Chapter 9
NOVA
“Lieutenant Starling, a word.”
Trozius’s voice slices through the corridor like a vibroblade.
The echo of it hits my spine before I turn.
He’s standing at the far end of the hall—broad-shouldered, hands clasped behind his back, his face carved from the same cold alloy as the command tower itself.
His tone isn’t angry. It’s worse. Controlled.
“Yes, sir,” I manage, stepping into line beside him.
He doesn’t respond, just starts walking, and I follow.
The hallway’s sterile light hums off the metallic walls, casting our reflections back in fractured streaks.
Trozius walks like the air itself parts for him—slow, deliberate, heavy with rank.
I match his pace, heart drumming against my ribs like I’m headed into a tribunal instead of a meeting.
When the tower doors hiss open, the temperature drops. The faculty level is silent, save for the low thrum of power conduits and the occasional tap of a datapad. The place always smells faintly of ozone and disinfectant, like the air’s been scrubbed of emotion.
The conference chamber waits at the end of the hall—round, clinical, dominated by the panoramic window overlooking the hangar below. Cadets move like tiny mechanical ants, ships gleaming beneath floodlights. Beautiful, in a detached, military way.
Trozius gestures to my seat. “You’re late.”
“I came as soon as I was called.”
He sits, expression unchanged. “Then sit faster.”
I do. The other instructors are already there: Commander Korr with her usual disapproving frown, Lieutenant Drenn scrolling through cadet analytics like they personally offended him. The atmosphere is all business—tight, sharp, ready to cut.
Trozius brings up the holodisplay. Cadet files flare to life in front of us. “The evaluation period for First Ray candidates concludes at 1800 hours. Your final reports are due before that. Be objective.” His gaze slides over the room, then pins itself on me. “That includes you, Starling.”
I feel the warning land between us like static.
“Yes, sir.”
He taps the console, cycling through profiles. “The Alliance is expecting elite pilots—leaders. Not thrill-seekers. Not… distractions. I trust that won’t be a problem.”
“No, sir,” I reply, jaw tight.
He holds my gaze a beat longer than necessary, then nods. “Dismissed.”
The meeting bleeds into the long hours of the afternoon. The air feels heavier by the minute as I scroll through flight logs and combat analyses, the flickering light from my terminal casting pale blue on my hands.
I start with Yoris. His record reads like a textbook—tight formations, minimal deviation, risk assessments so precise they border on sterile. Reliable, efficient, and boring. Exactly what the Academy wants.
Then Swan. Warm. Loyal. His scores hover just below the cutoff, but his morale reports are unmatched. He’d die for his wingmates without hesitation. I smile faintly, making a note.
Then Kaz.
His name blinks at me, like the system itself knows I shouldn’t linger.
I open his file.
The first thing that greets me is a mess—flagged performance notes, disciplinary infractions, half a dozen commendations for bravery that almost feel like apologies for recklessness. But then I scroll down. The recent entries tell a different story.
Cleaner flight paths. Sharper decision-making. Team coordination reports from Swan—positive, even glowing. It’s like I’m watching someone evolve in real time.
He’s changing.
I can almost hear his voice in my head: I fly so I can come back.
I press my lips together and keep reading. His sim data shows growth curves climbing like comets. His risk ratios have dropped by twenty percent. And in the footage from “Rival Wings,” the way he moves—intentional, controlled—it’s not showmanship. It’s purpose.
He’s trying to prove something. Not to the Academy. To himself. Maybe to me.
My hands hover over the evaluation form.
The cursor blinks at me, impatient.
I start typing.
Exceptional pilot. Superior reaction time. Outstanding adaptability in combat scenarios. Displays measurable improvement in coordination and leadership roles. Candidate demonstrates potential for long-term command assignment.
No commentary. No emotion. No… him.
I sign it. File it. Close it.
And immediately feel like I’ve just buried something alive.
By the time I make it back to my quarters, the lights in the corridor have dimmed to twilight mode. My body’s running on fumes and caffeine. I drop my datapad on the desk, peel off my jacket, and let the weight of the day settle across my shoulders.
The room feels too big tonight. Too quiet. The silence presses against me until it’s almost a sound of its own.
I fill the kettle, letting the mechanical hum of the heating coil drown out my thoughts. The scent of jasmine tea fills the air—sweet, grounding. I pour a cup, wrap my hands around the warmth, and stare at the wall until the reflection of the stars in the viewport shifts into focus.
For a moment, I can almost convince myself I’m calm. Then the memory of Kaz’s grin flashes across my mind, wrecking it completely.
He’s infuriating. Arrogant. Undisciplined.
And he’s learning.
He’s listening.
I remember the zero-G training. The way he led, not for the sake of control, but to protect. The way his voice steadied the younger cadets. The way he moved—measured, not for show.
I sip the tea, but the warmth doesn’t reach my chest.
The comm pad buzzes against the table.
Kelsey. Again.
Her hologram flickers to life before I can stop myself. She’s sitting cross-legged in her Earth apartment, hair in a messy bun, mug in hand. “Nova Starling, you look like a woman who’s either about to break protocol or confess to a war crime.”
“Neither,” I say. “And it’s late on your end.”
“Which means you’re calling at your ‘emotional crisis’ hour.” She grins. “What’s wrong, space ace? Someone outflew you?”
“Don’t start.”
She leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Oh no. You’ve got that face.”
“What face?”
“The one you had when you first got accepted to Barakkus. Equal parts terrified and thrilled.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
“Sure. And I’m the Empress of Mars.” She sips her drink, watching me carefully. “It’s the Vakutan, isn’t it?”
My silence is enough of an answer.
“Nova…” Her voice softens. “You can’t keep doing this thing where you bottle everything up until it eats you alive.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
I open my mouth to lie but can’t find a version that sounds convincing. “He’s… unexpected.”
“Unexpected’s usually another word for trouble.”
I smirk faintly. “You always think everyone’s trouble.”
“Because nine times out of ten, I’m right.”
I lean back against the chair, watching the steam coil up from the mug. “He’s talented, Kelsey. Better than most. And he’s trying so hard to be better than the version of himself everyone expects.”
Her expression softens. “And you like that.”
I sigh. “I shouldn’t.”
“But you do.”
The silence stretches. The only sound is the faint hum of the environmental systems.
She says quietly, “Don’t let him be the reason you crash, Nova.”
“I won’t.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.
Her hologram flickers. “You always say that.”
Then she’s gone.
The room feels emptier without her voice. I drain the last of my tea and stand, pacing toward the viewport. Barakkus glows below—vast, mechanical, indifferent. A planet of rules and regulations that I’ve lived by my whole life.
But right now, all I can think about is Kaz, sitting in the hangar after his loss, staring up at his ship like he could will it to understand him.
That hurt in his eyes when I walked past.
The restraint it must’ve taken not to speak. Not to look at me the way I know he wanted to.
My fingers curl against the glass.
I’ve seen pilots fall apart under pressure, lose focus, lose control. I’ve never thought I’d be the one holding the joystick while my own heart plummets toward the ground.
I tell myself it’s a crush. A phase. A simple chemical misfire born of adrenaline and proximity.
But that’s a lie. A stupid, human lie.
The truth is simpler—and infinitely worse.
I’m falling.
And I don’t know how to pull up.