Chapter 19 - A Broken man

  The sun was shining obliquely over the camp, making the dust rise with every step, with every boot strike against the cracked earth. The heat was not yet unbearable, but that sticky density was already there, the kind that foretold a long day.

  Kael Durnan walked the line with a furrowed brow. His squad trained with rigor between improvised trenches and cover zones marked on the ground, repeating basic movements as if that could protect them from what was coming.

  “One more time!” he ordered, with the steady voice of someone who did not argue, but declared.

  Kijalo and Triava slid toward their assigned cover, while Hollman snapped the weapon up, unloaded, but with a precision Kael was already beginning to recognize as valuable. They were not the brightest, but they were the most committed. War rewarded that: repetition, endurance, obedience.

  A few meters away, Jackie watched the training with his usual half-smile, the one that mixed cynicism with nostalgia.

  “So harsh, so rigorous. You always liked giving orders, Kaelito.”

  Kael didn’t turn. He answered as he walked, never taking his eyes off the soldiers.

  “And you always liked breaking them.”

  Jackie let out a laugh drier than the sand.

  “These kids aren’t bad. Tough. But they’re missing an edge, they’re missing the hunger for the enemies’ visors.”

  “And you’re going to polish them up?” Kael shot back, with a mix of irony and fatigue.

  Jackie raised his hands, theatrical.

  “No. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I know you wouldn’t let me fight with them.”

  This time Kael looked at him. Held him there for a second.

  “The army kicked you out, Jackie.”

  “For debatable reasons.”

  “You broke an allied officer’s jaw.”

  “A Balmorean,” Jackie corrected, with no trace of regret. “You said it yourself, they’re not our allies. They’re necessary filth, so we shut up and keep going, but I’m not going to regret smashing one of their faces in.”

  Kael shook his head, but didn’t argue further. He was right, and that only made it more irritating. Why did it frustrate him so much, if he felt the same? Was it simply that his brother could say what he could not, without consequences? Maybe that was it. Jackie’s freedom only showed more clearly the prison Kael lived in. He gestured toward the center of the training ground.

  “Want to show what you still have?”

  Jackie didn’t think for even half a second. He took off his jacket and tossed it aside with the naturalness of someone who had never fully left.

  “Triava, come here. Try your luck.”

  The soldier hesitated for barely a moment, then stepped forward. She had spent weeks under Kael’s orders. She knew when to obey without questions.

  She threw a straight punch.

  Jackie dodged without effort, barely leaning, catching the opposite arm in midair and turning on his axis. Triava hit the ground with a dry thud, more technique than force. Dust in the air, silence across the squad.

  Hollman clicked his tongue under his breath.

  “The mercenary can fight.”

  Jackie offered his hand to Triava and helped her up. There was no mockery, only that strange tone that blended camaraderie with arrogance.

  “Not bad. But you jumped half a second early. If you want to survive, learn to hide the impulse. And if you can’t, make sure you’re in the best aerobic shape you can be.”

  Triava nodded with a mix of embarrassment and irritation. Clearly she didn’t like taking instruction from a mercenary. Kael watched them from behind, arms crossed. He couldn’t deny it: his brother was still an undeniable force. But that wasn’t enough to trust him.

  Jackie turned to him, smiling like he’d just won an invisible bet.

  “See? Still got it.”

  Kael was about to answer, giving him that much, but the sound of boots on gravel cut him off. Roq approached with that straight gait that always seemed calculated: not fast, not slow. Exact.

  “Tell me you’re bringing good news,” Kael said, not softening his tone. “For example, that the sacrifices were cancelled.”

  Roq let out a brief smile, without warmth.

  “I don’t usually lie, Kael.”

  Jackie watched them without intervening, though his eyes stayed locked on the exchange. He had learned to detect tension without needing words.

  Kael held Roq’s gaze. There was no reproach in it, only the discomfort of someone walking on mud and having no other choice.

  “Then?”

  “Larton Devouir is on his way,” Roq said, without ceremony.

