I lower myself into it without protest, hating the necessity of it. The last time I entered the bridge, I snuck by in Wen’s wake. It made it look like a mistake when Silon “caught” me. It was a mistake—one we’re not intent on repeating. My presence on the bridge is by explicit command of the emperor. And I’m here to obey his commands unquestioningly.
At least, it has to look that way.
“Enjoying yourself?” I murmur as Ettian settles into his own chair.
“Don’t push it,” he replies out of the corner of his mouth. Seated this close, I can tell he’s been up all night. The subtle darkness of the skin beneath his eyes makes their rich browns even starker. I’m hoping the rest of the bridge finds them just as magnetic as I do, because running on this little sleep, we need all the help we can get.
The adrenaline high of being on the bridge is the only thing keeping me grounded in the reality of this moment. Ettian offered to order me a shot of that horribly rich Archon coffee, but I was almost certain that adding caffeine jitters to my already anxious mental state would get me thrown out of here for no reason beyond He’s being way too twitchy. If the plan we hatched is going to work, I can’t get booted right away.
In my current state, I’m still coming to grips with the fact that last night happened. Ettian burst through my door with no warning, barely giving it time to swing shut between us and his guards before announcing that General Iral had laid out the plan for the Ellit offensive. Tomorrow afternoon, he’ll present it in a strategy session, he said, brandishing his datapad as he dropped onto the anteroom couch.
Is it any good? I asked, before realizing that it barely mattered. With this plan, Iral takes the reins of the Archon rebellion. The leadership is primed by seven years of precedent to follow him. If Ettian wants to stand any chance of maintaining control of what’s happening here, he has to break it.
And not only break it—he has to come in with a plan of his own, a plan that so clearly outdoes Iral’s that the leadership will back it as the only strategy to mount against the blockade at Ellit.
A month ago, before the general came aboard, I would have laughed myself sick if Ettian had not only showed me the full plan of attack for Archon’s next offensive but also begged me to help him come up with a better way to loosen my empire’s hold in the Tosa System. But last night, I simply sat down at his side and got to work.
It felt like a night at the academy, like digging into a tactics assignment side by side with the desperation of students who’ve blown all three of the semester’s extensions on earlier papers. I could almost picture the rest of our friends arrayed around us. Hanji sprawled artlessly over one of the sitting-room chairs with her glasses drooping down her nose. Rin flat on her back on the floor, her heels hooked up on the couch. Rhodes on his stomach next to her, chin propped on a ridiculously thick volume of paper records. Ollins pacing, always too full of energy to sit still, even in the middle of the night. That familiarity kept me grounded—kept me from spiraling into the heady knowledge that if we didn’t crack this, didn’t figure out a way to outmaneuver Archon’s most celebrated general, I might be a dead man.
Even if I’d had time to sleep, I’m not sure I would have.
I sit up straighter as I hear the faint whine that precedes the bridge doors whooshing open. There’s no opportunity for me to duck behind Ettian or turn my head away and hope for the best. I fix my eyes on certain doom and greet him head-on.
General Iral steps onto the bridge with slow, steady intention. His presence draws every eye, and he knows it, keeping his head held high and his gaze fixed on nothing but the station that’s been set aside for him in the inner ring. He’s a man sculpted from duty, a man who’s so committed to the image of his own myth that even I, with my cynical, terrified eyes, can’t see a single crack in it. He’s flanked by a team of equally purposeful aides and support staff, who move with him like a well-oiled machine, a reminder that where Ettian and I have been playing at warfare in academy sims for a few years, the general has lived it for over a decade.
Improbably, I find myself suppressing a laugh. There’s no way we pull this off. We’re deluding ourselves, thinking that not only could we outmaneuver this man, we could also sway the rebellion he built away from following his orders. Everyone on this bridge—save for me, Ettian, and Wen—joined this uprising because they believe in his legend. This is the man who single-handedly sustained Archon’s hope for two years after the execution of its imperials. The man whose death was supposed to be the final extinguishing of that hope. The man who resurrected himself with the very same broadcast where he forced me to my knees before the galaxy.
