I cradle the slate close. The room is silent. But inside me, the fire’s started again. A lightning strike across the black night sky of erased names. And for the first time in years, I feel like I’m tracking someone who’s not gone.
CHAPTER 26
AMY
The monitor glows in the living room ahead. I’ve muted the volume, but I can feel the tremor in the room—like the walls expect the storm. The Kanapa exposé goes live in seconds.
I sit at the console, fingers primed over the send button. Sweat beads at my hairline. Libra’s crib is behind me; she’s asleep for the night. I know when the segment airs, this house will feel both safe and dangerous.
I hit “Broadcast.” The feed opens with an anchor live. My face is in full light. The headline flashes:“Kanapa: Executioner or Hero?”The footage plays—clips of the patrol, drone shadows, the ambush, the mutiny. I narrate with quiet ferocity. I say names. I say orders. I say what they tried to bury. I say that Kanapa murdered civilians, and I display every shred of proof I can. My voice is steady. My throat trembles only once, when I quote the victim testimonies. I breathe through it.
When it ends, the newsroom splits into applause and stunned silence. The producers stare, the interns gape. I unplug myself from the feed, walk out of the studio with my spine stiff, heart pounding. The air smells like ozone from overloaded circuits and burning bridges.
Social media detonates.
Hashtags like wildfire—#JusticeForTheDead, #AtaxianAmy, #HoaxNews. My inbox floods. Death threats blinking red before I even log off. Sponsors pull their logos one by one. Ads vanish. Money evaporates.
My holo-comm jumps. It’s Rex. He’s pale. His voice trembles. “Amy… come to my office.”
I know what that means. I steady my jaw, wipe sweat from my hand, and walk.
In Rex’s office, the screens are dark except the one behind him showing the feed replaying. He doesn’t meet my eyes. “They’re pulling advertising. Board’s panicking. They want you off air—for now. Leave. Until it cools down.” His words are gentle poison.
I lean across his desk. “You knew this would happen. I didn’t do anything new. I told the truth.”
He rubs his forehead. “You just called a national hero a war criminal—on live holonet. You understand what that means? They will tear you apart.” His voice breaks. “They’ll destroy the network to protect that legacy.”
“I don’t care.” My voice edges cold. “He killed innocents. Civilians. Families. I won’t recant just because they want me quiet.”
“You’re gonna lose everything—your job, your reputation, your safety. This isn’t just reporting. This is a revolution in anchor clothing.”
“Then let it be that.” I push back my chair. “I won’t stop.”
He opens his mouth to talk, but that doesn’t stop me as I walk out. My head is high. My heart is broken, but it beats.
The drive home feels brittle. Every light. Every passerby feels like a witness. The wind presses against the car windows like accusing fingers. My holo-comm runs with news overlays—“Amy Matthews dropped” “Network in crisis” “Anchor or activist?” I turn them off.
At home, Libra’s nightlight casts long shadows. I step inside quietly, so I don’t wake her. But I see she’s awake—eyes blinking, small, hopeful.
“Mommy?” she whispers.
I cross the room and kneel beside her crib. She reaches out. “Did someone do something bad?” she asks, voice small in the dark.
I swallow. My chest aches. I lean in and press my cheek to hers. “Yes. But now—” I pause, catching the tremor in my voice, “—we tell the truth even when it hurts. Even when they hate us for it.”
She nods, her eyes heavy. I brush back her hair, kiss her forehead, and hold her. Her warmth anchors me. Her trust, fragile. I cradle her until she falls back to sleep.
I retreat to the small desk in the corner, turn on the recorder. I speak softly:“They tried to silence us. But truth persists. You will know him, Libra. And I will not let his name be lost.”I power down. The silence after is louder than any broadcast.
Outside, the city hums, full of retribution and reckoning. But in my apartment, I vow I won’t back down. Not ever again.
CHAPTER 27
DARUN
Iland on Earth under a sky that feels too familiar—not the burned red and ash-tipped light I left behind, but this one: full of clouds, wind, distant engines. The shuttle door opens and the air slaps me in the lungs—humidity, ozone, smog, something green growing somewhere. My boots echo on the pre-cleared tarmac as I take my first steps again. Muscle memory is a traitor; each step trembles. I swallow deep, taste grit and nervous excitement, and hoist my field pack heavier than life itself.
They discharge me without ceremony—no parade, no medals. A medical officer hands me a folder; a transport awaits. I load myself inside. The engines hum, pressing against my ears, vibrating through ribs that still ache. I close my fist around the strap of my pack, feeling the faint give. When we descend into cityscapes, the curve of continents appears under a haze. I press my brow to the window and hold back tears. I survived this fall. I survived that war.