  Kael raised his eyebrows.

  “What?”

  “And he’s bringing his chief adviser. They’re meeting here. They arrive tomorrow at noon.”

  For an instant, Kael went still. Then he lowered his gaze, as if trying to confirm he was still standing on the same ground.

  “I didn’t know Devouir had an adviser.”

  Roq shrugged.

  “No one knows him, but apparently he’s brilliant,” he said, with a look of distaste.

  Kael wanted to laugh. He rarely saw Roq openly irritated, but it was usually tied to Devouir’s actions or thoughts.

  “And why are they coming here? We’re also at war on Sika-3 and in Demesteria.”

  “Confidential,” Roq replied, nothing more.

  Jackie whistled.

  “Looks like the camp’s getting luxury spectators.”

  Kael ignored him and addressed Roq with the tone of someone already bracing for disaster.

  “And why are we only hearing this now? It’s dangerous.”

  Roq narrowed his eyes. His posture shifted slightly: he was no longer speaking to a subordinate, but to a possible problem.

  “Don’t get confused, Kael. You’re useful. But I’m still your superior.”

  Kael blew air through his nose, holding himself back.

  “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful, sir. But if the pigs’ intelligence service intercepts a single word of this, we’re exposed.”

  “That’s already been considered,” Roq said, without raising his voice. “What you have to do is simple: discipline, presence. Make it look like we know what we’re doing.”

  Kael stared at him. Roq wasn’t cruel, or cynical. He was practical. The kind of man you could trust with lives, as long as you didn’t mind being just another piece.

  “You want protocol,” Kael murmured.

  Roq nodded once.

  “I want us not to be a damn circus when the man leading this war arrives. It shouldn’t be that hard.”

  They saluted with measured stiffness. Roq left as he had come. Jackie let out a low laugh.

  “Larton Devouir in person. I’d like to see if his face is as hard as his reputation.”

  “Behave, Jackie.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  Kael took a deep breath. Then he turned to his squad, still training without pause.

  “Listen up, all of you!” he called, raising his voice. “Tomorrow we’re receiving an important visit. I want clean uniforms, precise formation. I don’t want this place looking like a goat pen.”

  The soldiers said nothing. They only glanced at one another, aware that something was moving beyond the dust.

  Jackie picked his jacket up off the ground and shook it with disdain.

  “You know? For a moment I thought this place was boring.”

  Kael didn’t answer. But in his mind, one word kept turning, over and over.

  Larton Devouir.

  This wasn’t a courtesy visit.

  It was a warning: something was going to happen.

  Something big.

  The air inside the Illéth Prime conference room was saturated with tense murmurs and distant echoes of a war that still had no decision. Holograms of different planetary leaders floated above the main table, each representing their own system, their own world, their own way of seeing the rebellion. Some wore ceremonial attire with ancient insignia, others wore military uniforms worn down by war, and some appeared with closed expressions, with the resignation of those forced to choose a side.

  Larton Devouir held an upright posture, both hands planted on the holographic table, his face carved into forced patience. He knew this meeting would not be simple. It never was. And each time it was worse.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s unquestionable: we need more troops.” His voice was firm, but not aggressive. “The Universal Government is reorganizing. If we don’t reinforce the front in Tau Ceti, we’ll lose it. And with it, we’ll lose the trust of the systems that still hesitate to join our cause.”

  There was a brief silence. Then a deep, measured voice rose from one of the holograms.

  “My men are already fighting, Devouir. And they’re dying.” Yivar Tok, the representative of Eldaras IV, a strategic mining system, crossed his arms over his chest. “How much more do we have to sacrifice before we see any real benefit? My people don’t stop bullets with your promises.”

  “The Scarlet Valley troops have fought on three fronts and we still haven’t received sufficient logistical support,” Irina Hiuk said, dressed in a dark tunic, her tone dry and cutting. She was the governor of Urvath, one of the few who had kept her power after the insurrection. To her, war was a chess game, but she didn’t want to lose more pieces than necessary.

