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.
CHAPTER 24
DARUN
Recovery is a battlefield I didn’t train for.
They strap me into machines with cold straps over cold flesh, dragging my limbs until every joint screams in protest. My muscles have softened into mush. My bones ache like they’re remembering old traumas. On the first day, I try to stand. The legs buckle. I fall. My face hits the mat. Blood trickles from my lip. The taste of iron floods my mouth. I roar. A growl that reverberates in my skull. The therapists jump back. The nurse’s hand shakes as she holds a tablet. They murmur. They doubt. But I fight upward.
They tell me not to push. That healing is incremental. That I won’t return to what I was. But I sneer at caution. My body is a war zone, and I claim every inch. One afternoon, we climb a flight of stairs—six steps. My thighs shake like flares. Sweat beads down my temple. I grip the rail until my fingers go white. My breathing rasps. At the top, I stay propped there, chest heaving, vision blurred. The nurse hovers, voice soft. “That’s enough for today.” I snarl. “No.” I force myself to stand again, two more steps. And keep walking.
They whisper among themselves that it’s impossible. Like I’m a myth to be disproven. I don’t care. I push through pain.When the physical therapist twists my arm, forces it to flex, I scream. But I don’t quit. My claws, even dull in this body, flex against restraints. I fight to bring it back. Every tendon, every fiber, I rebuild.
At night, when the lights are dim and the hospital wing is quiet, I lie awake hearing distant static and phantom explosions. I hear Amber voices—I think it’s her—and I ache to lift myself, to stand again, to feel her near. The memory of hiding in a ruined transport, of her whispering plans and hope between gunfire—those are the bones I cling to.
Weeks pass. My strength returns in small increments. A hand can lift, then a forearm. A leg can shift, then step. One morning they wheel me into a sitting room. The wall-length screen flickers to life. A broadcast. I lean forward. The edge of control. They say it’s a news segment. Then I see her. Amy. Anchoring on screen. Her face still rings sharp, her voice clear. The newsroom lights catch her hair. She never flinches. The memory twists me.
The doctor beside me clears his throat. “You’re up early today, Darun.” He doesn’t hide surprise. “Maybe you should send her a thank-you.” He nods toward the screen without embarrassment.
I look back at him. My voice is raw. “Soon.” The word lands heavy between us, and he looks away.
Some nights I replay that moment in my head. Her eyes flicker at the camera edge, scanning. I wonder if she sees me—beyond the screen. I imagine her sense it. I imagine her tracing a memory of my hand, my voice. And I rebuild my will around that possibility.
One day, scattered through rehab, I demand my personal effects. They balk, citing classified protocol, chain of custody, trauma clearance. I grind my teeth until someone gives in. They bring me a sealed field pack. It’s stained, battered, scorched. Theleather handle is singed. The hinges are bent. The weight feels unbearable until they hand it to me. My fingers shake as I unclip it.
Inside is the broken recorder. It’s cracked, warped by heat, the screen shattered and blinking. It looks like death’s husk. But I don’t see wreckage. I see her voice. I cradle it in both hands, bring it close to my chest. Tears sting behind my eyelids. I press the recorder to my heart like it’s sacred. I don’t speak. I don’t need to. It speaks for me. Each flicker of that light inside it is a bridge between then and now.
They whisper. The therapists exchange glances. The doctor approaches and says, voice low, “We’ll restore it. Data recovery—if possible.” I nod. I fold my face over it, silent prayer. I don’t care if nothing remains. The fact I hold it means I still have a link.
Every day, in therapy, I imagine sending that recorder back to her. If I can’t move fast, I’ll send a signal. If I can’t cross galaxies, I’ll cross silence. I’ll bear the weight of memory until she hears it. Until she sees that I came back.
I ask the physical therapist, “When do I walk?” His face goes pale. “When you can, Darun. When your legs obey.” I sneer. “Make them obey.” He swallows. I don’t think he believes me yet—but eventually he will.
In the mirror one morning after a session, I see what I’ve become: scars, gaunt face, body rebuilt piece by piece. But my eyes—the golden ones—they gleam. Alive. Defiant. I press a hand to the mirror’s cold surface as though it’s a threshold. I whisper, “I’m coming back.” I may not be the war beast I was before, but the engine still thrums under this skin.
When the nurse walks me past the hall and the screen pulses again with Amy anchoring, I tilt forward, want to leap across corridors. They steady me. The lights glint off her image. She’s reporting. Calm and steady as ever. But I see flickers—betweenthe lines. A catch in her voice that was never in the script. A moment she looks past the lens.
She doesn’t know I exist yet. But soon she will.
I clutch my pack. Press my lips to that recorder. I feel bones knit. I feel the resolve sharpen. And I remember that fire. I remember the mutiny. I remember the vow behind words I would cross hell to keep:We do it together.
My body is healing. My heart is aching. My resolve is iron.
