doom upon us all, Starslayer!” the Watcher cries, rising to his feet. “Commander Jones, you should never have—”
“All due respect, Councilor,” Tyler growls. “But maybe we can point the finger after we climb out of this bowl of shitstew!”
“Can’t you just create a gate and jump out of here?” I ask. “You said this place has a rift drive—”
“It’s offline!” Tyler shouts over the wailing sirens. “Next attack wasn’t due for at least ten more days! The techs have to run maintenance, do repairs. And our Waywalkers need to recover between each jump!”
“How long until you can get it up and running?” Kal demands.
Tyler looks at the Watcher, still pale with fury. “Councilor?”
“At least forty minutes,” he replies. “Perhaps an hour—”
“RED ALERT. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. TIME TO RA’HAAM INTERCEPT: TWENTY-THREE MINUTES. RED ALERT.”
I glare at Caersan, questioning, and with a lazy quirk of one silver eyebrow, he inclines his head. I look Kal in the eye, and he nods once. Hand in hand, we turn and run.
“Auri!” Tyler shouts behind us. “Where the hells are you going?”
“To buy you forty minutes!”
20
KAL
There are so many.
I know in my head the Ra’haam is an It. One hive mind, composed of billions of pieces, interlocked and connected into one massive singularity. When one part of it feels pain, all of it hurts. What one part of it sees, all of it knows. But as I watch that swarm of ships bearing down upon us—more vessels than I have ever seen—it is difficult not to see it as Them.
Terran heavy carriers. Syldrathi specters. Betraskan troopships and Chellerian scions. A hundred different models and classes, stolen from a hundred different worlds, all of them encrusted in writhing growths of blue green and trailing curling tendrils behind them into the dark.
And they are coming for us.
“Holy cake,” Aurora breathes. “That’s a lot of ships.”
“I am with you, be’shmai,” I tell her.
We stand in the Neridaa’s heart, staring at the projection she has cast around us. It is as if the Weapon’s walls were translucent: all the Void around us is rendered in close-up high definition, sharp as knives. My father reclines upon his crystal throne, but I can tell from the slight crease between his brows that he too is concerned about the force arrayed against us. If nothing else, that thought is enough to wake the fear in me.
I am still clad as a warrior of the Unbroken: black power armor painted with pale glyfs, daubed with songs of glory and blood. Twin kaat blades are crossed at my back, gleaming and silvered, a heavy pistol hangs at my hip, pulse grenades are strung at my belt. But I do not feel like a warrior. Not the kind he would want me to be, anyway.