Page 4

FOUR

Stavian

Stavian stood at his console, staring at the blank screen in front of him. The room around him hummed quietly—the sound of machinery running smoothly, the filtered air cycling through vents overhead. Routine sounds. Safe sounds. But none of it touched the chaos turning in his chest.

He felt numb. Not the kind of numb that came after days without sleep or hours bent over logistics reports. Not even the kind he’d trained himself to feel when delivering casualty stats to Central.

This was different. This was worse.

Cerani.

She’d looked at him like she wasn’t afraid—like she had nothing left to lose, and the only thing she carried anymore was courage and raw truth. Nobody looked at him like that.

He locked his hands back below his wings and let out a slow breath. She should be just another imprisoned miner. Honestly, she should be a problem requiring removal before Central reviews. Instead, he’d brought her to his office, given her food, listened to her. He’d stood there like a fool, watching her instead of doing what he’d been trained to do from his youth. What the fek was wrong with him?

He didn’t want to answer that. But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her face. That burned-into-his-blood kind of image that wouldn’t wash out. The way she stood tall even when she was exhausted. How she hated him and still told the truth anyway. And stars help him, he wanted to see her smile. Actually smile. What would that look like in a place like this? What would she sound like if she laughed?

Stavian gritted his teeth and forced those thoughts out. This wasn’t about emotion. It wasn’t about need. Not his, anyway.

He moved back to his console and entered a search sequence.

TERIAN — cross-reference species registry. The feed blinked. Loading.

Only four entries popped up. He frowned and expanded all of them.

Sparse. Almost useless. One classified under extinct species, which was obviously untrue. One was listed under unverified classification, Teria origin.” One—a short blurb on Teria itself.

He continued reading. The Axis had stripped the planetary resources of Teria, leaving it uninhabitable over five hundred mig-cycles ago. The rest was short and vague. No data on surviving populations. No species traits. No known genetic structure. No record of current settlements. Not even a planetary map.

He leaned in closer, fingers gripping the console frame.

This wasn’t normal. Not for Axis documentation. There should have been more. Axis records ran deep, deeper than most people ever knew. Whole planets cataloged in detail—topography, climate patterns, gene distribution, historical deviations, asset yields. That was the whole point of their control. They knew everything about everything.

Except this.

Except Teria.

Stavian pulled up the last classified report logged under Terian history. Time-stamped 412 mig-cycles ago. The source field was blank. That alone sent a chill down his spine. No origin, no author, no validation marker. Just a report saying the Terian project was “complete.” No follow-ups. No footnotes.

He closed out of the terminal and paced the floor once, trying to calm the knot in his gut. Someone had buried any trace of Cerani’s people so deep, it couldn’t be accidental. The system hadn’t just forgotten Teria. It had erased it.

That meant someone wanted them forgotten.

Stavian sat in his chair and stared up at the lights—dull, low-burning coils that never fully illuminated the room. Everything down in this low sector felt like the underlayer of Axis control. Functional but forgotten. Much like the miners. Like the truth about Teria.

He’d gone his whole life thinking he understood the Axis. Their structure made sense. Order. Precision. Conformity. It had trained him, educated him, and given him purpose.

But lately—no, for a long time now—none of it felt solid. Bendahn always said doubt was a symptom of incomplete data. “Trust in the system until it proves compromised,” she’d told him more than once.

Well, he had incomplete data now. The system was definitely compromised—and he wasn’t sure who to trust.

Except himself. Maybe not even that.

He opened the encrypted comm hub and hesitated before entering a private call code. It had been nine cycles since he’d last spoken to Bendahn, and he hadn’t reached out then—it was her message. She rarely contacted him, unless it was to issue new instruction or issue a reprimand.

Still, this needed to be escalated. If there was corruption of the Terian data, Bendahn might know how to correct it. He keyed her code. Locked it. Sent it.

The channel activated and a long silence stretched before the screen lit up—orange at first, then shifting to the deep navy overlay of an encrypted Axis comm channel. The Axis symbol rotated once and disappeared.

