Page 33 of Alien Soldier's Heir

Target locked.

“Missile away,” he says in the comm, voice all smug satisfaction.

The sim flashes white.

KILL.

I slam my palm into the console hard enough to sting. The screen fades to the black-and-blue of mission review mode. Mystats crawl in beside the footage: one kill, three near misses, one simulated death.

Trash.

“Debrief in five,” Trozius’s voice barks through the overhead. “And someone remind Candidate Calderon this isn’t a back-alley brawl.”

The hatch hisses open and I drag myself out of the pod, sweat plastering my shirt to my spine. My fists won’t unclench. My pulse won’t come down.

Yoris climbs out of his pod with the subtle swagger of a man who thinks he’s just been knighted.

“You’re slipping, starboy,” he says as he passes me. “Maybe keep your head out of the clouds—and her quarters.”

I freeze.

I could kill him.

Right here. Right now.

Tray to the face. Fist to the throat. Something quick and final.

But I don’t.

I just breathe. One. Two. Three.

I turn.

“I’d say kiss my ass,” I mutter, “but I’m afraid you’d enjoy it.”

Yoris snorts, disappearing into the locker bay.

Swan appears at my elbow like a ghost.

“You gonna tell me what the hell that was?” he whispers. “Or do I have to start guessing?”

“It was a sim,” I snap, too harsh.

“No, Kaz. It was a meltdown.”

I don’t respond. Just grab my flight jacket off the hook and follow the others into the debrief room. The lights feel too bright. The air too still. My body’s still vibrating from the sim—like I haven’t landed.

Trozius waits at the front, arms crossed, face carved from disappointment.

“You flew like your throttle was stuck at one-oh-five,” he says, eyes locked on me. “Which would be impressive if you hadn’t left your wing open like a hatchling with a cracked visor. You wanna be First Ray, Candidate?”

“Yes, sir,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Then fly like it. Not like you’ve got something to prove to whoever you think’s watching.”

He moves on. Tears into Yoris next, but it’s perfunctory. Everyone knows who the real disaster was today.

I sit through the rest of the session with my jaw locked tight and my hands jammed into my sleeves so I don’t do something stupid. Like break my stylus in half. Or cry.