37. Dayn
DAYN
I hear the comms’ static before I see her—Josie’s voice crisp despite the unsteady line.
The Deep Space Network quivers with a Vortaxian deepfake of Colonel Kernal: his voice booming, visage flickering with malicious intent.
"Traitors," he hisses, the screen warped but unmistakable.
"All traitors must be purged—especially banished Shorcu.
" Even though sparks dance in the holo, the message hits like a slap.
Attacks on fringe worlds are surging—bounty parties, sniper strikes, harassment of Shorcu sympathizers now disguised as revenge.
Kernal may lie in the ground at Snowblossom, but his ghost has become a weapon.
I press my palm to the cold viewport, gripping it until the tremor passes. "He’s using his death as fuel," I mutter.
Josie steps beside me, dark silhouette framed by starshine. "Not death," she says softly, "propaganda." Her fingers find mine. "They're rallying the fractured."
The room smells like hot metal and gun oil. All around us, Hellfighters stand ready—their gazes taut, alert. I catch Garrus’s nod. Dowron's rare smirk registers beneath the stubble on his jaw.
I take a steadying breath and turn back to Josie. "We bait them," I say, voice low but absolute. "Set a trial site. Let them come."
Her eyebrows lift. "You want to lead them into a trap using the colonels' ghost?"
"A legacy is only as dangerous as its believers."
She half-smiles, but the gravity in her eyes is real. "One stipulation: this is?ours. IHC stays off the kill zone. One strike team. Ground and orbital. Zero collateral."
I search her face. We’ve spent years building trust; I don’t question her words. "Agreed."
I outline the plan on the holo-map: three ships deep in iterable space, shipped logistics to a basalt moon for "trial location." Our team—two Hellfighters squads in stasis orbit, a comm net controlled by Colonel Kernal’s fake replica. Josie will lead ground defenses; I’ll coordinate orbital interdiction.
The tension nods through the room. No hesitation.
Garrus leans in, voice steady. “Afterburners clear? We’re not here for hearts—they're ghosts. Let’s exorcise them.”
Dowron shrugs, expression unreadable. “Approved. But we’re logging this as defensive.”
We all know better.
The faux-trial ground zero is an abandoned mining facility carved in ash-grey basalt, miles from civilization. We've positioned mock witnesses: resistance scouts posing as insurgents defying the once-colonial “symbolic authority.” Our bait is live: Sabotage, lies, vengeance—they’ll bite.
Josie’s fingertips dance across the control panel, each keystroke a heartbeat. She’s tethered to the orbit loop, pulling sequences together like a grand symphony. The roar of orbital drop pods echoes under my armor when the first loyalist cruiser emerges against the star-black sky.
Their emblem—a twisted bronze falcon clutching broken chains—hisses across screens. Light curves off their hull, gold flashes like a heartbeat in the void. My gut clenches.
“They’re biting,” Josie whispers.
Adrenaline lands in my chest like falling debris. I grip my rifle. "Vector two. Launch restrictions in three... two... one."
Plasma bolts flash. Orbital bursts spotlight the battlefield below: the loyalist ships weave, attempting extraction, but our fighters are boxed in tight.
I order med teams stand by, but signal Garrus to hold fire on civilians.
The loyalists were fools, not monsters—they took the bait for vengeance, not genocide.
The ground hisses with energy as Josie activates EMP arcs, flickering machines and sprinkling sparks across creaking shelter walls. She’s cool, precise, adjusting the network feed so the loyalists see ghosts of dread Shorcu commanding from every crevice.
On comms, my voice cracks, not from fear, but purpose. “All Hellfighters, engage. We’ve got them.”
We break the enemy formation like crashing ice, volley after volley of controlled plasma.
The second cruiser spirals as I hail the orbital team.
The rockets are a chorus of controlled destruction—each enemy ship disabled in sequence.
The final cruiser explodes with a tremor we can feel through deckplates, flames licking the vacuum like silent lightning.
When the dust settles, silence reigns. Fireballs drift off the moon’s surface, supersonic metal humming in zero-G.
I step away from the monitors. My chest is tight, not with triumph, but relief. The crisis is ended. The echoes of Kernal’s fanaticism have been cut down.
I feel Josie’s hand on my shoulder, gentle warmth grounding me. Space station lights cast soft shadows across her face. "It's done," I whisper.
"Now we decide what comes next," she replies, tone steady but fierce.
I release a breath that I didn’t know I held. “Yeah.”
Her smile is small but defiant. In that moment, we both know this isn’t just a battle won—it’s a crucible. We chose to end a legacy of hate, not by following footsteps—but stamping them out.
I close my eyes and remember all we've built together: rebel rallies under the rainforest sky, stolen kisses echoing through ruined command centers, sandstorms and shipboards, snark and love and battlefield madness.
I open them, meeting her gaze. "Together?"
Her hand squeezes mine. “Always.”
And so we stand, side by side, ready for the next ghost that tries to haunt us—because we know the best way to kill a legacy... is to build something better.
In the hush of the control room, our hearts beat in sync. The stars beyond the viewport scatter in silence—galaxy-strewn, dangerous, beautiful.
We’re still here. And we choose to stay.