Bendahn’s holographic image appeared over his console.

She wore the same high-collared uniform she always did—silver-threaded with the Axis emblem pinned at her long, narrow throat. Her hair was drawn back, the braids looped and clipped behind her head with surgical precision. The blue-gray skin around her large, slitted eyes was lined with age and calculation. Nothing ever surprised her.

Not even him.

“Stavian,” she said, tipping her head. “What is the purpose of this call?”

His fingers curled against the edge of the console. “I’ve encountered a problem.”

Bendahn didn’t blink. “Specify.”

He pulled up the file overlay and sent it to her console. “Miner 630-I,” he said, not daring to use her common name. “She’s resistant to psiak radiation. Completely. No degradation markers. No cellular loss. Her logs are clean.”

“That’s been noted,” Bendahn said.

“Not noted enough,” he said. “Everyone else from her sector is failing, but the Terian’s vitals have improved.”

“She’s an anomaly.”

“She’s Terian,” he said. “And I need more information about her species.”

There was a pause. Bendahn moved one hand and dismissed the file he’d sent. “The Terian project is locked.”

“Then grant me access. I’m the designated controller of the DeLink 22 Mine. I have miners deteriorating cycle by cycle. If I can learn how she’s surviving this environment, perhaps a medicine can—”

“No,” she cut in. “You’ve reached your security threshold. Further data on Teria requires clearance you don’t hold.”

Frustration scraped under Stavian’s skin as he stared at her three-dimensional image. “You trained me to manage systems under pressure. To identify patterns. She’s a pattern.”

“No,” Bendahn said. “She’s a statistical error. Not replicable.”

“That can’t be right. If she’s surviving at this rate, others could—”

“I said she’s not replicable.” Bendahn’s voice sharpened. “Her resistance is not an outcome you can duplicate with tech or treatment.”

“Then where does it come from?” he asked, sitting back and spreading his hands. “Because there is little information on her species.”

“There doesn’t need to be,” she said.

“This makes no sense. The Axis’ records are always complete and every species in our sphere is thoroughly documented. Yet, this one is hidden behind a lock. Why not bring more of them to this mine, if they can survive the radiation, and send those who get sick to the farming settlements?”

“One Terian is sufficient.” Bendahn’s gaze rolled to the ceiling as she shook her head. “You won’t receive more Terians. Central has no desire to expand that roster. Terians are strengthened by the radiation, and the Axis do not want them strong.”

“So I’m not supposed to find out what makes her different?” Stavian asked. “You would rather I send another six dozen prisoners to the tunnels instead of exploring a solution right in front of us?”

“She is not your solution,” Bendahn said with a snap to her voice.

That stopped him. He leaned back from the hologram. Then why send her here? he wanted to ask. But he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he looked straight at the feed, hands at his sides. “You’re wasting a chance to save lives.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Bendahn said. “630-I is a stable element in an unstable system. That’s all. Move forward. Quotas are being met.”

“She’s not an element. She’s a person.”

Bendahn didn’t even blink. “She is a designation. Do not forget yourself. You are a mine controller, not a medic or a researcher.”

Silence pulled taut between them. Stavian’s teeth clenched. “I’m losing miners at a higher rate. The deeper we go, the faster their bodies fail. Criminals or not, I have to document each body dragged out.”

“Your assignment isn’t to save them, Stavian,” Bendahn said. Her tone never changed. “It’s to keep the operation functional. The DeLink Mine has remained one of the highest-yield sites in the sector. I sent you there because you have high radiation resistance and because I trust you to make choices that serve the Axis above yourself. Do not succumb to sentiment. Remain strategic, Stavian.”

“Then answer me something strategic,” he said. “If 630-I really is just a random miner from a conquered world—why block her records? Why scrub every trace of where she came from? Why hide the entire history of her people?”

Bendahn’s smile was tight and cold. “It’s always been your weakness, Stavian. You think people can grow beyond their design.”

“Maybe they can,” he said.

