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.
Tyler himself stands in front of the table already—Kal and I halt beside him, Toshh and Lae behind us. There are a handful of other Syldrathi around the room, glyfs of the Waywalker Cabal marked on their brows. They feel it a few moments after I do—all of them tensing, jaws clenching. I see Lae’s scowl darken as the energy around us shifts, the air before us thrums. She tosses a silver-gold braid off her shoulder, fist closing about her null blade’s hilt.
And in the middle of the room, Caersan appears.
It’s only a projection, of course, shimmering into focus like a mirage on a hot day. He’s not stupid enough to leave the Neridaa, to risk himself on a ship full of enemies. He stands like a dark shadow in the room’s heart, and the lights seem to dim around him. The Waywalkers bristle with hostility. The council members glower as one.
He glances around the room, radiating disdain.
“Let us commence,” he says.
Cold silence hangs in the room. The weight of countless lost lives. It’s the Syldrathi who finally breaks it, voice steady despite the rage in his eyes.
“Commander Jones has informed us of the circumstances of your arrival. Outlandish as your claims may seem, our Waywalkers have confirmed your identities.” His violet eyes roam over us all, lingering on the Starslayer. “So. What is it you want from us?”
“The Weapon we came here in is damaged,” I say. “We need to visit a spacetime anomaly in the Theta sector. It leads to a facility on the Eshvaren homeworld. If we can repair the Weapon anywhere, it’s going to be there.”
“Presuming the Ra’haam has not already destroyed this facility,” the Betraskan woman says. “You are certain you could return to your own time if the Weapon is repaired?”
Caersan is studying the Waywalkers around him, one by one, with something like … hunger in his eyes. So I reply.
“Yes, I could provide the propulsion, I think, while he steered.”
The woman leans forward, fingers steepled beneath her chin. “You are aware the Theta sector is completely overrun by the Ra’haam?”
I nod. “From what Tyler said, we’d need to fight our way in. And probably fight the Ra’haam off while we repaired the Weapon, too.”
Now the Rikerite speaks, his voice like a creaky door. “And by we, child, of course you mean us.” He looks between Caersan and me, scowling. “You want us to devote the last of our resources to helping you in what seems a mad gamble? Assuming these repairs can even be effected, who is to say your returning to the past will make any difference at all?”
“If we can make it back, we can destroy the Ra’haam before it ever gets a chance to bloom and burst,” I say, my voice echoing around the empty room. “This is what I’m here for. It’s what I was made to do.”
The Syldrathi shakes his head and sighs. “And yet, if you do not return to your own time safely, you doom not just yourself but everyone in this time as well. You ask us to risk extinguishing the last light in the galaxy.”
“You are already doomed, fool.”
All eyes turn as Caersan’s apparition speaks, his gaze roaming the room and assembled councilors.
“This is no sanctuary. This is a tomb. You hide here in the shadows, praying the true darkness does not find you. But it will. And all of you know it.”
The Watcher comes to his feet in one fluid movement. “You are present against my explicit objection, Starslayer. I will take no counsel from he who destroyed Syldra, who killed billions of her children in a single moment, who left those who survived alone and adrift.”
“Peace is the way the cur cries, ‘Surrender,’ Watcher,” Caersan growls.
“He is no cur,” the old Rikerite spits. “You know nothing of what we have suffered, Starslayer. Nothing of the price we have all paid.”
“I know you are being presented a chance to avoid that price. That suffering. One last glorious battle to be fought for the future of everything.” Caersan lifts his hands, then drops them slowly to his sides. “And still you tremble at the thought of it. Like children. Like cowards.”
The Watcher’s lip curls. “This, from the coward who could have faced the Ra’haam, but fled.”
Caersan turns toward the man, rage flaring, and the power seethes through me, hot and vibrant and deafening. I throw up a mental barrier between the Starslayer and the defiant council members in front of him, my midnight blue crackling as it meets his bloody red, the clash visible for a blink, bringing the Betraskan and the Rikerite to their feet as the Waywalkers, Toshh, Tyler, and Lae lift their weapons as one.
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.