My heart clenches. “And this is… unusual?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
He nods, taps a trembling finger on a med tray. “Orders change. But that one—he said ‘soldiers first.’ He meanthissoldiers. Civilians were collateral. We didn’t question it. But I saw faces. I heard screams.”
My recorder hums in my jacket pocket. I pretend not to notice it. The hum of voices in the hall outside is distant, muffled.
“Thank you,” I tell him. I don’t press further. Not now. I rise to leave. His eyes catch mine. “Be careful,” he says.
I nod and slip out, ears buzzing.
Later, in the comms bay, I dump the medic’s quote into my draft. The piece is widening; the edges turning jagged. I phone Rex. His holo face shimmers in the dim bay.
“Rex. I have something you need.”
He leans back, eyebrows low. “You’ve been busy tonight.”
“Medic admits Kanapa bent mission orders. He left wounded behind.” My voice is tight.
He pinches between his eyes. “Amy… you’ll never get that published. Not while the war is still on.”
My pulse thuds. “So we suppress the truth? So people keep dying quietly?”
He’s silent. “You’re not realistic.”
I cut the call.
I find Darun outside the mess tent, leaning against a wall where gray dusk already stains the dust. He’s off duty now, sleeves rolled, armor stowed. The taste of cigarettes and dust clings to him.
I walk up, voice low, fierce. “Do you know about Kanapa pulling orders mid-battle?”
He stiffens. “I’ve heard rumors.”
“Medic confirmed it. He left the wounded behind. He callssomelives collateral.”
Darun’s jaw tightens. I see the pain behind his anger, the questions flickering behind his obedience.
“Why tell me? I’m complicit by proximity.”
“You’re closer than that, Darun.”
“You’re trying to bleed me dry with your reporting.”
“Maybe. But I’d rather bleed with truth than live with a lie.”
He looks away. The wind shifts. Sand tickles the back of my neck.
We both grip a flask I pulled from my pack earlier—a strong Vakutan liquor. I flip the cap. Hand it to him.
He hesitates, then downs half. I take the rest. Fire climbs my throat, warms my chest.
We don’t speak. Fingers brush. A spark flickers.
“Maybe you’ll see me differently,” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond. Just watches the horizon, lips pressed.
I walk back to my quarters alone, the flask still burning in my veins. Dust swirls in the lamp light as the door slides shut behind me with a hiss. The quiet is thick—too thick.
I sit on the edge of my bunk, the weight of the night pressing. Darun is no longer just an obstacle. He’s a question. A wound. A mirror I’m terrified to look into.
