Chapter 33

As Slake prepares for her dinner shift—now in the last normal 24 hours that the Profundity will know under this project—she recalls the advice that Gormaanda gave her.

"The most dangerous time for a coup isn't when the guns are drawn. It's in the hours leading up to the op. When every participant must convince themselves that nothing is happening. It is an ordinary day. You don't check the clock. You don't deviate from the regular patterns. You have to remember to laugh, cut the vegetables, and live in the moment. Because the second they catch you thinking about killing them, the second someone starts watching? You're already dead. But they'll throw you in the brig and they'll make you tell them everything."

Slake had asked Gormaanda how she knew all this.

"I haven't always been a chef, darling."

Slake dresses in her cook's garb. She pins her hair back like she did before every mission. She's careful, methodical. She reminds herself to breathe deeply. She regrets that she won't have Kell's help, but she accepts this. He's just too frightened, and while they said terrible things to one another, she understands. He was right about Nixus. Failure will be worse than death.

She thinks about flying again. Going toe-to-toe with Price. She knows she'll have to keep a steady reservoir of boost in her engines. It won't be about winning or dominating her opponents, it's solely about buying time. And on the very second that Profundity is ready to jump, she'll need to disengage and burn hot back to the hangar. If she's fast enough, Gormaanda and the rest won't have time to make the decision to leave her. Slake will have to dump her fuel tanks and skid land, using Nixus' gravity to slow her down as she slides into the hangar before the leap to hyperspace. But she knows that. She's ready to do it.

And if she doesn't? Well, that's simple too. She'll bank around the jumping MC90 and use the grav well from its leap out to slingshot herself straight into the Ex-Factor's bridge. If the hole wants her so badly, it can spend millennia piecing the dust motes of her back together.

If she's honest with herself, she gives her chances of escape two percent at best. She knows she will die here. The moment they killed Pyre, she knew.

Anxiety creeps up in her guts. They know. The whole crew knows. Nixus can read minds, and it told Virta, Exel, everyone. She'll be dead in an hour.

Again, she remembers Gormaanda's parting words to her.

Stay cool, girl.

She's cool. Breathes deep. Just like any other day.

She makes her way out of the refresher and through the indenture bunks. As she opens the door, she's greeted by Virta, flanked by his two lackey stormtroopers. It barely seems real, her nerves or Nixus crafting a perfect hallucination to shake down her will, force her total collapse.

"Amara Slake," Virta says. "I have something to show you."

She's caught. Her spirit spirals down an infinite well. She only hopes Kell is safe, that he makes it back to fly those slow, chunky transports. "I suppose I don't have a choice in the matter?"

Virta claps his too large hands together and smiles. "Oh no! You most certainly do. You can choose to come with me, or you can decline. And if you do decline, I'll be calling the cleaning droids to scrub what's left of you off the bulkheads."

She should make Virta kill her now. The little remaining life she has will only be misery and pain. She'll betray the slaves' escape, and everyone in the kitchen will die horribly.

But Slake is simply too afraid to make a move – the Empire has convinced her she's a speck, and any action against them will just be returned to her fifty-fold. Ashamed and defeated, she even holds out her hands for containment manacles.

Virta chuckles. "No need for cuffs, Slake. I don't think you're much of a flight risk. Walk with me."

She falls in step with him, the two troopers at their backs.

"You know, I reviewed your record before this operation," Virta says. "It was immaculate. Brave, loyal, completely ferocious in combat." They cover the rest of the distance to the turbolift in silence. As they step in, Virta instructs the stormtrooper to select the deck for Central Mess.

"You're an asset, Slake. And I've thought on it, and I think it would be a genuine waste to kill you. Honestly, if I was the Emperor, looking to promote a Vice Admiral into a new role with more authority, this is the exact situation I'd be interested in. I'd ask myself, 'Could this man salvage an errant, supremely talented resource?' And I think I can, Slake."

Slake watches the decks fly by with dread. Virta wouldn't go to Central Mess again unless he was planning on doing something vicious and public to the slaves there.

"I don't even think getting you back in the cockpit of a TIE is out of the question. You and I just need to confront these sympathies you've developed."

