He’s coming home.
CHAPTER 25
VOLTAR
Ibreak Alliance speed regs the way some people break bad habits—repeatedly, unapologetically, and with a vague sense that I’ll deal with the consequences later.
The leave request goes through faster than most mortals survive a fight.
I don’t submit it politely. I don’t wait my turn. I don’t ask permission like a good little commander who understands that war schedules are sacred and feelings are inconvenient. I shove the request straight up the chain with a priority flag so bright it practically screams,read me or die mad about it.
The reply comes back while I’m still wiping someone else’s blood off my knuckles.
APPROVED. EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.
I stare at the words until they feel real.
Then I laugh.
It tears out of me, loud and rough and completely unhinged, and the medic across the field station flinches like I’ve just gone feral.
“What?” he asks cautiously.
“I’m going home,” I say.
He blinks. “Sir?”
“I’m going home,” I repeat, louder. “Pack it up, boys. War’s gonna have to miss me for a bit.”
Someone down the line whoops. Someone else swears. A third person starts taking bets on how long my absence lasts.
I don’t answer.
Because I already know the answer.
As fast as physics will allow.
And then a little faster.
The shuttle ride to the cruiser is a blur of vibration and poorly concealed panic from the pilot when I tell him topush it.The cruiser’s nav officer starts protesting projected burnout rates. I glare at him until his voice dies in his throat.
“I’ll sign whatever waiver you want,” I tell him. “Or I’ll sign your medical leave when you faint. Your call.”
We hit superluminal with a scream of tortured metal and a few bones break along the way.
Not mine.
Someone in the aft compartment didn’t strap in properly. That’s not my problem. I send medical their way and keep my eyes locked on the trajectory display like if I stare hard enough, Novaria will hurry up.
We arrive ahead of schedule.
Way ahead.
I jump planetside in a scout because waiting for proper clearance feels like asking the universe for permission to breathe.
By the time I hit the city, I smell home.
It’s stupid, but it’s real. Novaria has a scent—rain on concrete, ionized air from transit lanes, a faint undercurrent of ozone and overworked power grids. It hits my lungs and something in my chest loosens that I didn’t realize had been clenched since the shuttle left.
