Chapter 10
TROKA
Istep off the transport, boots echoing on the docking bay floor. The roar of the crowd hits me first—the cheers, the clang of helmets, the voices calling my name. I blink against it. Barrakus. It’s home—but I feel like a stranger.
“Troka! Over here!”
I turn. Old squadmates wave. They slap my back with more force than memory allows. Armor clangs. They laugh, voices raw: “You survived! We almost thought—”
I lift a hand. “Didn’t think you’d let me off that easy, did you?”
They grin. But inside, I wince—the ribs on my left hurt like hell. A blow from the front lines I couldn’t outrun.
Later, in the debriefing hall, a drone reports. Commander's drone. Casualties, supply lines, ceasefire talks. My uniform’s too tight. My thoughts are everywhere.
I slip out into a hallway, lean against the bulkhead, listen to the hum of life behind closed doors. The corridor smells of antiseptic and stale sweat. A med-tech passes, wipes her hands. Her eyes flick to me and away, like she’s cataloging or confusing me for someone else.
I pull out my compad under dim lights. Nothing new. The message from her—still unread. My pulse hammers. My thumb hovers near the icon.
“Oi! You in that corridor or ghosting us?”
Sergeant Korr slinks around the corner. Ragged grin, hair in a mess. She tosses me a water ration.
“Thanks.” I take it, throat dry.
“You look worse than I do after an acid shower,” she says. She’s always straight talk. No fluff. “Battle scars or those new blades messing with your DNA?”
I manage a half-smirk. “The job.”
She leans in, voice soft: “You’ll find what you’re looking for back here, Troka. Don’t wait beyond your welcome.”
I nod, swallow hard.
I wander Barrakus streets. Neon signs buzz. Hovercars hiss past. Scent of fried krelln and spice sticks perfuming alleyways. Lights flicker. Everything feels too bright. Too loud.
I reach the lounge—the bar from before. The Docking Bay. The name cuts my gut.
The door hisses open. I step in. The smell: liquor, stale sweat, polished wood, lingering smoke. It’s a place that doesn’t forgive absence.
Servers glance over. Patron chatter threads quiet. Music hums in the back. Bar stools scrape.
I walk up to the bar.
“Still serving burns?” I ask, clearing my throat.
She’s there—behind the bar. Hair darker. Face sharper. Brown eyes burning. She lifts a glass, sets it down hard.
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at me.
“Troka,” I say again. Louder. Demand.
She turns. “What took you so long?”
I taste blood in my mouth. I didn’t expect that. “War. Cost. Space between words.”
She does not crack. She doesn’t soften. “You ghosted me.”
Her words slice the air. She doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t blink.
“I couldn’t—”
She cuts me off, voice low, hurt. “Couldn’t what? Survive? Couldn’t write? Couldn’t give a damn?”
I swallow, throat tight. I reach across the bar. My fingers hover. She steps back.
The patrons notice. Eyes flick. Murmurs rise.
I drop my hand. “I came back.”
“Yeah?” she says. “Why?”
The question yanks me. I search for the truth. Or a lie that sounds close.
“Because I owe you.”
She snorts. “You owe me silence?”
I take a breath. “I owe you every word I didn’t speak.”
She stares. Bar light glints off her eyes—hard, unreadable.
Somebody calls out. A cadet. I hear the name. A memory. A corner of my heart flinches.
She tenses. “Don’t make this a war crime, Troka.”
I lean close, voice quiet. “I don’t want war. I want you.”
For one heartbeat—I swear—her face softens.
Then she turns. Walks away. “Don’t follow me.”
I don’t move.
She disappears behind a swinging door. I set my drink aside and go after her.
Back hallway. Storage closet. We used that room once. My boots echo. My heart echoes.
She’s there—just shadow and shape.
“Don’t ask me to forgive silence,” she says, voice flat.
“I don’t want forgiveness. I want a chance.”
She shakes her head. “You missed it.”
But she doesn’t slam a door. Doesn’t tell me to leave. Just lingers in hurt.
I step closer. “Let me try.”
She looks at me then, really sees me—flaws, scars, doubt.
Then the bartender calls out for a spill cleanup. The moment fractures. She steps back.
I swallow. “I’ll wait.”
She vanishes into the crowd again.
And I stand in that bar, heart pounding, bruised, breathing, hopelessly alive.