Kira looked at Cade, an uncertain look on her face. Almost like confusion, but confusion mixed with inquiry. Cade got the sense that she expected judgment and probably some kind of rejection of the trust they’d forged. Maybe even a rejection of everything she was. But Cade didn’t feel betrayed, he felt kinship; he felt a connection, deeper than there’d ever been between them.
“It should matter, Cade. If people knew—”
“If people knew what? That you’re tied up in terrible things that you never asked for? That you aren’t completely who you said you are? Look, if we’re forming a line for people who are frauds, you’re way, way behind me. Besides, people are idiots. Who cares what they know, or don’t know?”
Kira smiled and turned toward the viewport; Cade turned with her. Together, they shared a silent moment.
“You can be very surprising, Cade Sura,” Kira whispered. Cade didn’t say anything; he just smiled.
In the distance, red and blue gases of a far-off nebula mingled, breaking up the galaxy’s darkness with sublime beauty. Cade looked down, and he noticed that, at some point, he and Kira’s hands had locked together. She seemed to be just noticing it as well. However it’d happened, it was like a magnetic attraction, and neither one of them made any effort to break it. Instead, they moved closer to each other.
“Listen, Cade, I really don’t think—”
“I know. This isn’t the right time. But things are bad. They’re bad for a million reasons, so let’s just have a moment that feels good. This,” Cade said, squeezing Kira’s hand, “feels good, and I really don’t know how many more moments we’re going to have like this.”
Kira laced her fingers around Cade’s hand, getting a better grip. They looked out to the stars and the vast expanse of space, and Cade felt at ease. When Cade thought about his life—which he did as seldom as possible—he knew, deep down, that he wasn’t the happiest person around. For all the time he spent fantasizing about leaving the Well and the life he’d have thereafter, he spent just as much time fretting about what would happen if he did. Until he became the Paragon, no one cared if he stayed or left. He had no real responsibilities, no role that made him essential to any of the Well’s functions. Cade felt like his duty in life was to be a lonely onlooker standing on the shore, watching ships ferry people away to their rewarding, meaningful lives.
But with Kira, he’d actually been doing something. It wasn’t easy, and he certainly had his doubts and fears, but at least he was part of something. He belonged, and that made him feel good about himself, which isn’t something that happened very often.
Cade turned to Kira, and he put his hand on her hip. Neither said a word as they inched closer. Cade could feel Kira’s soft breath glide across the contours of his face. He closed his eyes—and whatever was going to happen next was crushed by the sound of voices, arguing, as they neared the cockpit. Quickly, Kira peeled herself away from Cade and skipped a step back. Cade did the same. They almost achieved casual positions when the cockpit door slid open and Mig and 4-Qel entered.
Mig noticed, immediately, that he’d walked in on something. A childish grin spread across his face, and Cade wanted to knock it right off him.
“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”
“No, why?” Cade and Kira said in unison.
Mig continued to laugh, and 4-Qel, noticing Mig, began to laugh as well.
“I fixed the mass-jump drive,” Mig said. “And I got your new shields set up. So, if you’re done holding us hostage—”
“We’re not holding you hostage, Mig,” Cade said as he rubbed the corners of his eyes. “You know that.”
“Okay, great. Then drop us at the nearest system, and we’ll be on our way.”
Cade looked over at Kira, thinking he’d get her confirmation to share with Mig their plan and see if he could help. Kira, though, turned away at Cade’s gaze.
“Look, I know all about what you two are plotting,” Mig said as he flopped into the pilot’s seat. “And, like I told your girlfriend, I don’t think it’s a bad idea. But it is a crazy idea, and I would have to be clinically insane to be part of it.”
Cade shook his head at Kira. “You told him?”
“What?” Kira asked. “You were doing your meditating thing, and he kept bugging me about what we were doing on Kyysring. So, yeah, I told him.”