Before my urge to topple into a total meltdown gets out of hand, Iral’s attention zeroes in on the one anomaly in his perfect war machine—me. And oh, there’s the crack. It’s just a wrinkle in his brow, but it’s there, enough to let me know I’ve thrown him. As he steps up to his seat, his gaze slides to the emperor at my right. “Your Majesty,” Iral says with a short bow. “I was under the impression we were scheduled for a strategy meeting, but it appears the bridge still has some security clearances to pass.”
There’s a faint choking noise from the Torrent’s saddle, and my fear of Iral does vicious battle with my desire to see Silon’s expression as she hastily tamps down her humiliated fury. I keep my eyes on the general as in my periphery I hear the captain announce, “Apologies, I was still in the process of determining why the emperor brought the prisoner—”
Iral silences her with an understanding wave. “Perhaps the prisoner has some strategic information he’d like to contribute. Or perhaps the emperor’s finally of a mind to…extract the little Umber’s strategic value, shall we say?”
And now I can’t keep my eyes on my true enemy, because this I have to see—the flash of steel in Ettian’s gaze as he regards the general coolly. I feel my center of balance cant at the realization that this has been an argument between them, a debate that never touched me because all along, Ettian has been holding the line. Thus far, my imprisonment has been relatively comfortable—not without its bumps and hitches, but nowhere near what my mother would do to an Archon prisoner of my status. The only information they’ve gotten out of me has been information I’ve volunteered. No one has ever suggested it could be different within earshot. No one had the temerity until Iral.
Ettian rises slowly from his seat. “As I’ve repeatedly reminded you, the prisoner’s strategic value lies in his importance to the enemy. Successfully extracting information from him would only serve to compromise that value. He remains an advantage as long as Umber wants him enough not to kill him to get to us.”
“From where I sit, it’s no advantage to have him on the bridge for this particular meeting,” Silon says with a sniff. “All he’s contributed to so far is an argument that’s eaten into our time slot.”
Precisely, I almost declare out loud, but I settle for exchanging a smug little look with Ettian. Iral expected to bluster onto the bridge with his bureaucratic maelstrom and take decisive command of the war. Instead, he’s mired himself in the trap my presence sets, too distracted to dive right into his agenda.
But of course we’re not going to own up to that. “The prisoner remains with me,” Ettian says firmly. “This meeting can proceed with him in the room. If you think there’s even the slightest chance that Gal emp-Umber can somehow compromise our strategy, then I’d encourage you to have more faith in Silon and her administration of the Torrent.”
The captain looks like she’s just taken a hearty swig of engine hooch.
Before the emperor’s twisted praise has a chance to settle, he plows forward. “And beyond that, I’ve spent the night reviewing the plans the general has proposed. While it is certainly a battle plan that will leave Ellit in our hands at the end of the day, the methods it proposes will almost certainly halve our fleet in the process.” Ettian draws himself up tall, til
ting his chin just-so. He’ll never have the stature or the frame to match Iral, but bloodright is more than that—and in this moment, he so clearly holds it that I feel a filthy twist of shame for allowing him any sort of legitimacy. “A victory that costs us half our holdings is not worth doubling the number of planets we can claim. That tips our war into an unsustainable position. I will not allow this fleet to move forward with a strategy that carries a risk that great.”
“Your Majesty,” Iral says, his tone veering dangerously close to one you’d use to explain the orbit of a planet to a small child. “Umber’s attack on the rear of the fleet was only the beginning. This war has stagnated while Tosa licked his wounds after Rana, but all of our scouting indicates Umber is making ready to mobilize. If we’re caught between the dreadnoughts stationed at Ellit and the forces they’re massing at Imre, it won’t just be a half loss. It will be total. If we’re to survive, we must take Ellit.”
“I’m not arguing that we shouldn’t,” Ettian replies. “All I’m saying is that we’re in dire need of a strategy with less risk attached.”
