“Tower control to Threshold-9, confirm readiness.”
The voice freezes me.
Not the words.
The voice.
It’s lower now. Calmer. But it’s her.
Nova.
Every molecule in me locks up. My hand slips off the console. My lungs forget how to work.
“Threshold-9, confirm readiness,” she repeats, steady, professional. But there’s a tremor at the edge of it—a thread of something buried, strangled.
My throat tightens. I can’t speak.
Stark’s voice cuts in. “2173, respond.”
I force a breath through my teeth.
“Copy,” I manage, voice raw. “Ready for launch.”
There’s a pause on her end.
Suddenly, barely audible, “...Good luck, Kaz.”
The line clicks.
Static hums.
I feel something like gravity again, and it hurts worse than any crash I’ve ever survived.
CHAPTER 30
NOVA
The docking bay smells like heated metal and burnt ozone. The scent curls into my nostrils, sharp and familiar. It’s the kind of smell you learn to brace for, the one that tells you you’re not in Kansas anymore. Or Barakkus. Or anywhere soft.
Daveros.
Even the name feels like a warning.
I shift Dar higher on my hip. Verzius is a step behind me, humming to himself like we’re here on vacation. His sunglasses are too big for his face, his coat far too stylish for this godsforsaken rock. Dar’s got chocolate on his chin and a toy shuttle gripped in one sticky fist.
And I’m carrying a sealed briefing that says I’m supposed to train the Alliance’s most elite wormhole pilots. No background. No roster. Just orders and coordinates.
“I hate this already,” I mutter.
“Because it’s red and dry or because the pay’s suspiciously high?” Verzius chimes, adjusting his scarf.
“Yes.”
We clear security. No fanfare. No welcome banner. Just a stone-faced officer who scans our IDs and waves us through like he’s half-asleep. Typical.
The barracks are sterile. The air recycled to the point of staleness. I drop our bags inside our tiny suite and do a quick sweep. No surveillance cams.
Dar crashes onto the cot with a dramatic sigh. “Momma, where’s the snack pouch?”
