Page 71 of Alien Soldier's Heir

It’s hunger.

Later, in the debrief room, Stark paces like a man on fire.

“You stabilized inside the anomaly for a full twenty-three seconds. Do you know what that means?”

“That you’ll keep sending me back until I don’t come out?”

He stops. Smiles, slow. “You’re catching on.”

I rub at the bandage under my left eye. It’s still tender where the blood vessels burst.

“You should rest,” he says absently, eyes glued to the monitor feed. “Your next run’s at 0500.”

“Do you even care if I make it back?”

He looks up. “I care if you make itthrough.”

I leave before I break something.

The barracks are quieter tonight. The others—engineers, pilots, ghosts like me—pretend to sleep. I lie awake, listening to the hum of the generators through the floor. My pulse matches the rhythm.

I don’t dream anymore.

Just fragments.

Nova’s laugh in the hangar.

Swan’s grin before the launch.

The porch light flickering.

The smell of dust and skin and goodbye.

The past doesn’t feel like memory anymore. It feels like static—like the wormhole burned it into my neurons. Maybe that’s why it whispers back.

I thumb the locket.

“Still alive,” I whisper. “If that counts for anything.”

The next morning, the hangar’s crawling with new personnel.

They look fresh—too clean, too bright-eyed for a place that eats people. Probably new analysts or communications techs. I ignore them. I’ve got preflight checks to run, and Stark’s in one of his manic moods again, pacing and muttering to himself like the universe owes him an answer.

“Fuel at 94%,” I say, half to myself. “Gyros calibrated. System sync nominal.”

“Skip diagnostics,” Stark snaps. “We’re losing daylight.”

“There is no daylight on Daveros.”

He glares. “Don’t get poetic.”

“Then don’t get reckless.”

That earns me a silence sharp enough to cut with.

I climb into the cockpit anyway. The seat hisses, sealing to my flight suit. I wait for one breath, one heartbeat.

Then the comm crackles.