Esperza sinks back in her seat, folding her arms behind her head with a wicked glint in her eye. I resent how much she’s enjoying this, but I’ll be damned if I don’t take at least some secret thrill in how much pissy discord has settled over the Archon leadership in so little time. “Sure, Your Majesty—every commander in this war would love to fight a riskless battle. But if we sit around waiting for the perfect strategy to fall into our laps, we’ll be navel-gazing easy pickings for Tosa’s fleet.”
At this, Ettian leans forward—hungry, eager, his barely repressed grin almost wolfish. “Well, then we’re in luck, Commodore, because—”
“Oh, for the love of every ruttin’ god of every ruttin’ system,” I groan loudly, scrubbing a hand over my eyes. It takes everything in me not to outright cackle at the stunned silence my outburst leaves. In my periphery, I swear I catch a security officer’s hand dropping to his sidearm in alarm. “You’re really going to try this? You?”
I loll my head sideways to find Ettian staring at me, brows raised.
“You have a general who was leading campaigns while you were still cowering in your parents’ bunker laying out a solid battle plan made to win you a whole ruttin’ planet, and you’re going to act like you’ve just thought of something better? I mean, seriously?”
“I haven’t ‘just thought’ of something better—I’ve worked my ass off to come up with it,” he replies with a venomous edge. “I am emperor. It may mean something different to you, but here in Archon, that means I am at my people’s service. That means I won’t sit idly by if I believe I can save them from a risky battle plan.”
“You’re delusional,” I scoff. “I mean, my gods, you’re eighteen. You didn’t even graduate your academy training. What could you possibly think of that the general hasn’t already?”
“He’s fought his wars, and I respect him for that,” Ettian says, lifting his eyes to Iral and giving him a slow nod. The general’s got his fingers steepled together, a look of wary consideration wrinkling his brow. “But he hasn’t fought this one, against these ships. I’ve reviewed the scouting reports of the six dreadnoughts Umber has positioned around Ellit. Every ship in that blockade was manufactured in the Dasun Yards less than seven years ago.”
The shift that overtakes the bridge is subtle. There are no gasps, no claps, no sudden moves to draw up the data and verify Ettian’s claim. But the flame beneath the simmering doubt is sputtering. “A dreadnought’s a dreadnought,” I fire back a half-second too late and with just a little too much forced flippancy. “The guns on the newer ships will vaporize your armies just as easily as the ones on the old ones that took down your upstart empire the first time.”
“Captain, if you would be so kind.” Ettian makes a few elegant swipes on his station that transfer the data he’s prepared to Silon’s. She draws it up onto the transparent displays that wreath her, splaying out a pair of dreadnought schematics. On the left is a pre–War of Expansion ship, breathtakingly massive and viciously armed. I’ve always liked the older war machines’ aesthetics—those wrought in the Umber Core have a flattened, sharp, brutalist quality meant to align with the design of the Imperial Seat itself. This ship doesn’t just look like it’ll mow you down. It looks like it’ll brush you off like a fly.
On the right is one of the newer models. One of the six in the blockade, in fact—a fellow named the Reach, whose hull looks fresh off the line. It’s designed around the same principles as its older cousin, built to annihilate with impunity, but its shape trends a little sleeker, betraying a few engineering advancements that have slipped into the base framework. With another series of swipes, Ettian zooms in on one of those enhancements in particular—the massive engines set at the ship’s rear.
“The older model of Umber dreadnought was made to be as versatile as possible—to justify the use of that much metal, of course. But once they came into a fresh belt to mine, they began to rethink their priorities. The new models are still floating fortresses, but they’re built to be far more maneuverable than their predecessors. The Torrent itself is one of these, and we reaped the benefits in our last engagement.”
Ettian throws up a rendering of our last fight, when the Umber dreadnought popped out of the black at our rear. We’d been forced to rely on the support of our corvettes as we executed a turn to bring our main batteries around for defense. But when he overlays a parallel model of how an older dreadnought would maneuver, the difference in turn speed is starkly clear.
