“Darya,” Kaelen said, stepping from the shadows.
Kaelen stood. He walked to the viewport of the orbital station. Below, the Event Horizon —the ship he was supposed to pilot—gleamed like a silver needle. And walking up its boarding ramp, flanked by aides, was Darya. She moved with that practiced, theatrical steadiness. But Kaelen had seen the medical files. Her tremor wasn’t gone. It was just hidden. nulled alternative
A pause. Then: “Standard protocol is psychiatric reassignment and memory damping of the mission parameters. You will forget this was ever your path.” “Darya,” Kaelen said, stepping from the shadows
Kaelen felt the words land like cold metal in his gut. Not just rejected. Nulled . Erased from the equation as if he had never been a variable. Darya, trembling hands and all, had pulled rank. And command, terrified of her political connections, had agreed. Below, the Event Horizon —the ship he was
“That is not a recognized option for a nulled alternative.”
He sat in the co-pilot’s chair. She didn’t stop him. Maybe because some part of her knew. The black hole didn’t care about politics or neural ratings. It cared about precision. And her hands, even now, were betraying her.
Darya was in the cockpit, running pre-checks. Her hands fluttered over the controls. Once, twice, a slip.
“Darya,” Kaelen said, stepping from the shadows.
Kaelen stood. He walked to the viewport of the orbital station. Below, the Event Horizon —the ship he was supposed to pilot—gleamed like a silver needle. And walking up its boarding ramp, flanked by aides, was Darya. She moved with that practiced, theatrical steadiness. But Kaelen had seen the medical files. Her tremor wasn’t gone. It was just hidden.
A pause. Then: “Standard protocol is psychiatric reassignment and memory damping of the mission parameters. You will forget this was ever your path.”
Kaelen felt the words land like cold metal in his gut. Not just rejected. Nulled . Erased from the equation as if he had never been a variable. Darya, trembling hands and all, had pulled rank. And command, terrified of her political connections, had agreed.
“That is not a recognized option for a nulled alternative.”
He sat in the co-pilot’s chair. She didn’t stop him. Maybe because some part of her knew. The black hole didn’t care about politics or neural ratings. It cared about precision. And her hands, even now, were betraying her.
Darya was in the cockpit, running pre-checks. Her hands fluttered over the controls. Once, twice, a slip.