On Liberation Day, one of the Rodian ex-captives turned on her, driven to the act by a control chip in the meat of his brain. He fired, and she took the hit on the side of her face. They reconstructed the bone, but the flesh was gone. What’s there now is nu-skin, grown in a lab and applied with a brush. Over time, it is meant to look more natural, but it’ll never be her own. Agate will always know.
The eye had to go. She asked for a mechanical replacement: The oculus-lens that they installed at least has function, if not form. It is ugly and protrusive and makes her feel less than human. But with it, she can see heat signatures and other data as long as she closes her other (human) eye.
“Commodore.”
Behind her, Admiral Ackbar steps out of the turbolift. It shushes closed behind him. Ackbar has been a friend through all of this—a comforting presence at her bedside and through all the surgeries.
“I never thought I’d be back,” she says. Her voice is different since the attack. The blast took out some of her teeth. Messed up her jaw. It’s all been reconstructed, but now she sounds different. She hates it.
“I’m glad you accepted the invitation.”
She turns. The Mon Calamari approaches, his hands clasped behind his back. As he walks, she tells him, “It means a great deal to me, Admiral. But I still have reservations. I don’t know that I’m ready.”
“You are. You must be. Commodore, you are among our best and our brightest—”
“Some of the light has gone out of me, Admiral.”
“And despite what happened, you remain one of our most vital commanders because you recognize the burden of war. You do not go to it lightly. You do not arrive with anger, not even after the Empire struck us at home and stole your eye from you.”
“I gave up command of this ship.”
“And I have returned it to you. Lieutenant Commander Spohn is glad to serve at your behest.”
“I’m not ready.”
Ackbar’s voice softens. He reaches out and places one of his webbed hands on her shoulder. “None of us are ready. No one can ever be truly ready for what war brings. The best we can do is meet it with our face forward and our hearts clear. You will do that. I know you will.”
“They know we’re coming. They must. With an open government and a free media, that means the HoloNet will have reported on the vote. And surely the Empire knows about the Oculus spying on them from afar.”
“Almost surely. Ensign Deltura reports that their fleet has grown and is consolidating in a defensive arrangement. This will not be a surprise for them or for us. It is the purest form of battle. Both sides, ready to fight.”
“It may be a ruse. They may be luring us in—”
“If they are, we will be ready.”
She feels a single tear threaten to slip free of her one good eye and hastily blinks it away. “Tell me we’re going to win this. Tell me this will be the end of it. The end of the Empire and the start of a new galaxy.”
“I’m no prophet, Kyrsta. I do not know who will win this day or who will even survive it to see the outcome. I only know it will be an honor to fight alongside you once again, whether this is our last battle or the first of many more to come.” His long fingers give her shoulder a squeeze.
Agate struggles not to cry out. She wants to run off this bridge and go home. Get in her bed, hide under the covers, turn out the lights, and wait for HoloNet to tell her who won, who lost, who lived, who died. When did I become this coward? Why am I quaking like a gun-shy child?
“May the Force be with you” is all she says.
Ackbar nods. “And with you, Commodore. I must go. It is almost time.”
War is coming. And soon, she prays, it is ending.
The Imperial shuttle circles the base. From up here, Sloane can see everything: the command HQ, the landing platforms, the lines of walkers and starfighters. Everything looks prefab, as if it was hastily constructed.
As if it’s all temporary, she thinks.
The shuttle lands around the far side of the base, easing into a hangar bay whose mouth is eclipsed by the shadow of a tall ridge.
Rax is not on this shuttle with her. Brentin is. He sits silently across from her. He’s frightened. She can see it in his eyes—the eyes of prey looking up into the jaws of a predator.
Sloane will not be scared. She refuses. I am the predator, she thinks. I’m close, now. So close. Rax may have taken her captive. But that also puts her hands very close to his neck.
The ramp opens. Sloane sees that the other two ships sit to their right. One of the troopers shoves her and Brentin down the ramp. Wexley loses his footing, falling hard without his balance, and the trooper ushering him forward stops to kick Brentin in the side, hard. The others laugh. This is not my Empire, she thinks. It is sloppy and cruel.