  “I’m still not convinced this war can be won,” Eivard Tom cut in, his figure wrapped in shadows by the poor transmission quality. “Tau Ceti is a massive gamble. And our forces are still divided.”

  Devouir kept his expression unshaken, but he felt frustration growing inside him. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to convince them. And, probably, it wouldn’t be the last.

  “We can’t afford to hesitate now.” He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across each hologram. “Every day that passes without decisive reinforcement, the Universal Government advances. We can’t let them regain ground. We can’t give them the chance to break us from within.”

  Lira Yan, an old leader of the Outer Frontier, older than day and night, with weathered skin and a face full of scars, tilted her head skeptically.

  “We’ve heard this before. Promises of a victory that never comes.”

  Devouir looked at her coldly.

  “Then answer me this: would you rather stay in this war, or would you rather kneel again before the Universal Government?”

  The old woman didn’t answer. But Devouir saw in her eyes that the question had struck home.

  After a long silence, some of the leaders nodded with resignation. Not with enthusiasm, but with the bitter sense of knowing they had no other option.

  “I’ll send reinforcements,” Yivar Tok finally muttered. “But if in the next month I don’t see progress, we’ll withdraw our forces.”

  “Same,” Irina added.

  Devouir nodded slowly. It wasn’t the victory he wanted, but it was enough to keep moving.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “I won’t disappoint you.”

  One by one, the holograms winked out.

  When the last transmission disappeared, Devouir felt exhaustion settle onto his shoulders. He ran a hand across his forehead, massaging his temples, before turning to Jan Dom, his assistant, a middle-aged man with a face marked by fatigue and loyalty to a cause that consumed him day after day.

  “We’ll arrive in an hour, sir,” Jan reported in a formal tone. “Conditions in Tau Ceti remain unstable, but the troops are ready to receive you.”

  Devouir exhaled slowly, letting his thoughts drift for a moment.

  “How is it possible there are so many separatists who still don’t understand what’s at stake?”

  Jan shrugged.

  “Some still believe they can negotiate with the Universal Government. Others are simply afraid of what will happen after the war.”

  Devouir let out a dry laugh.

  “As if they weren’t trapped in this spiral from the day they were born.”

  Jan didn’t answer right away. Then he said carefully:

  “I remember when you yourself tried to change the system from within.”

  Devouir glanced at him.

  “And I failed.”

  “You were betrayed.”

  “Same difference.” Devouir made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “The outcome was the same. And now, instead of debating in legislative chambers, I’m negotiating with fanatics and warlords so the Universal Government doesn’t grind us into dust.”

  Jan didn’t press further. He clearly knew it wasn’t worth continuing that conversation.

  But Devouir did have something else on his mind.

  “The Balmoreans.”

  His assistant lifted his gaze.

  “What about them?”

  “We can’t lose them.” Devouir clenched his teeth. He despised them. Their bloody rituals, their primitive mentality, their way of treating war like an act of religious devotion instead of a political struggle. But they couldn’t afford to lose their support. Because without them, the rebellion would lose its most fearsome army.

  “I know,” Jan replied gravely. “But they can’t lose you either.”

  Devouir didn’t answer.

  A buzz interrupted his thoughts. The blinking light on the table indicated another incoming transmission.

  Devouir pressed a button and Akrtrup’s hologram appeared before him.

  The leader of the Conclave of Time looked at him with his usual impenetrable calm.

  “Larton.”

  “Master Akrtrup.”

  “The war advances as foreseen.”

  Devouir didn’t hide his frustration.

  “Foreseen for whom? Because if you ask me, we’re on a knife’s edge, Master.”

  Akrtrup inclined his head slightly.

  “Fate is written in long steps. Not in immediate victories.”

  Devouir looked at him with the coldness of someone who had learned to distrust men with too much faith in destiny.

  “The separatist planets aren’t going to wait for the future to align in our favor. If we don’t show fast progress, they’ll start going back to the Universal Government.”

