CHAPTER 1
RYNN
The message hits my terminal like a slap to the face—unmarked, top-level clearance, bearing the cold, clipped tone of Alliance dispatch.
“Incoming evac-critical. Immediate triage priority. Code Silver. Vakutan classification. Escort redacted.”
No name. No patient ID. Just the kind of file that reeks of old war shadows and bureaucratic secrets. My heart stutters before logic kicks in.
Vakutan? Here?
My hands pause above the console keys, then resume, slower, tighter. I don’t need this. Not today. Not ever. The last time a Vakutan came into my life, I ended up with a daughter who punches holes in her playset and dreams of stars she’s never seen.
I swallow and straighten my spine, forcing my shoulders square like armor. The medbay lights buzz overhead, slightly off-rhythm, because our systems haven’t seen a proper upgrade since the ceasefire. The air tastes metallic. Old copper wiring, too much recycled oxygen. My mouth is dry. Always is when things start to slide sideways.
The outer door hisses open. Drel strides in, his lanky Alzhon frame draped in his usual half-clean scrubs. “Did you see the alert?”
I nod once, terse. “ETA?”
“Fifteen. Dropship’s inbound with a full trauma kit and a closed-case lock. It’s classified six ways from center.” He leans against the counter. “Think it’s a prisoner?”
“No.” My voice is flatter than I mean it to be. “Not with that code. They’re hiding something. Not punishing it.”
Drel raises one silvery brow. “You’ve got a feel for this.”
Too much feel, if I’m honest.
My stomach’s a stone. I flick through the prep checklist like it matters, like it gives me control. Sterile drips. Trauma table rebalanced. Neural link arrays realigned. I move like muscle memory. Behind it, panic presses in like pressure under the skin.
What if he’s?—
No.
It’s been five years. He died. I watched the report. Saw the names scroll.Vael Draykorr, presumed KIA. Last seen during Siege of Luria Station.I buried that chapter in a box so deep it took me a year to even speak his name again. Another two to stop dreaming about him. And still, sometimes, I wake up clutching the sheets like I can hold on to something that isn't there.
The console chirps. Docking confirmed.
Drel glances at me. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Lie.
We move together, trained dance, through the medbay doors and into the vestibule where the airlock opens with a pneumatic hiss. The dropship’s heat blooms in waves, clashing with the clinical chill of the station.
Then I see him.
And the worldtilts.
It’s him.
Vael.
Strapped to a stretcher, half his face covered in blood-matted gauze, cybernetic plating ripped and sparking across one arm. His jaw is clenched, brows furrowed in pain or fury—or both. But it’s him. The set of his shoulders. The line of his mouth. The faded mark at his temple, right above his left eye.
My breath leaves me like I’ve been kicked.
“Vitals dropping,” one of the escorts barks.
We surge forward, snapping into motion. I grab the head of the stretcher, guide it through the blast doors with clinical precision, even though my hands are shaking so hard I have to curl my fingers tight just to keep hold.