Virta pauses, looks to her. "Listen. Relax. You're not in trouble right now."

She'll never believe him.

"I think you've been in a fighter too long. Tucked away in that little seat, sealed up in that flight suit, you never saw the faces of the people you were killing. To you, they were just X-wings, shuttles, corvettes. You never saw the bridges or cockpits depressurize. You never saw the air in their lungs expand once that Rebel scum was exposed to vacuum. You didn't see their ribcages shatter or their faces flash-freeze mid-scream."

When the turbolift stops, she hopes someone—Kell, Rohrchun, Gormaanda—is there with blasters, ready to save her. When the doors open, it's just empty hallway.

"You have an aversion to the actual work the Emperor has charged us to do. Our work is noble, important. And I'm going to cure you of that aversion today."

She follows Virta, listening to the lockstep of Imperial boots behind her on the rubbery cruiser floor. They step into a small pantry just across from the Central Mess—she knows it's where they keep the dry pastas, rice, legumes. When the door slides open, her heart sinks even further.

Two more stormtroopers stand inside, carbines drawn on Rohrchun and Gormaanda. Both are on their knees, facing shelves of canned food. They've been beaten severely, judging from the bruises on Gormaanda's neck and arms and the matted stripes of blood on the Wookiee's back.

They've whipped him again.

Virta lets the scene sink in for Slake. After a beat, he speaks again. "These two, like Pyre, are traitors. They planned on poisoning me with Rock Worrt adrenalin, taking my swagger stick here, freeing the indentures, and stealing the Profundity."

Gormaanda looks behind her. "You've mis-spoken, Vice Admiral Virta. We weren't stealing. We were returning Profundity to those from whom you stole it."

The stormtrooper next to Gormaanda looks to Virta. Virta nods, and the trooper cracks Gormaanda in the mouth with the butt of his carbine. The woman collapses to the floor.

"No!" shouts Slake. "Stop!"

All four stormtroopers in the room draw a bead on Slake.

"Wait! Don't fire!" Virta squeaks in a panic, stepping in front of Slake. He straightens his tunic, and returns to his smooth, sadistic prattle. "Ahem. She's fine. Not a threat. After all, we're here to test Slake today. Her stellar record has earned her the right to a second chance."

Virta jumped in front of her. Slake dwells on that. Why? She doesn't have enough capital to warrant this kind of sacrifice for mere political reasons. There must be something more to it.

"Get the mouthy one back on her knees," then to a specific trooper behind him, he says, "M-294. Your sidearm."

The trooper fumbles quickly for it. He's not surprised by the request. He knew it was coming and he wants to deliver it quickly to Virta in order to impress.

"You have a choice, today, Slake. You can walk out of this assignment right back onto Obsidian. You'll lead the squadron for the remainder of your time on the project, and then we'll transfer you to Titan squadron, who needs a new Major. You will receive that promotion. Your record on this project will be expunged. You will return to your title as Baroness of the Empire."

Slake knows where this is going. "I just have to kill these two first."

Virta holds out the pistol. "They're already dead, Slake. They conspired to kill a Vice Admiral. Their fates are sealed. But at least you can end them both mercifully, here. Two quick shots, back of the brain stem, and no other indentures have to die today."

Slake hasn't taken the pistol yet. "And if I refuse?"

"Immeasurable suffering. For you, for them, for the hundreds of indentures aboard this MC90. You know me. My… predilections. I'll relish doing it. You'll witness it all. And Kell Roderick will not be spared."

Kell. No.

She slows herself down, breathes, and senses Gormaanda's words.

Stay cool.

Slakes reaches out. Uses her feelings to assess the room.

There is a capped syringe in Virta's pocket. It's meant for her.

"A lot of confidence you must have to give me a loaded gun." Slake tells Virta.

A flinch from him. Barely perceptible. "It's faith, Slake. Faith in the Empire. Faith in the Baroness you once were."

She looks at the trooper who gave the pistol to Virta. Feels the person he is behind the faceplate. A kid, not even nineteen. Thirsty for blood today. Relentless desire to receive praise from the madman controlling the room.

She knows what she must do. She's out of options.

She takes the pistol from Virta and steps forward.

Slake aims at the back of Gormaanda's head first.