Chapter 20 Nova
NOVA
Tower control smells like copper and ionized dust. Too clean. Too artificial. The kind of smell that clings to your lungs long after you’ve left, like it's trying to brand you.
The room is quiet—too quiet for what they’ve just told me.
I sit in the corner, not moving. Not blinking. Just letting the weight settle.
One-way.
Those two words loop in my head like a stuck comm signal.
No evac. No refuel window. No second chances.
It’s not a mission. It’s a funeral with a call sign.
The target: a Coalition factory satellite tucked so deep in red-zone space it might as well be on the other side of the void. High-risk, high-yield. Eliminate the supply chain, shorten the war by months—maybe years. The kind of move they’ll write songs about.
If it works.
If someone survives long enough to tell it.
Trozius didn’t flinch when he said it.
“The best always pay the price.”
Like it’s noble.
Like it's fair.
I wanted to throw something. A datapad. A chair. My goddamn rank bar.
But I didn’t.
Because I’m still the one in uniform. Still the one with orders to follow and cadets to train and feelings I have no business letting dictate anything.
Still the one who put Kaz on the damn list.
I walk out of tower control like my bones are made of lead.
My office is dim, curtains drawn tight to keep the desert light out.
I drop into my chair like I’ve been shot.
The final evaluation scores sit open on my screen, blinking expectantly.
Kaz is ahead.
By 0.4%.
A fraction. A breath. A heartbeat.
I tell myself there’s still time. That Yoris could edge him out. That Swan might pull a miracle.
But even as I think it, I know the truth.
Kaz is going to win.
He flies like he has something to prove. Like there’s a fire chasing him and he doesn’t care if he burns with it. Every maneuver sharper than the last. Every mission faster. Riskier. Like he knows the clock’s running out and he’s racing to beat it.
And the Academy?
They love it.
They eat it up. His flair. His instincts. His unpredictability masked as brilliance. They’ll crown him First Ray and send him into a death trap wrapped in gold stripes and press releases.
Because he’s the best.
And the best always pay the price.
My fingers tremble as I swipe open the training footage. Kaz in the sim room, weaving through a gauntlet of enemy drones like he’s dancing. Precision and chaos. Sweat beading at his temple. Mouth tight. Jaw set.
He doesn’t look like he’s chasing glory.
He looks like he’s chasing something he’s afraid to name.
I close the file and press the heel of my hands into my eyes until colors explode behind my eyelids.
Do something, Nova.
Fix it.
I open a report.
Subject: Flight Behavior – Kazimir D.
Concerns: Aggressive tactics. Repeatedly pushing ship limitations. Unpredictable sim runs. Deviation from standard safety margins.
Recommendation: Psychological re-evaluation prior to final assignment.
My thumb hovers over “Submit.”
My breath stutters.
I delete it.
Then I retype the whole damn thing.
Stare at it.
Delete it again.
Because it’s not just his life I’m messing with—it’s who I am if I do.
If I tank his chances because I’m scared? Because I can’t handle what it means if he goes?
Then I’m not protecting him.
I’m betraying everything he is.
I sit there a long time. Long enough that the shadows outside stretch across my desk and the light starts to shift.
Finally, I open a new message.
To: Kazimir D.
Subject: —
Body:
I don’t type anything.
I just sit there, cursor blinking, mocking me.
Say something. Anything. Tell him to stop. Tell him to slow down.
I close it.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I want to too much.
The communal rec space is half-empty by the time I drag myself down there.
A few cadets lounge around, laughing too loudly. The buzz of a sim game hums in the corner. Someone’s left coffee burning in the machine.
I spot Kaz on the far side of the room. Alone.
Sitting on the floor with his back to the window, legs stretched out, shoulders hunched. His gaze is on the stars.
Like he’s already halfway to the mission.
He hasn’t seen me.
And I don’t move.
Because what would I even say?
“You’re probably going to win.”
“They’re going to use you.”
“This isn’t honor—it’s a trap.”
All of it feels like screaming into a storm that won’t stop just because I’m cold and soaked and terrified.
Kaz leans his head back against the glass. Eyes closed. Like he’s trying to feel something he’s not ready to name.
I turn before he can spot me.
And I walk away.
Because I don’t know how to save him.
And worse—I don’t know if he wants to be saved.