He smirks, gestures. The holo-screens around the chamber flicker: edited clips, selective angles, crowds screaming. My voice echoes in memory; a victim falls in slow motion. The images frame me as a monster, not a defender.
One judge says, “You claim defiance, not treachery. But we find your speech seditious. You incited riots, endangered civilians. You are not a martyr. You are a danger.”
I lean forward in the restraints, and the metal rails bite into my arms. “I spoke the truth because no one else does. If soldiers vanish, if veterans are ignored, if their screams are white noise—you call truth seditious?”
They don’t answer. Instead, they turn to the verdict.
“Commander Kyldak, for crimes of incitement, manslaughter, and public subversion—your sentence is exile to Jurtik, the penal wasteland planet. Effective at once.”
A roar inside me. Exile. Jurtik. Death by desert. The words echo off steel walls. A sentence colder than any blade.
I laugh. Bitter, hollow. It rings. It echoes.
“You want to bury me?” I say to the empty air. My voice bounces. “Then I’ll rise as a king of corpses.”
They stand. Guards wheel me out. The room coldly recedes. No prize for eloquence. No mercy in steel courts.
I walk past the gallery. I don’t see Jaela. She’s banned, exiled from sight. I envision her watching, heart pounding. But I don’t feel betrayal. Only focus.
They cuff me again—hard restraints. My arms chafe. My heart is a furnace. I board the transport shuttle, silent. The corridor echoes with footsteps. My pulse roars.
I look back toward the tribunal chamber’s sealed doors. A whisper of regret flickers in me. But I clamp it down. I am the one walking forward.
They lock me in the cell. The walls clang. The floor tiles are metal. The air smells of recycled oxygen and metallic dread. I slump into the seat, legs heavy. Outside the viewport, the planet recedes. The stars blur.
I whisper to myself, quiet as a vow:If they bury me in exile, let me bloom in ruin.
And as the ship lurches toward the jump, I tighten my jaw. I carry nothing but fire, scars, and the weight of every promise I have yet to keep.
CHAPTER 9
JAELA
The courthouse plaza is brutal in daylight. Stone facades glare down, columns like judges. The concrete smells sharp—hot stone, exhaust, and a hint of disillusion. I stand alone near the entrance steps, a sealed envelope in my clenched fist. The paper crinkles under my fingers, the edges soft from handling. Inside is my message to him—my plea, my truth—but they refused to deliver it. Officials cited “security protocol.” I am no longer his doctor, no longer within his chain of contact, no longer even that essential.
My sister’s voice echoes in my memory from the drive over:“Let him go, Jae. He’s gone.”She urged me to move on like I have a choice. I tried. I really did that morning, in the garden, in the lab, in maps of code and circuits. But all of me feels wrong without him.
I edge toward the courthouse door. The guards barely glance at me. I walk through the hallways. His old room—half-care, half prison—already reassigned. The nameplate is gone. The slab of white wall stares back. I almost falter. The antiseptic scent in the hallway stings my nostrils. My throat constricts. Tears burn behind my eyes.
I grip the envelope tighter. My nails bite into my palm. I force my feet forward.
I exit out the back door into the courtyard. The sun plasters against my face. I close my eyes, swallow something sour in my mouth. The world feels hollow. The wind picks up, rustling leaves in cracked fountains.
I sprint away, not caring who sees me. I get back to my apartment like I’m fleeing a funeral. The door slides open to that same faint jumble of compartments: my workshop bench, circuit boards, prototype limbs. The apartment smells the same—metal, ozone, lingering nerve shocks. Maybe I like that smell. It’s honest.
I flick on my old calendar holo. The alert blinks:Missed trigger: Cycle Day 34.My breath ceases. The memory vault bangs open: dates, symptoms I tried to ignore. I do the math in my head. My heart is a drum in my ribcage. My fingers tremble as I remove a pregnancy test from the bathroom shelf.
The fluorescent bathroom light is harsh. My reflection zigzags in cracked mirror glass. My hands shake as I peel open the envelope. I use the test, drop it in the shallow dish of sink water so I don’t have to watch. The apartment falls into hush—that loud, suffocating hush of waiting.
Then I see it, two lines. Positive. Just like that.
“Oh stars,” I whisper. The word cracks alarms in me. I cup a hand over my mouth. My mind spins. “I’m pregnant. With a criminal war hero’s baby.”
My knees buckle. I fall to the tile. The cool floor presses against my skin. The scent of tile cleaner, the faint hum of HVAC, the residual ozone—it closes me in.
I hold the test. My fingers slick, pulse hammering. I stare at it like someone staring into a future that’s already burning. The envelope slips from my jacket pocket. I reach for it, press thesealed letter to my heart, then push it aside on the floor. My thoughts whirl.What now? How?
I breathe. A small, ragged intake. My body quivers. My mind fights itself. Tears slide—hot and silent.This changes everything.The baby. The secret. Him. Us.
