1.4 - Akane

  Akane sat with her legs crossed to the left of the vice-captain — a certain Williams — waiting for the Union Leader to finish his speech so that Hiro could finally play.

  The speech wasn’t enough to distract her from what she needed to forget. She hoped her brother would be.

  Because the thing she was pretending didn’t exist sat far too close — just beyond this Williams.

  Why should I even be preoccupied with him? I’m about to plunge into a hole torn open by blowing up an entire planet. She thought, sighing to herself.

  She couldn’t understand how, in the middle of all that, her head still had room for someone like Jerome De Chevelle.

  The truth was: she hated the man.

  She hated that he had more freedom than her. She hated that he’d broken free of the family constraints she’d only ever managed to run from. She hated that he had built a life of his own — and that he seemed to enjoy it.

  And most of all, she hated herself — for envying him.

  Akane dared not glance at him, even though every muscle in her neck screamed to turn.

  The fool can be annoyingly perceptive. If he catches me staring, he’ll definitely assume something ridiculous.

  She forced her gaze forward, toward the wall of empty words spilling from the Union Leader’s face on the viewports.

  She’d heard speeches like this a hundred times in the past year — given a few herself, in truth.

  After a while she’d grown numb to the words. Found no inspiration in them.

  I thought he was miserable. That he was an outcast for joining the Navy. So how the hell is he happier than me?

  The thought kept badgering her.

  She’d met Jerome every day when she first arrived at the De Chevelle mansion — then only occasionally after he left for the Navy that same year.

  As a child, she’d admired him, even imitated him. The stubborn rebel who refused to yield to mannerisms and later dared to defy his family for the sake of his own dream.

  But as she grew older, that admiration curdled. Everyone around her despised him, called him foolish, mocked his choices.

  And she’d told herself they were right.

  But now that she had met him again, that certainty was faltering.

  Could she have made the same choices? More importantly — could she have borne the consequences?

  She couldn’t lie to herself and say it had been easier for him than for her.

  Jerome was considered the most gifted of his siblings. Everyone said he would one day replace Gerard. They had tried to stop him — his father especially.

  “It is almost time, officers!”

  Admiral Cornelius’s thunderous voice pulled her back. Akane felt a flicker of gratitude toward the H.O.Pe. human.

  “After our brave leaders, it should be my turn to address and encourage you,” he said, pausing deliberately. “But I’ve never been good with words. I’ll leave the task to someone far more inspiring than me.”

  The admiral gestured toward her brother, his voice calm and resonant through the bridge’s speakers:

  “Mr. Taira, if you please.”

  Akane rose, clapping as Hiro bowed before the officers.

  Someone dimmed the bridge lights, leaving Saturn alone to illuminate the small stage.

  Cornelius’s electric eyes still shone faintly in the half-light, watching over Hiro as he raised the violin to his shoulder.

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  Then they dimmed too — eyelids closing — as the first notes of The Last Ride rang out.

  It was the first time he performed it publicly — even she had never heard it.

  It began slow at the start, a symphony arranged for a single violin instead of an orchestra.

  But Akane couldn’t close her eyes. What filled her senses was something that had to be witnessed.

  The realization that no gaze would ever fall on Saturn again.

  Hiro’s violin would never be heard in the Solar System again.

  Neither would her voice.

  A farewell.

  But as the melody rose, growing more intense, it became a promise too.

  Somewhere, far away, the violin would keep playing. And there would still be people to listen to it.

  Planets and stars might die, but humanity would not stand still.

  It would move on, refusing to do nothing but mourn its own passing.

  A single tear slipped down her cheek — opposing feelings distilled in it.

  The sun would soon be nothing more than a distant gleam in the sky. A new star would soon warm her face.

  —Thunderous applause.

  The sound yanked her back to the present — the bridge bursting with clapping and cheers.

  Hiro stood, bowing deeply before the crew, and when he lifted his head again, he wiped his sleeve across his face.

  He had cried too.

  Her brother was a shy boy, better at conveying emotion through music than through words. She knew what she felt was exactly what he did.

  “What magnificence! what blessing!”

  She turned toward the voice — a man standing and applauding as if his life depended on it.

  Kosciuszko, of course.

  The celebration ended abruptly as Scipio’s voice filled the bridge.

