At that very instant, as Dahlen tried to wrench out of the man’s grip, his eyes locked on to Rhee’s. In that moment, she knew he knew—Rhee would abandon him.
Dahlen tried to lunge for her despite the man holding him. But the man yanked him back, and in a split second, she was free. Elbowing her way out, she heard more yelling erupt behind her, but she didn’t dare glance back.
She was free. Alone.
Rhee quickly made her way through the other disoriented jumpers who’d been shoved out of the holding car. The glass roof of the hub’s freestanding grand pavilion had ribbed arches like that of an ancient cathedral. Her hood fell away as she ran, and Rhee quickly yanked it back over her head.
“Wait,” she heard someone shout, maybe Dahlen, but she kept her head down and pushed forward. Her heart was pounding.
Honor, loyalty, and bravery, she repeated. Never mind the questions that came after: Who must she be honorable and loyal to? Who must she be brave for?
The central holo projected a clock high in the pavilion. There were three large archways marking the hub exits, and various holos flashing unfamiliar street signs, advertising specials, news, music. It was a madhouse: Even the central station in Sibu during the Harvest Festival was never this crowded. There must’ve been ten thousand souls, maybe more, from every corner of the galaxy packed into the hub. The walls were made of glass and metal beams, and a dizzying light from the sun shone through them.
Rhee knew that Dahlen’s size wouldn’t do him any favors in the crowded terminal. She squeezed through a current of people, like a salvion fish going upstream, dodging a family with three slobbering vitus hounds on leashes. The dogs barreled forward, dragging the children who tried to hold them back.
“It’s Nero,” someone nearby exclaimed, and Rhee’s body reacted before even her mind could, stopping so quickly she nearly fell. Was Nero really here, in the station? The ancestors were on her side.
She stood on her tiptoes and had her answer—had the answer, too, for why the station was so crowded.
Nero hustled through the crowd, surrounded by Tasinn, so Rhee could see him only in glimpses—broad shoulders, the forward stride, light hair trimmed and slicked back. He’d always seemed so easygoing, a generous smile trained right at the camera, but today his mouth was set in a grim line as he pushed his way through the crowd. Reporters were practically crawling on top of him as they shouted out questions and jostled to get closer.
“Is Kalu going to war?”
“Did they confirm there are UniForce troops on Wraeta?”
“Can the allies renew the accords of the Urnew Treaty without an empress or regent to sign?”
Nero must’ve been overwhelmed; Rhee knew the feeling. Still, he carved a path toward the departure platforms. Rhee remembered hearing he wasn’t to leave for another three days; something must have happened to make him change his plans. Something bad.
For once, she was grateful to be less than twenty hands tall. She slipped through the roiling crowd to follow him, finding the smallest gaps like water flowing into sand.
“Any response to the Fontisian czar’s accusation?”
“Has Rhiannon Ta’an’s body been recovered?”
“Nero has no comment,” a Tasinn called out. Strange, seeing as he always had a comment. Nero loved the cameras and yet he hadn’t said a word or so much as looked at the reporters. As he hurried up the steps toward the first-class car of a waiting craft, Rhee was again struck by how much older he looked. And while he’d always been confident, he even moved differently, with more precision and command.
A line of Tasinn closed in after him and blocked the reporters desperate to pass. Rhee was caught up in the tide of journalists and pundits and hangers-on as they foamed down toward the very zeppelin she’d disembarked—toward a different entrance altogether, reserved for the first-class passengers.
There, another Tasinn was checking credentials before ushering the journalists—from all over the galaxy, Rhee noted, if the pair of long-limbed Ngisll sparring with the squid-like Ottos about who had been first in line were any indication—into the press car. With a handheld scanner he reviewed ID cards and admitted or rejected them with a nod or shake of his head. Two muscular brutes in the uniforms of UniForce rookies were on hand to hustle away anyone who didn’t pass muster.