The transport’s engines filled the cabin with a steady vibration, not loud, but constant, a hum that pressed into the ribs and carried up through the jaw. Jack leaned against the viewport, watching Epsilon Prime’s alien clouds smear past like ash drifting across a furnace sky. The weight in his chest wasn’t grief, not exactly—more the ache of an old scar when the weather turns. Was it Kael’s blank eyes in that final moment, or the raw defiance burning in Roric’s? He couldn’t tell.

  War’s echoes replayed themselves whether he wanted them or not: the tiny insignia on Kael’s uniform, damning him and his family to a fate worse than death; the invisible shackles of the Imperial caste system, grinding generations of Maklavs into the dust.

  Hours earlier, back at the 16th’s staging area, Roric had pulled him aside. The sniper—stone-faced, a man who treated his rifle like a companion—had eyes bloodshot and hollow. His voice came out low, rough, like molten rock forced through a narrow fault.

  “I hate them. Every time someone spits that word—Maklav—I want to break their jaw. In the Commonwealth, it’s rare. But in the Imperium? We’re cattle. Just cattle, waiting for the slaughter.”

  He had explained why he ended Kael’s life—that the insignia was a curse promising worse than death for the boy’s family. Roric’s grip had been iron on Jack’s arm.

  “Without you, we’d still be rotting in that camp. Show them, Lieutenant. Show them what ‘lesser people’ can do. Drive them out of our home.”

  Jack had only nodded, feeling something warm push through the fatigue in his chest. He’d clapped Roric’s shoulder, voice steady but frayed.

  “We will. I’ll remember.”

  The transport jolted as it touched down on the Garipan Military Academy’s airfield, dragging him out of memory. He had been gone less than a month, but the academy’s towers—etched with the runes of forgotten colonies—looked like ruins of an empire already conquered. He gave a bitter laugh, muttering to himself.

  “Just a mechanic. Getting jerked around.”

  Escorted by Colonel Compton, Jack was ushered through the War Planning Department. Soldiers and clerks alike whispered as he passed—some awed, some suspicious. By the time he was assigned quarters, he’d already been told a general might summon him at any moment. Still, he was granted three days’ leave.

  Jack knew exactly where he was going. The Seventh Lab. “Thor” needed to be rebuilt—the scar of that ion blade still burned phantom-hot in his memory. Weapons mattered, yes. But the deeper scar was loneliness. And behind that scar was Nova—the spark that made his chest tighten in ways he refused to name.

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  After clearing security, he waited at the elevator. That was when she appeared.

  Nova.

  Her blue eyes were a storm, the confident smile gone, replaced by a taut line that couldn’t quite hide the tremor underneath.

  “You’re back,” she said. Her voice held a clash of possession and anger, but beneath it was a quiver, a flame in danger of blowing out. “Nya called. I have questions. Get in.”

  The elevator dropped in silence sharp enough to cut. She kept stealing glances at his profile, then yanking her gaze away as if it burned. When they reached her private lab, she locked the door, crossed to the weapons rack, and picked up an energy submachine gun. Her grip was professional, but her knuckles had turned white.

  “Don’t think I’m unarmed. What did you do to Nya and Meadow? The truth.”

  Jack told her everything. The camp. The confessions. His voice was even, but he could hear her breathing falter, her pulse quicken until it seemed to beat in time with his own.

  When he finished, Nova’s face was grim, her eyes flashing with something he hadn’t seen before—pain.

  “You really know how to play the field,” she said, her voice low, brittle. But Jack heard it: not the anger of possession, but the quiet, terrified jealousy of someone afraid of being replaced.

  She raised the weapon. A plasma bolt seared into the wall beside his shoulder, heat licking his cheek. Jack’s heart jumped, memories of fire and corpses surging back—but what he saw in Nova’s eyes wasn’t just fury. It was desperation.

  Another burst scorched the floor near his boots.

  Jack drew in a breath. “Enough, Nova. I came back from hell. I’m not stepping into another leash. I respect you. But I’m at my limit. Tell me why you’re outraged. It’s not about Nya, is it?”

  Nova froze. The gun barrel wavered. A sob cracked through her guard.

  “You… you were almost killed out there. When I heard, I thought—I thought I’d lost you. And then the first thing I hear is your stories with them.” Her eyes blurred, blue irises shimmering wet. “The Imperium has taken everything from me. I don’t want to lose you, too. Jack, don’t you understand? Every time you’re gone, I feel like ‘Thor’—sharp, powerful… and utterly alone.”

  Jack’s own walls crumbled. He stepped forward, steady, and gently pushed the weapon down. His hand closed over hers, firm, grounding, before he tossed the gun aside. His palm came to her cheek, warm, trembling.

  “I never wanted to lose you either. The battlefield taught me that some things can’t be outrun. Not this war. Not this pull between us.” He swallowed, voice low. “You’re not my enemy, Nova. You’re the anchor I kept seeing through the clouds. When I thought I was gone, it wasn’t medals I remembered. It was your eyes.”

  Her defenses collapsed. Her body trembled as she leaned into him, lips brushing his ear.

  “You idiot,” she whispered. “You finally stood up.”

  Their breath mingled. The cold air in the lab felt charged, alive. Jack pulled her closer until their foreheads touched.

  “Maybe we can stand together,” he murmured. “Not just against the Imperium. For us.”

  She nodded. A smile broke across her face, fragile but radiant, like the first light after a storm.

  “Yes. Let’s start here.”

  And behind them, on one of the lab’s forgotten monitors, a flicker of unauthorized code pulsed once, unnoticed. A ghost in the circuit. A variable. OURO999 drift.