Chapter 6
DARUN
We move out at dawn. Sky’s bruised with that ugly prelight gray that never quite brightens this far out. My visor’s fogged from the humidity. Boots caked already, not even a klick into the march. Everything stinks of iron and burnt plastic—old blood and old war.
Kanapa leads from the front like he always does, cyberarm twitching with every third step. It hums low, like it’s hungry.
“Recon drone picked up heat signatures,” he grunts over comms. “Suspected insurgent camp. Soft walls, no external turrets, but we take nothing for granted. Sweep. Clear. Minimal chatter. You find an Ataxian with a pulse, you drop it.”
No one asks questions.
I fall into formation, second column, flanked by Tev and Brask. Amy’s behind us, strapped into the back of the crawler, her gear tight to her chest and her recorder already active. She hasn’t said a word to me since last night. I don’t blame her.
I don’t want to talk, either.
The outpost isn’t a camp. It’s not even a hideout. It’s a cluster of prefab shelters barely held together by hope and adhesive foam. Laundry lines between sun-bleached panels. Solar batteries half-buried in red dust. A plastic trike overturned near a cistern.
Not a single gun or a soldier in sight.
I clock a woman at the door of the far hut. Gray hair braided tight down her back, arms spread wide, mouth open in what I can only guess is pleading. Her language is thick with Ataxian dialect. The translator in my earpiece glitches, spits static.
Three kids behind her. One clutches a rag doll with a singed ear.
“They’re civilians,” I say into comms.
Kanapa doesn’t pause. Doesn’t blink. “They’re enemy nationals. Harboring insurgents. Standard procedure.”
“That’s not standard,” I push back. My blood spikes. “There’s no threat here.”
He turns slowly, cybernetic fingers twitching, jaw tight. “Are you questioning my command, Sergeant?”
My teeth grind.
Don’t do it.
“No, sir.”
“Then clear the outpost.”
The orders come down like ash.
Brask torches the first shelter. It goes up fast—accelerant in the walls. A woman runs out screaming. Another soldier drops her with a stun round. Kids scatter like roaches.
I don’t move.
My feet are planted. My rifle’s down.
Amy’s still behind us, camera raised, hand trembling.
And I see him.
A boy. Maybe five. Tiny. Big eyes, the wrong kind of scared. He’s standing in the rubble of what used to be a porch, tears streaking through the soot on his cheeks.
He looks just like the enemy posters say he shouldn’t. No snarls. No guns. Just a child.
The moment slices something open in me.
I can’t breathe.
That night, I skip mess. Can’t eat. Can’t think.
The base feels quieter than usual—like it’s trying to pretend none of it happened. Like if we don’t talk about it, the fire didn’t spread. The screams weren’t real.
I find myself standing outside her quarters.
Amy’s inside, probably editing. Or not. Who knows. I don’t knock. I just sit.
She opens the door eventually. Doesn’t say anything at first. Doesn’t look surprised to see me.
“They weren’t supposed to be there,” I say. My voice comes out like gravel. Like it’s been scraped raw.
Amy leans against the frame, arms crossed. No anger. Just… tired.
“Maybe the war isn’t what it’s supposed to be,” she says.
That hits harder than I expect.
And somehow, it's the truest thing I’ve heard in weeks.