Page 38 of Alien Soldier's Heir

KAZ

Iknow the moment I throw the throttle forward that this is a bad idea.

Not stupid-bad. Not reckless-for-the-sake-of-it-bad.

Career-ending bad.

But I do it anyway.

Because three days of silence is louder than any comm static I’ve ever flown through. Because every second she doesn’t answer feels like a slow bleed. And because I need her to see me—to really see me—before I disappear into the long line of pilots who flew too close and got burned.

The V-class’s engines roar to life under me. Smooth. Responsive. Familiar like muscle memory. I’m not supposed to be in it. I’m not on the flight schedule. I’m not even on standby.

But the override codes still work, and no one asks questions when you walk like you belong.

I lift off from the southern strip, under the cover of a ‘solo calibration’ excuse logged by one of the night techs who owes me a favor. I don’t go high. I don’t go far.

Just enough.

The tower’s only two clicks northeast.

Her tower.

Restricted observation deck, twenty-three floors up, perfect line of sight.

I angle toward it, breath tight, pulse hammering in my throat.

She’s probably there. Probably where she always goes when the base gets too loud and she needs air that doesn’t smell like recycled tension and synthetic coffee.

The ship hums under me—solid and steady. Unlike me.

I should turn back.

But I don’t.

Instead, I drop low.

Too low.

A teeth-rattling dip just over the upper radar line. Close enough to trigger every protocol we’re taught to avoid. The kind of pass that gets you grounded. Demoted. Tossed from the program with a polite letter and no appeal.

I see the flash of movement on the deck a second before I pull up.

She’s there.

Hair down. Arms crossed. Back straight.

I level out and climb, breath catching like the air’s turned solid in my chest.

The comms squawk a warning.

Trozius.

I kill the channel.

I land harder than I should.

The deck groans under me, the V-class’s legs flexing as I slam to a halt.