  Akrtrup smiled serenely.

  “That is why Tau Ceti must be secured.”

  “And then what? Are you going to tell me what you see in the future? The next steps?”

  “No,” Akrtrup said simply. “I’m going to tell you we’ll see each other on the surface.”

  Devouir narrowed his eyes.

  “You’re going to Tau Ceti?”

  Akrtrup nodded.

  “We’ll arrive tomorrow. It will be afternoon in Tau Ceti.”

  Devouir gave a brief bow.

  “It will be a pleasure to receive you, Master.”

  Akrtrup smiled kindly.

  “The pleasure will be mutual, Larton.”

  The transmission cut off.

  Devouir stared at the empty space where Akrtrup’s image had floated. Something was happening, something very strange was happening.

  Akrtrup never traveled in person.

  If he was coming to Tau Ceti IV, it meant something was about to change. And Devouir hated surprises.

  Jackie was sitting on an empty supply crate, in the partial shade of Kael’s tent. He was doing nothing. Or rather, he was doing that thing you only learn after too many years: watching without expecting anything.

  The camp kept moving around him, but at an emotionally precise distance. Voices that weren’t addressed to him. Footsteps that didn’t demand attention. The background noise of a war that no longer surprised anyone. Jackie ran a hand over his face and thought, not for the first time that day, that Kael was different.

  Not suddenly hardened.

  Hardened in layers.

  Before, Kael still doubted out loud. He allowed small cracks, dry ironies, moments where he seemed to remember he was a person before he was a rank. Now he didn’t. Now everything passed through the filter of usefulness. Every gesture was function. Every silence, calculation.

  This is how it starts, Jackie thought.

  This is how it stays.

  An irregular movement caught his attention.

  From the edge of the camp, a group of Balmoreans advanced toward the tent. They didn’t march in formation. They walked like people transporting something that deserved no ceremony. Jackie straightened a little, alert. Then he saw it.

  The body.

  Triava hung between two of them, held by the arms, her feet dragging across the earth. Her head lolled at an impossible angle. Her uniform was stained with dark dust, stiff in places it shouldn’t have been.

  Jackie stood up.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked, moving before they’d fully reached him.

  The Balmoreans didn’t stop. One of them answered without looking at him, as if the question were a minor annoyance.

  “Accident.”

  Jackie cut them off.

  “Accident how?”

  The Balmorean carrying most of Triava’s weight made a vague gesture with his chin.

  “We hunted her. From far off. Thought she was a chronavade.”

  The word landed heavy, filthy.

  Jackie looked at the body. Looked at Triava’s face, still, her eyes open without focus, as if she were still trying to understand at what moment training had stopped being enough.

  “You hunted her?” he repeated. “That’s what you’re saying?”

  “It was a misidentification,” another replied. “It happens.”

  Something snapped.

  Jackie lunged without thinking. The first punch was dry, straight into the face of the Balmorean who’d spoken. The man staggered back, more surprised than hurt. The second impact didn’t land: two others grabbed Jackie, wrestling him, shouting in their harsh language.

  “Sons of bitches!” Jackie roared. “She was a soldier! She was under our protection!”

  A fist answered into his ribs. Jackie growled, fired back with an elbow. The scene began drawing eyes, weapons lifting, tension climbing in seconds.

  “Jackie!”

  Kael burst out of the tent, almost running.

  He saw the body.

  He saw the struggle.

  And he understood everything without needing context.

  He wedged himself between them with enough authority that, at least by reflex, they loosened.

  “Enough!” he ordered.

  Jackie was still breathing hard, blood on his lip.

  “Do something!” he shouted. “Tell me they’re not going to get away with it!”

  Kael looked at the Balmoreans. Then at Triava. Then back at his brother.

  He didn’t speak right away.

  “Inside,” he said at last, grabbing Jackie by the arm. “Now.”

  “What?” Jackie protested. “No! Kael, they killed her like an animal!”