“Well,” Cade said, turning to Mig and shrugging his shoulders, “what’s it going to be?” Cade knew Mig wasn’t going to help them. He was selfish, stubborn, and scared, and Cade had no intention of even asking him to be part of his and Kira’s plan. Not anymore. He thought the two years they’d been apart would have matured Mig, or at least helped him get some perspective, but he was still the same Mig. Because of that, he didn’t even want Mig knowing the details of what they had in mind; the less Mig—who Cade hardly considered trustworthy anymore—knew, the better. All Cade wanted was for Mig to tell them where they could get the heat-shielding material they needed, maybe even some general advice on using it, then they’d drop his butt off at the nearest planet. Mig would just have to cross his fingers for one that had breathable air.
“‘What’s it going to be?’” Mig said, parroting Cade. “Well, I think it’s going to be the both of you captured by Praxis, imprisoned, tortured, and executed. That’s a look at your future—free of charge—if you try to blow up the crown jewel of the Praxis fleet. I want no part of that. None.”
“You don’t have to help us,” Cade said. “In fact, I don’t want your help. Just tell us where we can get material that can withstand a star’s heat the way the War Hammer does, and you can be on your way.”
“Uh, that’s helping. Is that not helping?” Mig asked, directing the question toward 4-Qel.
“We’d be furthering their efforts, so, yes, by definition, that is helping,” 4-Qel replied.
“See?” Mig said.
Cade exhaled heavily, then looked at Kira. His patience for Mig was razor-thin, and she picked up on his aggravation. Neither of them wanted Cade saying anything that would torpedo the slim chance they had at pulling something useful out of Mig.
“Mig, you’re thinking about this like you have a choice in the matter,” Kira said, stepping in for Cade. “Yeah, you might have it good for now, pulling your scams and outsmarting everyone, but what are you going to do when Praxis is breathing down your neck? That day—it’s coming if we don’t stop them. What will you do when Praxis controls everything?”
Mig took a good, long look at Kira, then he shifted his gaze over to Cade. In that time, his expression morphed from confusion to patronizing pity. He laughed.
“Are you being serious right now?” he asked. “Because, if you are, the both of you really need to get off of Ticus more often.”
“And why’s that?” Cade asked, his words sharply acerbic.
“Because Praxis already does control everything!”
Mig got up from his seat and slapped 4-Qel in the chest, signaling him to follow.
“Come on, let’s leave them to their rebellion of two.”
Cade could only watch as Mig brushed by him, heading toward the door. It was like they were kids again and Mig was pissy about not being able to play a game his way so he was grabbing all his toys and going home. The problem was that they weren’t kids and this wasn’t a game. It was one thing for Mig to turn his back on Cade. He could live with that. But the Mig he knew, or at least he thought he knew, didn’t have the heart to turn his back on the entire galaxy. Cade was dumbstruck, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that could bring Mig back. Luckily, he didn’t have to. Kira had the words for both of them.
“They don’t control me,” Kira said. Everyone turned to look at her, and Cade saw in her face that gritty determination that he knew would never flag. Not for a single moment.
“Praxis does not control me. They don’t control my squad. I’d rather die than let that happen,” she said. “And I know there’s people out there who feel the same. Tho
se people who stood up in the Koga Club? Praxis doesn’t control them. They’re ready to fight.”
“Great,” Mig said. “They can die right alongside you.”
“Maybe,” Kira replied. “But we have the Rokura. And one way or another, we’ll have this bomb. So when you say things like ‘Praxis controls everything,’ do me a favor and say what you really mean: that Praxis controls you.”
Mig sneered. “You know, it must be nice to have the luxury to make such big, bold claims. It must be nice to have the luxury to feel like you can martyr your own life. Good for you. But you know what? While you’ve enjoyed your luxuries, I’ve been fighting and scraping, alone, for everything—everything—that I have. I didn’t ask to be born on the worst planet in the galaxy, and I certainly didn’t ask to have worthless parents. But I’ve made do, and I suggest you two, and everyone else, learn to do the same. I mean—what? You think I owe some sort of debt or something? This galaxy has done nothing for me.
