Chapter 4
TATEK
The summons arrives encoded. Unusual.
Civil Affairs wants to talk.
That is never a neutral request.
I leave the quarantine level in silence.
My boots hit the polished flooring with a rhythm trained from years of zero-drift formation work, but even so, the station feels louder than usual.
Not chaotic. Not panicked. Just... sharp.
Calibrated. Like the edges of everything have been filed down to precision points.
The ventilation system hums louder than it should. A frequency mismatch. Someone recalibrated airflow through secondary zones—likely surveillance-driven. Overhead drones sweep past twice within ten meters. Pattern suggests a localized anomaly sweep.
They're not watching.
They're preparing.
I move through three security doors without delay. The guards don’t speak. Their eyes flicker toward me, hold, then move on. They know who I am. Or what I am.
What I was.
Sector 3 Civil Affairs is all chrome and hush.
Sterile light. No seams in the walls. Furniture designed to be more ornamental than useful.
The kind of place that neutralizes you the moment you step in.
I’m ushered into a side room—empty except for one table, two chairs, and a recessed node projector on the far wall.
Commander Versall is already waiting. Coalition uniform. Not military. Too clean. Too correct. She wears her compliance like armor, and her eyes are the soft kind of cold that means danger.
“Commander Tatek,” she says, gesturing to the chair across from her. “Thank you for your time.”
“I was summoned.”
She smiles without teeth. “Of course.”
I sit. Back straight. Eyes neutral.
Let her speak first.
“We’re conducting a routine review of provisional oversight assignments,” she says, activating the node between us. A blue glyph spins silently in the air, cycling identification bands, case numbers, encrypted logs.
“Your current observation subject is Civilian Designate Ellison, Mara.”
A pause.
I nod. “Correct.”
“Quarantine placement is ongoing?”
“Yes.”
“Any change in behavior or demeanor?”
“No.”
“Any indications of instability?”
I tilt my head slightly. “Define instability.”
Versall doesn’t blink. “Emotional volatility. Paranoia. Excessive reactivity to stimuli. Unusual attachments.”
My spine stiffens a fraction.
“She exhibits reasonable responses given current conditions.”
“But no... emotional anomalies?” she presses, voice light.
“She is lucid. Cooperative. Observant.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the correct one.”
The projector flashes again. This time, it shows a still of Mara sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg folded beneath her. Talking. Animated. The image is recent. From last night.
I feel something press behind my sternum.
Versall steeples her fingers. “Commander, our systems indicate you have logged more hours on her detail than required. Your reports contain less behavioral annotation than standard. Your choice of physical distance deviates from standard passive observation by 12.4%.”
That’s what this is.
Not a check-in.
An audit.
Of me.
“She has proven low-threat,” I say.
“Low-threat subjects often escalate when misunderstood.”
“She is not misunderstood.”
“You seem very certain.”
I let the silence stretch long enough that she starts to shift in her seat.
“She is not unstable,” I say at last. “She is perceptive.”
“That perception could be dangerous.”
“Only to those with something to hide.”
Versall’s mouth tightens. “Commander—”
“She has done nothing to justify escalation.”
A flicker of irritation crosses her face. Just for a second.
“She is due for reassessment by Cycle’s End,” she says. “If her psychological profile trends toward emotional dependency, we may need to reassign oversight.”
My pulse rises. I keep my tone neutral.
“She does not exhibit dependency.”
“Are you certain that’s not projection?”
There it is.
The real question.
They’re not just evaluating her. They’re testing me.
I’m not supposed to feel anything.
Not curiosity.
Not guilt.
And definitely not the thing clawing its way up my chest every time I hear her voice crack with memory.
I stand without permission.
“Are we finished?”
Versall stands too. “You’ll receive further instructions within the rotation.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
As I turn to leave, she says: “You used to be known for dispassionate judgment, Tatek. Some at Central have begun to wonder if the war left deeper scars than reported.”
I don’t respond.
Because if I do, it won’t be dispassionate.
That thought follows me down the corridor like a shadow I can’t outpace.
The walls of the station feel narrower now.
Same dimensions. Same pattern. But smaller.
Compressed. My stride is calibrated, but the rhythm’s off.
I feel it in the soles of my boots, in the timed pulse of surveillance drones, in the stuttered flicker of lights as I cross into Quarantine Block C.
She’s still in the same unit. No relocation alert. No override tag—yet. The door recognizes me before I lift a hand. Standard entry tone. No resistance.
I step in and the first thing I notice is the quiet.
The second is her.
She’s asleep when I check on her.
Not in that restless, half-alert, trauma-trained way I’ve seen in too many detainees. This is full-body surrender. One arm curled beneath her head, the other loose across her waist. The blanket’s twisted near her ankles. Her brow furrows, even in rest, like part of her still refuses to unclench.
She shouldn’t be sleeping.
Not here.
Not now.
And yet... something in me loosens at the sight. Not relief. Not exactly. Something deeper. Older.
I remain near the door. Still as architecture.
I watch her breathe.
Her shoulders rise and fall in a rhythm that does not match any surveillance pattern I’ve been trained to monitor. I catalog it anyway. It matters, even if I don’t know why.
The curve of her spine.
The bare patch of skin at her collarbone, visible where the neckline of her shirt has slipped askew.
The way her lips part on the inhale.
I should not be looking.
But I am.
She stirs.
It’s not dramatic. No gasp. No flinch. Just a slow roll of her head against the pillow and the quiet pressure of her awareness surfacing.
She doesn’t open her eyes immediately.
When she does, she doesn’t startle.
She just says, groggy and raspy: “Didn’t expect you back.”
“I was expected,” I reply.
“Not by me.”
She stretches once, arms overhead, spine arched. I turn my gaze away before I linger.
