11. âBut I will never forget!â
âFrom Jakku?â he asks. He hums a note of â what? acknowledgement? Itâs meaningless, an empty gesture.
âI have noticed,â Sloane says sharply, âthat you do not like talking about anything.â
Rax struggles for a response to that, proving Sloaneâs point.
She presumes he doesnât want to tell her because he wants to make a spectacle of it. He wants the answer to reveal itself dramatically. Sloane is sure of this much, because itâs the most predictable thing about him.
Yet with his body bursting slowly apart, from a dreadful sympathetic pressure connecting him to a planet already billions of miles away, it seems more as if he holds down this secret, and he could reveal it, but it would have to tear its way out of him.
Sloane backs all the way to the door, clutching the blaster as a lifeline. She wants to kill him, but thinks â it isnât right, not yet. She fears it being less triumphant than she needs this moment to be. It was easier to put the turncoat trooper out of his misery on Jakku, because his back had been turned, and heâd been holding on to hope. He didnât deserve it, of course, but it was the only option. And heâdâ
The rebel pilot lying on the floor is still breathing. A thin nasal whistle, grating even if itâs slight, because itâs futile. Whether heâs clinging to life on purpose or waiting for it all to be over.
âFine, then. Donât tell me.â Spinning on her heel, Sloane flees the room, pressing an arm against her aching side. Kill him, she thinks, both of them, but sheâs afraid it would be merciful. Mercy is nauseating right now, itâs a service she doesnât want to provide. Fate has not been merciful to her â it isnât fair.
The shuttle has a single gunnerâs seat on the back half of the ship, which offers a rear view through a transparisteel bubble.
As Sloane approaches, she thinks â itâs an afterimage, my eyes are being fooled. Itâs just a dark blot hovering in the center of her vision. She massages her eyes with the heel of her palm, and itâs like wiping goggles and finding them more smudged than before; the darkness grows.
That darkness grows as an inky cloud bubbling at the distant center of the bright blue tunnel. Staring at it makes Sloaneâs tongue prickle as if sheâs sucking on a live wire.
And itâs following, chasing, a storm in pursuit. She braces herself against the gunnerâs chair.
âWhat is that?â she whispers. Her hand flies up to cover her mouth. She really thinks sheâs going to scream, or cry.
Hyperspace shouldnât look like that.
âThat,â Rax says wanly, âis the Contingency.â
âItâs catching up,â Sloane says, stupefied, pressing her fist to her teeth. No, she pleads silently. Iâm not ready to go. Iâm not. Not into this perversion of space.
âThe ship isnât fast enough. Would any ship be, thoughâŠ?â His staggered, limping footsteps come up behind her and he lays his hands on her shoulders. âThen there isnât much time.â
She heaves in air. âYou did this.â What have you done?
His tone is clipped, with raw edges. Angry at her for not understanding, when itâs his own fault. He saved this for the last â the very last â moment. What for? Did he expect her to appreciate it?
âThis is your Empire, Rae Sloane. This isâŠâ He makes a resentful jab. âThis is real. This was here before you were. I was there before youââ
His fingers dig into her forearms. She doesnât bother reacting.
âI saw this built before there was a throne, or an Emperor. Before the war that destabilized the galaxy. This was Sheev Palpatineâs vision. His design. His gift to the galaxy: its death.â
âWhy!?â The question wrenches itself from her throat.
âYou didnât know him as I did. If you did? You wouldnât need to ask.â
It appalls her that heâs reveling in her ignorance. Though it must be the only satisfaction left for him.
Rax sounds like heâs recounting a dream upon waking, in a distant, sing-song tone. âIt will spread through hyperspace, from the source, the planet. It⊠has no name. An insatiable hunger, a dark cancer. Thatâs all I know,â he adds in a hurried whisper. âI was never told, Rae, that old bastard never trusted me, never thought me worthy. Look! He promised a destiny, and there it is.â
It will spread. She thinksâ The Emperor condemned us all. This is what the man who built the Empire believed in. Sloane canât even push back against this as she has before, because she can be no Emperor, there is no Empire. It must have already been swallowed up. The New Republic fleet is gone. Norra and Brentin Wexley â gone.
âHe told me many things, he told me of this in riddles, or in metaphors. I may not have understood it then, but I will never forget a word he said to me.â
âWhyâ! Why are you⊠still talking like that? As if youâre trying to teach me a lessonâŠâ
âI thought weâd escape, but itâs enough for you to see as I do.â
âEnough for what!? The afterlife? I donât plan on sharing that with you!â She shudders, and tears herself away from him. âIs this a lie? A trick? A trap? A test?â Takes aim at his head with the blaster.
Rax flits his eyes between the blaster and the viewport.
He, like Sloane, cannot look at the dark cloud for long. It is flat, like a hole cut out of existence, and the cloudiness at the edges and writhing forms within might be optical illusions. Moving the eyes inward from the edges deadens the mind. A hole cut out of consciousness too. Around it, the cerulean cocoon of hyperspace violently unravels.
Sloane jabs Raxâs forehead with the barrel. âWant me to end it before that does?â And how dearly she wants to make one final act of defiance. But it isnât defiant. Itâs what he wants. âHow does it feel, knowing the Emperor betrayed you?â
He swallows, cheeks pinched in. The blood from the cuts is drying quickly into dark clots that crack into crumbs as his features shift. In places itâs as if tiny black-shelled insects have swarmed on his skin.
âHe strung you along. He promised you greatness. A lie.â
âYou knew this would happen.â An accusation.
âOf course not! Do you think I want the galaxy torn to shreds?â
âOne wretched, backwater planet! Idiotic squabbling armies. An Empire that failed. Why do you think I sent the New Republic to Akiva, to the Imperial Future Council? To see what the Empireâs future was, in a galaxy that had come to hate it. You⊠you proved what had to be done. Weâre not so different, are we?â
I planted a bomb in my own ship and fled in a shuttle, Sloane thinks.
Thenâ âNo.â She stiffens. First he blames the Emperor and now, in a subtle way, he blames her. But she can turn that against him. âBecause if weâre not so different, then youâre a coward and you knew better. And you saw plans in motion and you could have stopped them but you waited for an explanation because surely it would all turn out to mean something, it had to have an answer.â
The ship has begun to vibrate. It wails like a revenant or a dying sea leviathan; the durasteel hum is a keen and discordant note that gets into her very bones and sets them ringing.
âI donât want to die,â Sloane seethes, and spills tears, elbowing Rax aside, staggering back to the shuttle cockpit. Her throat feels bruised from the clogging mucous alone. There is no room for dignity left. Already, there is nothing left in the galaxy that honors her. âI want to go home.â
She doesnât know at first what she means by that, and then she does.
The shuttle doesnât have all the features an Imperial ship would have, but like most cheap commercial transports refitted for war, itâs easy enough to turn it on itself, vent volatile gases from one chamber to another, stall the inhibitors, overload the ventilators. The shuttleâs computer makes it easy for her, as if it wants the same.
He is contrite, which may as well be mockery. âThereâs nothing you can do.â
She curls her fingers around a handle and pulls it back. âYes, there is,â she mutters.
The view of blue becomes black, dusted with twinkling stars. And at the back of the ship, the hyperdrive roars in its death throes.
It isnât the cold of space she meets at the end, not the void, but searing fire at her back, a bloom of light.