Page 17 of Alien Soldier's Heir

Trozius’s voice slices through the corridor like a vibroblade. The echo of it hits my spine before I turn. He’s standing at the far end of the hall—broad-shouldered, hands clasped behind his back, his face carved from the same cold alloy as the command tower itself. His tone isn’t angry. It’s worse. Controlled.

“Yes, sir,” I manage, stepping into line beside him.

He doesn’t respond, just starts walking, and I follow. The hallway’s sterile light hums off the metallic walls, casting our reflections back in fractured streaks. Trozius walks like the air itself parts for him—slow, deliberate, heavy with rank. I match his pace, heart drumming against my ribs like I’m headed into a tribunal instead of a meeting.

When the tower doors hiss open, the temperature drops. The faculty level is silent, save for the low thrum of power conduits and the occasional tap of a datapad. The place always smells faintly of ozone and disinfectant, like the air’s been scrubbed of emotion.

The conference chamber waits at the end of the hall—round, clinical, dominated by the panoramic window overlooking thehangar below. Cadets move like tiny mechanical ants, ships gleaming beneath floodlights. Beautiful, in a detached, military way.

Trozius gestures to my seat. “You’re late.”

“I came as soon as I was called.”

He sits, expression unchanged. “Then sit faster.”

I do. The other instructors are already there: Commander Korr with her usual disapproving frown, Lieutenant Drenn scrolling through cadet analytics like they personally offended him. The atmosphere is all business—tight, sharp, ready to cut.

Trozius brings up the holodisplay. Cadet files flare to life in front of us. “The evaluation period for First Ray candidates concludes at 1800 hours. Your final reports are due before that. Be objective.” His gaze slides over the room, then pins itself on me. “That includes you, Starling.”

I feel the warning land between us like static.

“Yes, sir.”

He taps the console, cycling through profiles. “The Alliance is expecting elite pilots—leaders. Not thrill-seekers. Not… distractions. I trust that won’t be a problem.”

“No, sir,” I reply, jaw tight.

He holds my gaze a beat longer than necessary, then nods. “Dismissed.”

The meeting bleeds into the long hours of the afternoon. The air feels heavier by the minute as I scroll through flight logs and combat analyses, the flickering light from my terminal casting pale blue on my hands.

I start with Yoris. His record reads like a textbook—tight formations, minimal deviation, risk assessments so precise they border on sterile. Reliable, efficient, and boring. Exactly what the Academy wants.

Then Swan. Warm. Loyal. His scores hover just below the cutoff, but his morale reports are unmatched. He’d die for his wingmates without hesitation. I smile faintly, making a note.

Then Kaz.

His name blinks at me, like the system itself knows I shouldn’t linger.

I open his file.

The first thing that greets me is a mess—flagged performance notes, disciplinary infractions, half a dozen commendations for bravery that almost feel like apologies for recklessness. But then I scroll down. The recent entries tell a different story.

Cleaner flight paths. Sharper decision-making. Team coordination reports from Swan—positive, even glowing. It’s like I’m watching someone evolve in real time.

He’s changing.

I can almost hear his voice in my head:I fly so I can come back.

I press my lips together and keep reading. His sim data shows growth curves climbing like comets. His risk ratios have dropped by twenty percent. And in the footage from “Rival Wings,” the way he moves—intentional, controlled—it’s not showmanship. It’s purpose.

He’s trying to prove something. Not to the Academy. To himself. Maybe to me.

My hands hover over the evaluation form.

The cursor blinks at me, impatient.

I start typing.