Iral frowns. “All you’re saying is that the dreadnoughts we’ll face at Ellit will be more maneuverable than the ones we fought in the last war. Everyone in this room is already aware of the advances that have been made since the last war, and I’m having difficulty understanding how it benefits us.”
Ettian nods, unconcerned. “There’s another aspect of this new design I want to focus on.” He pulls up the dreadnought model again and highlights the main batteries, which prickle from the ship’s fore. “Because the old guard of dreadnoughts had less maneuverability, they had to be capable of attacking from all angles. The newer models focus their firing power where it’s most easily swung around.”
With another twist, he overlays swaths of color that arc out around each of the cityship’s guns, illustrating their firing radius. The heaviest coverage—the true promise of annihilation—cuts a deep red arc from the fore of the ship. The rear’s got enough firepower to keep it defended, but definitely not enough firepower to front an attack.
Ettian locks his gaze on Iral. “At present, those undergunned rears are pointed at Umber-held Ellit, while the fores are arranged looking outward, to defend from any incoming attack. But if we can force a turn…”
Every eye on the bridge lights up. Even the soldiers who aren’t brilliant strategists like Iral or Esperza know enough to realize the implications of what Ettian has just highlighted. The general himself looks like he’s battling to keep his consternation from showing as the certainty settles—we’ll be throwing out his battle plan and starting all over again.
Ettian, on the other hand, is having a hard time keeping that prideful smirk off his face—or maybe I’m just way too used to reading him. He seems just a little too caught up in the moment, so I nudge my foot against his under the station, jerking him sharply back into the reality of our situation.
There’s one more piece to our own little battle plan. After the disruption of my presence on the bridge, after the scripted argument that had me—the prisoner, the Umber prince, the enemy—voicing the skepticism we might face, after Ettian silenced every doubt with the elegantly staged projections—there’s one more thing we have to do to seal in his unquestionable place at the head of his rebellion.
Ettian’s focus drops to me, his spine straightening imperiously. “You,” he says, his voice dripping with ice-cold authority. “Out.�
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“I’ll need an escort,” I reply. “Unless you’re volunteering.”
“Wen,” he says, with his tone just a smidge more tempered. “If you’d be so kind.”
She rises from her station, exchanging a quick look with Esperza, then beckons to me. “Let’s make this fast.”
I don’t need telling twice—we didn’t plan it that way. I rise obediently, the perfect prisoner brought to heel by Ettian’s command, and let her slip an arm around my elbow as she pulls me toward the bridge doors.
When we’re far enough from the rest of the command staff to be out of earshot, she leans in close. “You two have gotten better since the last time you ran that scam on Delos. I don’t know what you’re playing at,” Wen murmurs. “But if it doesn’t go exactly according to plan, I will put you out the airlock before any of these Archon assholes can tell me no.”
CHAPTER 16
I shouldn’t be afraid.
I sit in the hold of a Caster Model X, my back pressed against the padding built into the wall and my ass getting sore on the hard plastic bench. The hull around us is coated with an ultrablack wrap that will seamlessly disperse detection along any spectrum, and we cut the engines twenty minutes ago, leaving us a perfectly still, perfectly silent, perfectly invisible stone going cold against the vast dark of the universe. Thousands of miles away, the Ellit offensive is about to begin, but it can’t touch us here.
Here we wait, far from any sort of harm—and yet, I can’t stop shaking.
Ettian’s up front with the pilots. Two of them, two of us, and that’s it. No escort squadron to defend us if someone manages to pick us out as more than space trash. Nothing more than the guns on this ship and the superluminal drive with a vector for Rana preprogrammed into it. Anything more would draw attention or introduce more points of failure into the equation.
I’m trying not to think about points of failure. Trying not to think about how the strategy we concocted is about to go into motion, about how we’re powerless to affect its execution, about how we—
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