  Kael tightened his grip.

  “Inside. Don’t make this worse.”

  Jackie yanked free sharply.

  “Worse for who? For them?”

  Kael looked at him steadily. There was no anger. There was exhaustion. Old, accumulated exhaustion. Dangerous.

  “For you. For me. For everyone.”

  Without giving him space to answer, he shoved him into the tent. The canvas fell shut behind them, muffling the camp’s noise.

  Jackie ran both hands over his head, pacing.

  “You can’t let this slide,” he said. “You can’t.”

  Kael braced himself on the improvised table, hands firm on the wood.

  “I can’t change it,” he replied. “Not now.”

  “I can’t change it,” Kael repeated, voice low. “Not now.”

  Jackie went still for a second. Then he laughed, short, humorless.

  “And why not?” he asked. “Go on. Tell me straight. Why can’t you grab a gun and mow them all down?”

  Kael lifted his eyes. He didn’t look annoyed. He looked tired of having to explain himself.

  “Because that alliance is everything,” he said. “For the cause. For separatist unity. Without them, this collapses. All of it.”

  Jackie opened his hands, disbelieving.

  “To hell with separatist unity.”

  Kael clenched his jaw.

  “This was everything to Dad.”

  The name dropped between them like weight, like an object neither of them had wanted to touch yet.

  Jackie tilted his head, looking at him with a mix of irony and something darker.

  “Dad?” he repeated. “Dad went to war one day to fight these animals and never came back.”

  Kael didn’t look away.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Because he didn’t come back. Because he believed in something bigger than himself. The only way to honor him is to respect what he wanted. And he wanted this.”

  Jackie shook his head slowly.

  “Don’t say stupid shit, Kael. Dad never would’ve wanted this. Never would’ve wanted us to be accomplices to sacrifices. To bow our heads to Balmoreans. This isn’t honor. It’s fear.”

  Kael took a step forward.

  “He would have wanted it,” he said. “Dad was a master of honor. Untouchable. He would’ve fought for the cause.”

  Jackie held his gaze. And then he understood.

  “Right,” he said slowly. “Now I see you.”

  Kael frowned.

  “See what?”

  “You want to be Dad,” Jackie said. “That’s what’s wrong with you. You want to become him. Honestly, it’s pathetic, brother.”

  Kael tensed.

  “Watch how you talk.”

  “Watch what?” Jackie pressed. “You don’t protect your own. You don’t fight for what you believe. You don’t do anything. You just repeat slogans like that’s character. Are you even you?”

  Kael breathed deep, holding himself back.

  “You want to talk like that? You’re the same,” he said. “If not, why do you want so badly to get back into the army?”

  Jackie blinked, surprised by the hit.

  “What?”

  “You want to be the soldier, but not a standard one: you want to be the one who defends Dad’s memory, the one who avenges him,” Kael continued. “The one who fights the bad guys. You fantasize about a gun and wiping out all of Dad’s killers. Being the hero. You sound like a kid.”

  Jackie stared at him for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice came out different.

  “When I was a kid,” he began, “a few weeks before Dad died, I followed him one night.”

  Kael said nothing.

  “To a dungeon,” Jackie continued. “I thought I was going to see something important. Something… honorable.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I saw Dad torturing a kidnapped Balmorean. Tied up. Unarmed. Screaming.”

  Kael opened his mouth, but Jackie kept going.

  “Dad saw me. Turned around, walked up to me… and hit me. With a closed fist.” He touched his cheek, as if it still hurt. “And he told me I’d only get better if I was more like you.”

  Silence fell like a slab.

  “So no,” Jackie said, looking him in the eyes. “I’m not chasing Dad’s memory. Because I might be a lot of things, but I’m happy not to be him. You do want to be him. But not the real Dad.”

  He stepped closer.

  “You’re chasing an imaginary father. You want the approval of someone who never existed.”

  Kael didn’t answer.

  “You’re going to have to choose whether you grow a pair, or you stay a lie for the rest of your days, brother.”

