he told in those early days at the academy—though of course, he’d told me he grew up on Naberrie, another fertile Umber core world, instead of Lucia, the Imperial Seat itself, and that his parents were an old military family. He’s even visited Naberrie on personal leave a few times. “And before that?”
“Before that, I barely saw the light of day. I grew up deep inside the citadel. Everything I needed was brought to me. Everyone who interacted with me was vetted and, I assume, threatened. Nurses, tutors, even the chefs who knew there was an extra mouth within the citadel walls to feed. I made some friends on Naberrie, but keeping me in one place for too long was dangerous. And supposedly keeping me in the interior would have made me too complacent, so when I graduated the pre-mil school, they packed me off to Rana and had me start all over.”
He wears it all so heavily. I used to think Gal always looked more tired than he should. Now I understand the weight he’s been carrying all his life. He’s been denied friends, denied normalcy, denied stability and safety. The practice of shadowing heirs—a common one, a necessary one across all levels of galactic government—demands that sacrifice for the sake of his future rule. His own family can’t publicly acknowledge him until he turns eighteen, when he can legally begin the succession process. Until then, he’s a pressure point for greedy system governors to exploit.
“It’s gonna be worth it though, right?” I ask. From the way Gal stiffens, I don’t think I’ve managed to strike the casual tone I was aiming for.
“It’s gotta be,” he says softly, staring at his knees again. “It’s the whole reason I’m alive. But more than that, it’s a chance no one else in the galaxy has. I spent my entire academy career trying to figure out how I could do it my way—how I could get away with doing it my way. No more wars, no more expansion, no more conquest. Just negotiation and levelheadedness.”
“You? Levelheaded?”
“Rut off,” he says with a smirk. “Being part of the Umber royal line means I’m part of something greater than myself. Don’t be so surprised I’ve thought about my life’s focal point once or twice.” Gal lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Look, when I turn eighteen, they’ll walk me out in front of the public and put a crown on my head. Succession spans a seven-year period before my parents step down and I assume my full bloodright, but even when I’m sharing the throne, I think I could still manage some good. And once the crown’s mine alone…If I could make that work then yeah, it’ll be worth it.”
If there were any anger left in me from my outburst, those words wash it away. I have a million other questions that should fill the next spaces in this conversation, but I feel like I’m wringing him out, like every new answer is draining him more than the one before. Gal needs rest. He’s got a big future ahead, one I’m going to fight like hell to make sure he sees.
So the next thing I blurt is, “I’m thinking of naming the Beamer.”
Gal laughs. “You can’t.”
“C’mon, it’s served us well. It deserves something in return.”
He shakes his head. “It’s clearly a stolen military ship. We’re going to have to dump it the second we make berth in Corinth.”
“So?”
“You name it, you’re going to start getting attached to it. I thought you hated it. Seem to recall some feet-dragging at a critical moment.”
I roll my eyes, patting the dash affectionately. “Don’t listen to him, baby. He’s jealous.”
“Ruttin’ hell,” Gal groans, an exasperated twinkle in his eye.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Ruttin’ Hell. That’s what we’re calling her. After your decidedly unprincely tongue.”
“Fine, but you’re the one who’s feeding her and taking her for walks.” Gal chuckles. His laughter deflates as he stares out into the eerie superluminal gray, but a soft smile is quick to replace it. “You know, I’m actually looking forward to this. Is that weird to say?”
I shake my head.