“Four-Qel, how about you?” Mig said, turning to face his companion. “What has the galaxy given you?”
“I was born into brutal, rigorously demanding service, then my makers tried to murder me when an upgraded Qel model was introduced and I was deemed no longer needed. In my estimation, I have not been provided with much.”
Mig turned back to Kira. “I’ve survived despite the odds—we both have—and we’ll survive Praxis.”
There was a tense moment of silence, where Cade thought Kira might grab Mig by his hair and slam him against the cockpit’s dome. Instead, she stomped by him and took her seat behind the Rubicon’s stick.
“You got this thing patched up?” she asked Mig without looking at him.
Mig looked at 4-Qel, the briefest sidelong glance, but it was one Cade knew well. Mig was up to something. He was always up to something.
“I replaced the shield generator and repaired the mass-jump drive. You’re good to go.”
Kira started the engine initiation sequence; since they left Kyysring, they’d been floating just outside its orbit in a field of debris, hoping no one would find them. As Kira brought the ship back online, Cade eyed Mig. He was watching Kira with too much interest, and Cade couldn’t figure out why. But then he found out, and he immediately regretted giving Mig access to the Rubicon’s internal controls without someone watching his every move.
“Unauthorized access. Unauthorized access,” the ship’s tinny AI declared in a loop. Kira, confounded, punched her security code into the control panel over and over, but it was no good. The ship was locked.
By the time Cade and Kira turned to look back at Mig and 4-Qel, they had their sidewinders drawn on them.
“I installed a new operating system, and it only listens to me,” Mig said. His voice was unwavering; this was all just business for him.
“You can’t be serious,” Cade said.
“Look, I’m not a greedy person. What Praxis is offering for the both of you and the Rokura is obscene. I’m sure, though, that there’s still a nice reward for just the Rokura. So, we’ll make a trade: You give us the Rokura, and you get your ship back. And you won’t have to find out if your magical weapon can do whatever it does before Four-Qel rips it from your arms. It’s up to you.”
Cade wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t get himself there. He saw the conflict in his friend, and he knew he was torn between his survival instincts—which drove much of what he did—and his innate goodness, which Cade knew was there. It came down to which was more important: self-preservation or the greater good. As disappointed Cade was that Mig wasn’t compelled to choose the latter, he knew most everything Mig had been through—including being abandoned by Cade and Tristan, his only two friends in the world—and understood why the decision made sense to him. He just wished the conflict didn’t have to be resolved with him and Kira being held at blasterpoint.
“Mig, think about what you’re doing,” Cade implored. “You’d really hand over the means for Praxis to kill, enslave, and oppress people en masse for a little bit of coin?”
Mig looked away. “I told you that I’d survive Prax—”
Mig’s words were cut short by the sound of an eruptive boom that echoed from one side of the cockpit to the next.
“What was that?” Cade asked as he looked through the viewport and scanned the area around them. “Did debris hit us?
“Well, I’d love to tell you,” Kira said, slapping the control panel, “but some jerk locked down the ship, including its sensors.”
Mig hurried to the control panel and, with a couple short maneuvers, brought the Rubicon back online. He activated the sensors as Kira kept a watchful eye on everything from over his shoulder.
“That can’t be right,” she said.
“What? What is it?” Cade asked.
“The sensors are saying that there’s a ship below us—but that the ship is both mechanical and organic.”
Mig’s head darted up from the control panel and he looked wide-eyed around the ship. “Uh-oh.”
“‘Uh-oh’ what?” Cade asked as Mig blew by him, rejoining 4-Qel. “What’s going on?”
Mig looked over his shoulder, alarm evident on his face. “Krell,” he gasped.
