It might be gone.
The recall order arrives mid-morning. Just a cold string of characters blinking on my comm: REDEPLOYMENT TO RHAVADAZ — IMMEDIATE. No pleasantries. No room to argue.
I hold Garma tighter when I read it. The boy’s warm in my arms, still sticky from breakfast, his fingers curled around the collar of my sleep shirt. He’s making those little humming noises he does when he’s drifting back toward sleep. I want to freeze this moment. But the universe doesn’t give a damn what I want.
My feet move before I think—habit now. The bag. His shoes. The emergency capsule key I keep in the drawer. I pack without speaking. No tears. Just precision. Just the rhythm of someone trained to move when the call comes. Even when everything inside me is unraveling.
The door across the courtyard is dark. Naull’s room. Quiet. Empty. I know he’s gone before I check. But I check anyway.
A single piece of paper sits on his console. No envelope. Just thick stock, folded once.
“I need to breathe.”
That's it.
Three words. He left three words and nothing else. No goodbye. No explanation. Just silence, like he’s slipped into a void and sealed the hatch behind him. Coward.
I grip the note until the edge cuts my palm. The pain sharpens me. Clears the ache from my throat.
Garma stirs. I force my voice calm.
Come on, little one. Time to move.
We walk the corridors like ghosts. I see other officers, old instructors, students with half-formed opinions and full eyes. They whisper.
“She’s going back?”
“With a child?”
“She was Naull’s partner, right?”
I ignore them. Every step echoes in the sterile white hallways. The weight of the war hasn’t lifted—it’s just taken new shape.
At the logistics hub, I sign the release forms. My fingers tremble just once when I enter Garma’s name into the off-world dependent list. I see the officer on the other side of the desk glance up.
You sure you want to do this?
Yes.
You know what’s happening on Rhavadaz, right? Spectra’s involved.
I know.
He’s just a baby.
He’smine.
The words snap sharper than I intend. But he doesn’t push. Just hands me the datachip and looks away.
Back at the apartment, Garma plays with a nesting drone core—deactivated, but still humming from his touch. I crouch beside him and trace a thumb over his cheek.
You okay if I mess everything up?
He babbles, slaps the floor with his palms. Innocent. Powerful. Whole.
I pack his tiny boots. His sleep blanket. The teether he refuses to let go of even when he sleeps. I fold each one with care. I sit by his crib while he naps and stare out the window.
The sky is clouded. Gray and sharp like old bruises.