  The camp’s noise seeped back through the canvas, distant, indifferent. Outside, the war kept moving.

  Inside, something had broken beyond repair.

  They had twelve hours left.

  It wasn’t symbolic, or epic. It was a cold calculation, made with the tracker and confirmed twice. Twelve hours to leave the valley. Twelve hours to reach the path back to camp. Twelve hours with no room for mistakes.

  The squad moved in silence.

  Not the disciplined silence of shared exhaustion, but something else, more irregular. The brief conversations were gone. No one commented on the terrain, or the wind, or the crystal vibrations. They walked as if speaking might summon something they preferred not to name.

  Constantina noticed it in bodies before sounds. In slumped shoulders. In the way no one allowed themselves to step ahead. In how everyone seemed to glance at the same point without ever fully doing it.

  Div Kut walked a few meters ahead, misaligned.

  He hadn’t asked to change position. No one had ordered it. He had simply ended up there, walking with a crooked gait, too long a step on one leg, too short on the other. Head angled down. Gaze nailed to the ground, as if lifting it might trigger something irreversible.

  He hadn’t spoken since the fight.

  Not a word.

  Constantina watched him for several minutes before realizing she was clenching her jaw so hard it hurt.

  Fucking Cruger.

  And she was useless.

  She hadn’t been ready for that role. For that level of vigilance. For understanding that danger didn’t always come from the front. Fucking Kael Durnan for handing her that responsibility like it was a promotion and not a sentence.

  “Hand,” Diemano said, approaching carefully. “You okay?”

  She didn’t turn right away.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not okay.”

  Diemano walked beside her, keeping pace without crowding her.

  “It was chaos,” he added. “The attack scattered all of us. No one could’ve predicted something like that.”

  Constantina let out a brief laugh, without humor.

  “I should’ve predicted it.”

  Diemano looked toward Div. He didn’t need to ask who she meant.

  “It’s not your fault Cruger’s sick,” he said. “That wasn’t under your control.”

  She stopped abruptly. The squad halted on trained reflexes.

  “Look at the kid,” she said, jerking her chin.

  Div took two more steps before noticing no one was following. He stopped. It took him a second too long to react. When he did, he didn’t look back. He only waited.

  “That,” Constantina continued. “That’s what happens when you think danger is only tactical.”

  Diemano didn’t answer. Not because he had nothing to say, but because he knew it wouldn’t help.

  Chuet came up from behind.

  “Hand,” he asked softly. “Are we going to do anything about him?”

  He didn’t say the name. He didn’t have to.

  Constantina took a moment to respond.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted.

  Saying it out loud was worse than she expected.

  Chuet nodded slowly. He didn’t press. He stayed close, like someone who understood the question had already been a kind of help.

  Then, from up ahead, the voice came.

  “What’s going on back there?”

  Cruger.

  The tone was the same as always. Careless. Impatient. Like the world was a minor obstacle between him and his next whim.

  “You fall asleep or what?”

  Constantina felt heat climb up her chest. An image crossed her mind without asking permission: her boot coming down, Cruger’s skull giving against the rock, the dry sound.

  She wanted to do it.

  Truly.

  She took a step forward.

  “Hand,” a voice said beside her.

  Volosko.

  He didn’t touch her. Didn’t physically stop her. He only said her name.

  She turned her head slightly.

  “This won’t get you anything,” he added. “Not for him, not for you.”

  Constantina breathed fast. She didn’t look at him.

  “If you wait,” Volosko went on, “a few hours. When we camp. I have an idea to end all this.”

  She closed her eyes.

  She thought of Div. Of the way he walked. Of what he didn’t say.

  She thought of Cruger breathing easy a few meters up ahead.

  She thought of herself.

  “Fine,” she said at last. “We wait.”

  Volosko nodded. He didn’t smile.

  The squad resumed the march.

  Twelve hours.

  The valley didn’t know something had already broken.

  But Constantina did.