Chapter 10
KAZ
Iwake to pain. It starts at my shoulder, a dull fire that spreads down my arm and into my ribs. The sheet’s too stiff against my skin, the air too cold. I shift, trying to silence the ache, but it wakes everything else up too—memory, want, the echo of last night.
Training starts before dawn. We’re in the weapons yard by first light, the range lights spilling pale halos across the tarmac. The field smells of burnt propellant and scorched metal. Every breath tastes of grit.
I rub at a bruise near my hip—probably from the zero-G maneuver yesterday—and check my systems again: thermal scopes, ammo feed, targeting alignment. When I look up, I see Swan. He’s limping. Not obvious—but enough. One boot’s dragging, weight slightly off center.
“Hey,” I hiss into my comm channel. “You sure you’re good?”
He pauses mid-stride. “Yeah,” he says, voice clipped. “Don’t worry about me.”
But his leg throws off the rhythm of his walk. His weight shifts too sharply. I scowl. He’s my wing. I won’t let him fudge this.
The simulator yard is humming by the time we join. Yoris is there, leaning against a console, watching me with those calculating eyes. He smirks.
“Selective hearing, Kaz?” he calls. “You ignoring the pain or just avoiding your messages?”
I ignore him. I’d rather stare down a flak volley than trade banter now.
Swan falls in behind me, favoring the bad leg. No one else notices yet. He’s that good at masking.
We strap in for the range run. The scenario is brutal: moving targets, reactive drones, shifting gravity fields, limited fuel windows. One glitch, one misfire, and the simulation ends you.
My weapons latch hums. I lock the primary cannons. Scanning. Swan is there, close in my six, his tail locked.
Suddenly, Yoris and Gorran bolt ahead, cutting odds and lines. I twist, weave, unleashing photon bursts. Swan tags a drone on my flank, but as he does, his leg flickers—he overcompensates. The drone electrospikes, hits his hull.
My throat closes.
I bank hard, shoulder-checking a missile that’s about to graze Swan’s rear. “Swan, fall back!” I bark.
He counters, fights to stabilize. I break off, intercept a flaring drone instead. The explosion rocks me, knocks off my course. The HUD flashes red. I curse, clawing the thrusters back, pulling strain beyond limits.
I land—barely. Systems flicker. The scoreboard loads:
Kaz: success
Swan: nearly fatal hit
Yoris: top kill count
I rip off my helmet, lungs screaming. I spin for Swan, but he’s already exiting his pod, walking stiffly, face pale.
I storm to him.
“What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, hand grabbing his arm.
He pulls away. “I didn’t want you sidetracked.”
“Bullshit. You’re my wingman. You are the mission.”
He steadies himself against a console. “Don’t act like you didn’t notice my leg. I sent you warnings.” He swallows. “I’ve been fucked up since Sim Three.”
I stare at him, chest heaving.
“You want me to carry you? Because I will.”
He straightens. “No. I’ll walk it off.”
I want to scream that’s stupid. That you don’t fight half-broken. But the words die in my throat when I see the stubbornness in his face.
Not my fight, maybe. But I bleed for him.
Later: the locker room is steam and sweat and echoes. I shower hot, letting water pound my back, hoping it washes off shame or fear, or whatever the hell this is.
My skin tingles, raw.
Swan comes in, shoulders scarred with training bruises too. He holds his head under support. There’s tension.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods. “Better.” His eyes flick to mine. “Thanks for stepping in.”
“Always.”
I lift my flight suit from the bench. There’s a knock.
Yoris stands in the doorway. Smirk sharpened. “Heard about your heroics. Too bad you’re lucky enough to have a wing.” He lets that hang.
I close the locker. “Think whatever you like.”
He shrugs and walks off.
Night crawls in the dorms. The corridors are hushed. Even boots echo. I slip into my bunk. The pad on my knee glows blue.
Message window: open.
I type, delete, type again:
Still awake?
I pause. My thumb hovers. I breathe—slow, painful.
Still awake?
Send.
It blinks. No reply. The blue light stains my face.
I set it beside me and lie stiff, staring at the ceiling panel grid. Tiny vents hiss in the dark. I can hear my heartbeat, loud in the silence.
Memories press in. Nova’s voice in the observation lounge. The weight in her eyes. Her silence. Her being there. The gravity between us almost enough to pull me across.
I roll onto my side, one arm draped over the pad. Whisper into the darkness: “I’m here.”
No answer.
Outside the porthole, the stars pulse. Cold, indifferent. I can’t escape what I want.
And now, Swan limps in the darkness, and I worry for more than the mission.
I’m repeating a pattern I promised myself I’d never follow: flying blind, wanting something forbidden.
But I’m too far in for reverse thrust.