“You always stand like that,” she mutters, eyes still half-lidded. “Like you’re ready to run.”
I glance back at her.
“Even when you’re not moving,” she adds, voice softer now. “It’s in your shoulders.”
I do not respond. I don’t know how.
She sees me. Not tactically. Not through my posture or stats. She sees through the construct of me. And it shakes something loose.
“I trained for readiness,” I offer eventually.
“No, that’s not it.” She sits up slowly, blanket pooling around her hips. “You’re bracing.”
I blink. “For what?”
Her eyes meet mine. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
I step further into the room.
Not close. Just enough to feel the shift in proximity.
“You weren’t sleeping before,” I say.
“I wasn’t safe before.”
I pause. “And now you are?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Not really. But you’re here. So my odds improved.”
That hits me harder than it should.
I move to the far wall and lean against it—an affectation. I don’t need the support. But it makes the space between us feel less... charged.
She watches me. Always watching. Her gaze isn’t passive. It’s active. Cutting. Like she’s gathering intelligence through instinct.
“You always this talkative after a nap?” I ask.
“Only when my death-eyed alien bodyguard returns without warning.”
“I knocked.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Internally.”
She snorts. “Sure. Telepathic protocol. Got it.”
Another silence. But this one isn’t brittle.
It’s curious.
“You don’t like this place,” I say.
“No shit.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“Nope.”
“But you speak freely.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the point of the observation?”
I hesitate. Not for calculation. For choice.
“To understand your pattern,” I say.
She laughs softly, bitter. “Good luck. I haven’t had one in years.”
“You do now.”
That makes her go still.
She tilts her head, examining me like I’ve just confessed something she wasn’t ready to hear.
“Do you have a pattern?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Let me guess. Wake, calibrate, intimidate civilians, suppress emotion, repeat?”
I tilt my head. “You forgot guard sleeping rebels with unresolved trauma.”
She smiles.
It’s small.
But it’s real.
I shift again. Closer now. She doesn’t flinch.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, not looking at me.
“I’m assigned.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
We’re quiet again. The kind of silence that tightens every second it’s not broken.
She sighs. “Do you ever stop being on?”
“I do not understand the question.”
“Of course you don’t.”
She lies back, arms folded beneath her head.
But she doesn’t turn away.
I should do something.
That’s the conclusion I come to after watching her lie back on the cot, her eyes not quite closing, her arms behind her head like she’s waiting for the roof to cave in.
I catalog the posture. I memorize the curve of her ribcage through the thin fabric.
I calculate the angle of vulnerability. The distance between our feet. The airflow shift when I step closer.
But I don’t move.
Because I don’t know what the right thing is.
Vakutan training is precise. Reactive. It tells you how to neutralize, how to shield, how to dismantle threats and maintain perimeter discipline. It does not prepare you for this: a woman who should be a civilian variable, but who is instead a gravitational field you cannot explain.
My palms itch.
I curl my fingers into fists behind my back.
And I wait for the moment to pass.
It doesn’t.
Hours later, the meal unit buzzes for attention.
Pre-assigned nutrition delivery. Civilian rations plus supplemental protein due to her flag level.
I retrieve the tray before she does, scanning for tampering.
The food smells like engineered starch and neutral calories—nothing appetizing, but functional. I hand it to her.
She raises an eyebrow. “You gonna eat too, or just hover like a well-dressed drone?”
I retrieve my own ration packet from the wall unit. Hers is warmer. Mine was stored longer. I sit across from her, at the table meant for one, forcing space to accommodate two.
She watches me over her tray.
There’s distance between us.
But no silence.
“So,” she starts, poking the synth-grain mash with her fork. “What exactly does protection mean for you?”
I pause. “Context?”
“For a Vakutan.”
I consider that.
She continues before I can answer. “Because I’ve seen how you stand. How you track exits. How your voice drops whenever you think I’m in danger.” She stabs a piece of protein. “You don’t protect people the way humans do.”
I don’t deny it.
“Is it cultural?” she presses. “Genetic? Instinct?”
“It is not simple.”
“Try me.”
I look at her for a long moment. Her eyes are clear, sharp, but there’s something underneath. Not manipulation. Not leverage. Curiosity. And something else. Something I do not have a name for.
“There is no direct translation,” I say.
“Then give me the closest one.”
I nod once.
I speak the word softly.
“Gav’ora.”
She leans in. “Say it again.”
“Gav’ora.”
She repeats it. “Gav-or—gah. No, wait.” She tries again. “Gah-VOR-uh.”
I close my eyes.
And laugh.
It’s quiet. Barely a breath.
But it’s real.
She freezes.
Then grins. “You laughed.”
“I did not.”
“Oh, you absolutely did. That was a laugh.”
“It was an exhale with resonance.”
“That’s a laugh, Tatek.”
She sits back, triumphant. “I win.”
“You did not know we were competing.”
“We always are.”
I watch her smile like it’s a new data point, one I don’t want to file away. It stretches into her cheeks, lights her eyes. Not forced. Not self-conscious.
“Gav’ora,” she says again, slower. “What does it mean?”
I stare at the space between us.
“It is a form of guardianship,” I say. “But not assigned. Claimed. Chosen. Not through order. Through recognition.”
She goes still.
“Recognition of what?”
“The self. In another.”
Her breath catches. Just for a moment.
I do not look away.
The tension doesn’t break.
It lingers.
She goes back to eating, slower now. The room feels warmer, though I know it isn’t. The station hum is softer. The lights less cruel.
I do not touch her.
But I feel closer than I have ever stood to anyone outside my clan.
And the space between us?
It doesn’t feel like distance anymore.
It feels like a promise we haven’t spoken.
Yet.