CHAPTER 1
AMY
The message blinks in the corner of my holopad like a splinter in my vision.Embed authorization: Captain Kanapa, Elite Unit.I stare at it until my coffee goes cold and bitter. They didn’t even bother with a phone call this time. No pitch meeting or even a conversation. Just a dispatch notice like I’m another piece of cargo to be shipped off.
“Front-line duty,” I mutter to myself. “Of course. Out of sight, out of mind.”
The newsroom is loud, a hum of clicking keys and whispering feeds, but I can still hear Rex’s footsteps before I see him. He always walks like he’s trying not to crush the floor. He leans over my desk, his balding head catching the glow of my screen. “They really did it,” he says softly. “Kanapa’s unit. Prime footage if you toe the line. A funeral if you don’t.”
I swing around in my chair, looking up at him. “You sound almost proud.”
“I’m terrified,” he corrects, pushing his glasses up his nose. “And you should be too. You know how much trouble you caused with that Ataxian prisoner interview. You’re still ‘Ataxian Amy’ in every Alliance chatroom. This is their way of boxing you out.Put you under their golden boy’s wing and hope you drown quietly.”
“They underestimate my ability to swim,” I shoot back. I start tossing things into my pack—recorders, spare lenses, an old leather-bound notebook that still smells like burnt ozone and ink.
Rex sighs, rubbing his temples. “Don’t get yourself killed. And for the love of everything, don’t piss off Kanapa. He’s?—”
“—a legend, yeah, I’ve seen the posters,” I cut him off. “The cybernetic arm. The scars. Mister Vakutan Patriot. Recruitment’s favorite face.”
Rex’s eyes flicker with a mix of pity and exasperation. “Amy, this isn’t a panel debate. This is war. He’s not your next exposé.”
I sling the pack over my shoulder, the strap biting into my palm. “Everyone’s an exposé,” I say lightly, but my stomach’s already knotted.
The transport smells like scorched metal and disinfectant, like someone tried to scrub the scent of fear out of it and failed. My seat vibrates with the hum of the engine as the troopship breaks through the atmosphere. Out the narrow viewport, the planet below looks like a wound—red dust, craters like bruises, thin ribbons of smoke spiraling upward.
The soldiers across from me pretend not to stare, but I feel it like needles on my skin. Their armor gleams under the dim lights, everything about them uniform, controlled. My hair’s already loose from the flight, my jacket wrinkled. I can practically hear their thoughts:What’s she doing here?
The one nearest me leans toward his buddy and mutters something in Vakutan. I don’t need a translator to catch the word “Ataxian.”
“Say it louder,” I call across the aisle, voice sugar-sweet. “Maybe the pilot didn’t hear you.”
They look away. One smirks under his helmet, a sharp flicker of teeth.
The landing is rough, gravity hitting my stomach like a punch. The airlock opens with a hiss and heat slams into me—dry, iron-tasting air that makes my throat itch. The base sprawls out ahead, all jagged prefab walls and watchtowers under a burnt-orange sky.
A group of soldiers waits at the edge of the pad. At their center is Captain Kanapa.
He’s taller than I expected, even for a Vakutan, his blue scales dull under the sun but his eyes bright green, sharp as glass. His cybernetic arm gleams black and silver, fingers twitching like a predator testing its claws. Scars crisscross his jaw and neck like white lightning.
I walk toward him, recorder in hand, but he beats me to it, a thin smile sliding across his face. “Welcome to the real war, Miss Matthews,” he says. His voice is gravel dipped in oil.
“I appreciate the hospitality,” I reply, forcing a smile of my own.
He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Step out of line,” he says softly, leaning close enough that I can smell the acrid tang of his breath, “and I won’t need the enemy to handle you.”
The soldiers laugh nervously. My skin crawls, but I square my shoulders. “Good thing I like straight lines,” I answer.
Kanapa straightens, eyes glinting. “Escort her to the squad she’ll shadow,” he orders.
They lead me through a maze of tents and armored carriers, past soldiers cleaning weapons, past the scent of fried rations and burning power cores. The wind tastes like copper, gritty and dry. I wipe the dust from my lips and keep my chin up.
And then I see him.
He’s standing beside an armored crawler, arms folded, watching me approach. Taller even than Kanapa. Seven feetof red-scaled muscle wrapped in combat gear, golden eyes narrowing as they take me in. The sunlight catches on his ridged brow, his scarred knuckles.
He doesn’t speak. Just sizes me up like a problem to solve, like a threat to neutralize. A low sound escapes his throat—half snort, half growl. I catch the muttered word “Ataxian Amy” under his breath.
I stop in front of him, planting my boots in the dust. “Didn’t know scales made you psychic,” I say, tilting my head.
