20. Leah
LEAH
It starts small.
A twitch in my gut when I bend too fast. A wave of heat under my skin after too little effort. The taste of ration coffee turning sour on my tongue.
Easy enough to ignore, at first.
Stress makes people twitchy. Malnutrition dulls the senses. Prolonged exposure to recycled air and too many sleepless nights will twist your stomach into knots. I’ve been under pressure before—this isn’t new. I can rationalize anything if I squint hard enough.
But then I vomit mid-shift. No warning. No time. One second I’m checking data logs, the next I’m doubled over behind the console with my hair in one hand and bile in the other. The nausea claws through me like a blunt instrument, leaving nothing but sweat and tremors in its wake.
That one’s harder to explain away.
Kalev doesn’t notice.
He’s neck-deep in uplink recon, muttering to himself about encryption pulses and signal ghosts. His shoulders are tight, face carved from focus and caffeine, and I don’t say a damn thing.
I wipe my mouth, rinse with iodine, and log the time like it’s just another entry in the surveillance ledger.
I, however, can’t ignore what’s happening. I head to a clinic off the beaten path I hope will be discrete.
The medbay stinks of disinfectant and damp stone. Its walls are older than the war, reinforced with a hybrid alloy that hums faintly beneath my boots. It’s buried three sublevels beneath the living quarters, wedged beside the old coolant reservoir like an afterthought.
Nobody likes going down here. Too many bad memories. Too many ghosts.
I use the override code.
The lights flicker once before stabilizing, humming low overhead. One long strip of photonic glow bathes the room in artificial white. Cold. Impersonal. The kind of lighting that makes you feel like a lab rat, even if you’re not.
The chair is metal and unwelcoming.
I sit anyway.
I pull up the diagnostic interface and bypass standard protocol. Manual scan. No alerts sent. No names logged. Just me and the machine and the rising terror in my throat.
Blood sample. Urine tag. Neural stability check.
The screen pulses blue.
Analyzing…
My breath catches.
Result: Positive. hCG detected. Est. gestation: 4.4 weeks.
My body goes still.
Not even shaking.
Just… still.
The noise of the room fades. Even the drone of the coolant system becomes distant, like I’ve been dropped into a vacuum.
Pregnant.
I’m pregnant.
My hand moves to my stomach, slow, uncertain. There’s no bump. No flutter. Nothing tangible but the data in front of me and the way my heart has started pounding so loud I can feel it in my teeth.
I whisper, “No fucking way.”
But the scan doesn’t lie.
And neither does the memory of him.
Kalev. Hands braced on either side of my head. Breath hot against my skin. That voice—deep, gravel-smooth, wrecked with wanting. The way he said my name like it was the only word he remembered. That night. That moment.
My mouth goes dry.
I reach for water, but my hands are trembling too badly to hold the cup.
This can’t be happening. Not now. Not here. Not with the war still breathing down our necks and the Alliance pulling tighter on every leash they can find.
But it is.
And it is mine.
Ours.
Kalev’s and mine.
I don’t tell him.
I get back to the surface, scrub my logs, clear the console. I fake a cough, beg off second shift, and lock myself in my quarters until I can breathe again without hyperventilating.
Kalev knocks twice that night.
Doesn’t push when I say I’m tired.
Doesn’t know he’s already inside me in ways neither of us saw coming.
The next day, I spend forty minutes on a bench outside the north conduit, watching the heat ripple across the concrete and wondering if it’s always been this loud. The world. My thoughts. My blood.
I’m not ready.
I don’t know how to be ready.
I’ve spent my whole life surviving—never once planning. Never once imagining what it would mean to have something that was just… mine. Something fragile. Something worth fighting for in a way that has nothing to do with orders or cause or control.
I laugh, sharp and bitter.
I am not a mother.
I’m a damn ghost, barely stitched together. A former League mole with half a file and twice the enemies.
And yet…
I press a hand to my abdomen again, fingers trembling.
Still nothing.
But everything’s different.
The orders arrive at 0300. Kalev’s still asleep, his forearm draped over my ribs like an unconscious tether. He sleeps heavy, deep—like a man who’s used to waking up under fire. It’s the only time his face softens.
I slip out from under him without waking him.
The screen is waiting, pulsing with a message from Command.
Priority Black Protocol Initiated.
Agent: Trin, Leah.
Authorization: Omega Clearance.
Target: Talvek, Orin. Coalition Strategist.
Mission: Termination. Solo execution.
My breath stills in my chest.
Solo.
Assassination.
No Kalev. No team. No extraction backup.
The briefing expands, clean and clinical.
Target located at Outpost S-914. Tactical overlay included. Risk level: classified.
My eyes blur.
I read it again. And again.
My palm settles on my stomach before I even realize it.
Because they don’t know.
Because they can’t know.
Because if they did, this mission wouldn’t land in my lap.
And now I have a decision to make.
Do the job.
Or keep the secret.
My fingers hover over the accept protocol.
I inhale once. Deep. Controlled.
And I stare at the glowing screen, knowing in my bones:
Everything is about to change.