If the galaxy ever had it in mind to create actual monsters—like the stuff of nightmares—the Krell would be them. They were an ancient and nearly extinct race that came from some quadrant of the galaxy that was either lost or unreachable. For all Cade cared, they could’ve come from the universe’s dark underbelly; the history lesson was less important than the reality he was currently facing. This was a species that, as far as anyone knew, had devoured their own planet: They literally ate their own world. Their homes, their soil, their everything. They were known to do that—eat everything in their path—in the rare instances they appeared planetside. Thankfully, they had evolved into a nomadic species, but that didn’t change the fact that most people who crossed paths with the Krell didn’t live to tell the tale. Cade heard stories of Rai encountering long-lost starcruisers, or what was left of them, floating dead in deep space. Half-consumed ships, with no survivors, was the truest mark of a Krell attack.
With the Krell in mind, the anger Cade couldn’t find just moments ago was now devouring him from the inside out. Like a Krell. Cade had a disgusting Krell within him, and it was all because of Mig. Mig’s greed and recklessness had killed them all.
“Mig, you idiot! We should have seen these things coming from parsecs away—but no! You had to shut the entire ship down to do … whatever it is that you did!”
“Like I knew Krell were going to find us!” Mig yelled back.
4-Qel added, “No one could have anticipated a ship—let alone a Krell ship—happening upon us—”
“You shut your face,” Cade interrupted.
4-Qel recoiled, confused. “I’m not sure I have the ability to do that.”
“And you,” Cade continued, “you know Krell never travel alone, right? More are going to start dotting our sensors any second. They’re going to board us. They’re going kill us. They’re going to feast on us. As a matter of fact, that jostle we felt was probably them creating an artificial tunnel between their ship and ours. It’s only a matter of time until they’re here.”
“We’re locked in place,” Kira said, supporting Cade’s assumption. “That thing’s got its tractor beam on us, and there’s no breaking its hold.”
Mig seemed to have a barb to fire back, but then he stopped himself. He shook his head, then pointed at Cade. “Wait, wait, wait—you’re the Paragon. What are we all freaking out about? When those hideous things board the ship, you kill them. Pretty straightforward, right?”
Cade opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He hadn’t anticipated his authenticity as the Paragon being called into question. He figured Mig wouldn’t care either way, and he didn’t. Not until it mattered, directly, to him.
“You’re. Kidding. Me,” Mig spat.
“Look, okay, this whole thing is complicated,” C
ade scrambled. “You don’t even know.”
“I do know, and I can’t believe I didn’t know it before,” Mig said. “If I’m the last person in the universe who should be the Paragon, then you, Cade, are the second-to-last person who should be the Paragon. I mean, really, you—”
Cade rushed Mig, slamming him against the cockpit’s wall and pinning him there with the force of his forearm locked beneath Mig’s chin. He could feel 4-Qel’s sidewinder pointed right at him, but he didn’t care; Cade had tortured himself enough about not being the Chosen One and all the consequences that went along with it. He didn’t need Mig, of all people, to dig the knife in deeper.
“You’re right, I’m not the Paragon,” Cade said, shoving his forearm into Mig’s throat. “Tristan is. He pulled the Rokura out, he’s the Chosen One; he’s the one who’s supposed to fix the galaxy. Not. Me.
“But do you know where Tristan is? Can you take a guess, given the circumstances?”
Cade saw the color run out of Mig’s face. His lips parted, slowly, and his eyes began to glisten. “No,” he said, just above a whisper. “Cade—no.”
Cade released his hold on Mig, and took a step away from him. Mig didn’t move, and he didn’t make eye contact with Cade.
“He’s dead,” Cade said, his voice cracking. “He was murdered right in front of me, and all I could do was watch him die.”
Mig’s eyes darted along the floor; he shook his head, trying to reject a truth that, Cade knew, was as unbearable for him as it was for Cade. “That can’t be right. Not Tristan. He … It doesn’t even make sense.”
“He’s gone, Mig. He’s dead and Praxis killed him. Same as they killed our parents.”
Mig ran his hands through his thick hair, his fingers clenching his locks. He muttered a streak of obscenities before erupting into a fit of kicking and punching the ship’s nearest wall. Kira stepped forward, like she was going to interrupt him, but Cade stopped her. Cade knew the helpless anger Mig was experiencing, and punching a wall seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to deal with that feeling.
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