Chapter 23 Amy
AMY
The camera lights feel warm tonight—too warm.
The heat seeps into the studio like guilt, settling heavy on my skin.
My reflection in the monitor is sharp, too sharp: polished cheekbones, steady gaze, the anchor voice pressed into a mask.
Steel Amy, they whisper in the corridors.
Tonight I get a rare prime-time segment.
They say I’ve earned it, but Rex leans close before I go live and murmurs a caveat: Don't get any big ideas.
I brighten my face. I nod. But I read between those words like a cipher. Keep your mouth shut about Kanapa. Rex’s lips angle tight when he says it. I carry that weight into the teleprompter, swallowing the script they feed me so I can live to speak another day.
When the cameras roll, I sound composed.
I’m steady. I convey facts, context, voices from the field—everything except the ones they tried to erase.
The audience sees a confident anchor. My daughter, Libra, watches from home, right when I say my name on screen.
“That’s mommy!” she squeals. My heart surges in my chest. I force a smile and wave just slightly.
The facade shows. The confidence fractures.
But I keep talking—because if I stop, everything inside me will leak out.
After the broadcast, the hall outside is quiet.
The interns crowd around, their eyes shining.
“You were amazing.” “You killed it tonight.” “Mommy Ame—” I catch one kid trying to call me that.
I laugh it off, hug his elbow politely. Inside, I feel fracture lines spreading.
The wound in my chest pulses again, open and raw.
I slip back to my apartment late. Fuel-lit streetlights dance through the windows.
Libra is asleep in her crib. I watch her breathe.
Her little chest rising and falling, her lashes shuttered against dreams. I wonder whether she knows.
Whether she ever will. I close all the windows and turn off all the lights but one lamp, soft and warm, sitting in the corner.
I move to my old workstation. The hidden drive hums under my desk. My fingers hover over the keys as though they carry too much gravity. I tell myself this is research. Journalism. It’s professional. It's a necessity.
I pull up archival footage first: war reports.
Kanapa giving speeches. Soldiers marching.
Planets being burned, civilians fleeing.
Then deeper slices: rebel skirmishes. The mutiny.
Snippets of the broadcast that disappeared from public servers.
Bits of interviews I stashed, logs I copied under threat.
They’re fuzzy. Glitched with static. But I piece them. Every frame is a bruise on memory.
I click past to saved voice messages. I didn’t expect much. But there’s one with a name and a date: Darun — two days before the explosion. My breath catches. My fingers tremble. The clip is short, damaged by data rot, but I hit play.
His voice is rough, gravelly, thin with fatigue: “Amy… if this goes dark, know I loved you. Protect her. I can’t—just know I tried.”
The edges of the recording crackle. He coughs. A gasp. Then static.
I can’t hold it in any longer. Sobs tear out of me—sharp, impossibly loud in the silence.
The recording falls from my grasp, it clatters to the keyboard.
The lamp shakes under my hand. I drop to my knees, bury my face in my arms, let the shame and grief and memory flood me raw.
I thought I was strong. This is a weakness I can’t hide.
I stay there for hours. Time stretches. The moon drifts. The city hum bleeds through my walls. The night grows cold. The wound splits open again, fresh.
Morning slinks in gray and unforgiving. My face is puffy. My hair is a mess. But I walk into the studio anyway. The anchor desk waits. The teleprompter hums on. The viewers are out there—expecting calm, certainty.
I take a steadying breath. I deliver the news like nothing’s wrong. My voice is confident. The script is polished. I speak of policy, diplomacy, strategic shifts. But behind the words, in every glance I flash to camera edges, there’s a tremor. A memory. A loss.
Further back, Libra watches with her small hands against the screen.
When the segment ends, the side camera catches her face.
She bursts out: “That’s mommy again!” She claps loud, proud.
The crew laughs softly. I force a wider smile.
I wave toward the screen, point to my chest. I want her to know this is more than appearance, more than mask.
I want her to know we carry truths unseen.
Backstage I lean against the wall. I’m shaking. I’m drained. Rex approaches, touches my shoulder. “You okay?” he asks, careful.
I nod—but I’m not okay. Not ever again.
He meets my eyes. “You looked…” He trails off. “Whatever you just pulled, you’re becoming the story yourself.”
I swallow. I whisper, “I’m going to make them listen.”
He doesn’t say yes. He just squeezes my shoulder and steps away.
I return home. Libra is awake now, in her crib, softly sobbing for comfort or fear.
I scoop her into my arms. I hold her tight, inhaling milky breath and soft hair.
She curls into me, eyes bleary. I hum the Vakutan lullaby again, the one Darun taught me.
It’s broken, incomplete, but she clings.
She rests against me, trusting. This child is tethered to the truth I refuse to bury.
Later, when the house is dark and quiet again, I record a private entry: “Tonight I saw him. Heard him. I felt him in that voice. And it fractured me open. But I will not let you stay hidden. You died for a lie. I will speak your truth. Even if the galaxy never hears your name, Libra will know hers.”
I turn off the recorder, press my palms to my temples. The ache is constant now. A pulse behind my eyes. I feel him—somewhere, somewhere beyond the static. And I push onward. The anchor and the storm. I inhabit both. Because the story isn’t over. And I won’t let silence win again.