  “Synchronization complete. Data updated. Awaiting response — Mater Patriae: Green…”

  Akane glanced toward Admiral Cornelius, who was calmly issuing commands through the holoscreen built into his seat.

  “Parvus: Green. Tabula Picta: Green. Transmitting data to Urizen System. Updating countdown for thruster activation. Raising repulsion shields. Shields at 25 percent…”

  It was happening. The real thing was starting.

  Her eyes searched the bridge until they found Hiro — now walking toward the seat beside Jerome. All his equipment had already been taken away by officers.

  “Shields at 50 percent. Blazar detonation in: sixty seconds.”

  “Sixty seconds!?” She snapped — the nearby officers’ heads briefly turned toward her.

  She wasn’t ready.

  Not psychologically. Not emotionally. Not physically.

  Not ready in any way.

  “Wait… were all those speeches — Hiro’s performance — just to distract us!?”

  She tugged at Williams’s uniform. The man didn’t answer.

  “Calm down, Miss Taira,” Jerome replied instead.

  It made sense now. The less anyone thought about what was coming, the better. The AIs — and parts of the bridge crew — must have been working quietly all along, preparing Eden behind the curtain of ceremony.

  “Shields at 75 percent. Blazar detonation in: forty seconds.”

  Akane tightened her seatbelt, hoping the gesture would steady her.

  “No tearing space open with bare hands if something goes wrong, remember?” Jerome added with a smirk.

  She registered him, but there was no space inside her head for rage to surge.

  The relentless voice of the AI filled it already.

  And her pulse was spiking.

  She turned again, looking for Hiro. He was seated beside Jerome now — calmer than she was, she had to admit.

  “Shields at 100 percent. Consolidation started. Blazar detonation in: twenty seconds.”

  “Crew of the Parvus! Have you said your goodbyes and your prayers?”

  The Admiral’s voice — booming through the bridge. Even less reassuring than Scipio’s.

  “We’re erasing a planet just to open the way! There is no turning back from where we’re headed!”

  The warship’s hum grew louder. Akane gripped her seat’s armrests, planting her feet on the metal floor.

  “Beyond the void!”

  The Admiral was shouting now, his chair turned to face Saturn.

  He raised a fist toward the planet.

  “Sol Invictus!”

  “Shields consolidation complete. Blazar detonation in: ten seconds.”

  Every muscle in her body locked while the Parvus thrusters began to roar.

  “SOL INVICTUS! SOL INVICTUS! SOL INVICTUS!”

  The officers’ chant thundered across the bridge — a war cry. Or simple shouting to exorcise fear.

  “9... 8...”

  I’m in a nest of madmen. Her thoughts raced.

  “7... 6...”

  Could she make it to her cabin if she ran?

  “5... 4...”

  She didn’t want to be here if something went wrong.

  “Error. Connection with Mater Patriae lost. Unable to sync.”

  Her breath stopped cold — like the ship’s engines.

  Something just went wrong!

  The Admiral’s voice cracked over the comms.

  “Disconnect the thrusters from Scipio and reboot them! NOW! I’ll push this ship into that damned hole with my own hands if I have to!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  And then—

  A flash.

  A flare blooming at Saturn’s edge.

  The planet began to shine with its own light.

  The charges had gone off.

  Akane’s eyes froze on the scene as the planet’s hue shifted red — then began to shrink.

  “Thrusters: rebooting.”

  Now glowing brighter.

  “Loading: power management functions.”

  Then nothing.

  Not darkness.

  Absence.

  —The wormhole had opened.

  And it was devouring everything. Even light itself.

  The Parvus began to move, dragged inward.

  Something surged ahead — a streak of steel and fusion thrusters vanishing into the dark wound where Saturn had been.

  The Mater Patriae had gone in.

  They weren’t.

  “Reboot: success.”

  She didn’t understand what was happening.

  “Thrusters ready, Admiral!”

  Akane realized she did not belong here either.

  “Full power! Send us into the gate!”

  She didn’t want to be here.

  The Mater Patriae had disappeared before her eyes — it had made it.

  Galeria was right. It was a bad idea coming on this ship.

  The Admiral was shouting something.

  But her ears stopped working the moment the engines flared back to life.

  Tremendous force slammed her into the seat.

  Her eyes rolled upward as the Parvus accelerated, the speed unbearable.

  She saw the bridge’s ceiling — blurring.

  Then nothing.