Bendahn leaned back in her chair. The bruised-blue uniform caught the edge of the light as she folded her hands in front of her. “You’re not authorized to know the history of the Terian people, and you are not authorized to share what you’ve just learned, Stavian. Not with your staff and absolutely not with the subject. The Terian disturbances are sealed under Tier Eight. Communicating their existence would constitute high treason.”

He kept his expression neutral, but fire rolled under his skin. “Is that your final instruction?”

“Yes,” she said. “Observe 630-I. Record her if necessary. But do not interfere. Do not elevate her beyond her function.” Her gaze sharpened. “And do not, under any circumstance, let her leave that moon.”

He stared in surprise, speechless. More unsettled than he could remember ever being. This was beyond strange, and there was a desperation edging the high emissary’s voice that sent a ripple under his scales.

“I’ll send you new intake manifests in three cycles,” Bendahn continued. “Reinforce tunnel set D and realign power to the central drills. Feed all findings from 630-I into your secure log until instructed otherwise.”

She started to disconnect, but he raised his hand. “One more question.”

Bendahn’s brows lifted.

“I request an explanation,” he said. “If you cannot give me clearance to view the Terian data—or records of 630-I—tell me why.”

Bendahn’s expression looked carved from ice. “Because the Axis have long memories,” she said. “Teria was conquered long ago for its resources. To punish its people for daring to defy us, the survivors were imprisoned on a penal colony to be forgotten and reduced to a primitive state. They were never meant to recover. Not culturally. Not biologically.” She glanced down at her long, nailless fingers and idly brushed something off them. “The correction to the records was recent, and a unanimous decision, considering recent developments.”

His pulse jumped. “What recent developments?”

“You asked your one question, Stavian, and now I am finished.” She folded her long fingers and lifted one hairless brow. “Just because I raised you, that does not grant you special privileges. All you need to know is the Terian people didn’t adapt to our takeover. They were unpredictable under Axis control conditions. That’s all you need to know.” Bendahn raised one finger. “Resistance is instability. That is the lesson of Teria.”

A cold heaviness settled behind his ribs. He clenched his hands at his sides to keep from striking the console. She could hardly claim to have “raised” him. He was treated like an obligation most of the time, lived in group quarters with other promising orphans, and trained to be a supervisory guard, which he’d been for most of his life. He’d overseen dozens of facilities for the Axis, providing reports and delegating resources within a highly managed system. This was the first time he’d questioned anything.

“I see.” His voice came out low, but the rage behind it tightened his jaw until it ached. He held her gaze. His chest burned. He didn’t know if it was anger or guilt—but it hollowed out something in him just the same.

She’d just confirmed something he feared—that he would never be trusted. He would never be permitted free thought, no matter how long he toiled for the Axis. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive it.

“Good. You are to maintain standard report flow,” she said. “No alterations. No independent inquiries. The board is pleased with your facility’s output. Crystal conversion markers are holding twenty-eight percent above projection.” She tapped something out of frame. “You’ve always been efficient. Stay that way.”

Stavian didn’t respond. A sharp burst of fury rose before he forced it down. Dragon fire burned the back of his throat as his place in this system was starkly defined. The silence in his head roared louder than any alarm.

Bendahn must have perceived his reaction, because her gaze sharpened. “I mean it. Break contact with 630-I. Remove her from your flagged watchlist. If we sense deviation or unnecessary risk, we will extract her and her next prison will be far less pleasant than your mine.”

He wanted to shove something—break the screen, rip apart every document that dared to call this normal. Every muscle in his body locked in place. “I understand, Bendahn.”

That seemed to satisfy her. “You have done well securing this installation, Stavian,” she said in a rare moment of praise. “Now keep it secure. The High Council votes in six cycles to endorse offworld expansion for deep-mining operations. DeLink 22K is the model,” she added. “Don’t ruin that.”

The hologram dimmed and her image vanished.

Stavian sat completely still. The lighting in the console bay buzzed above him. A faint thermal whine filtered through the vents. The scent of scorched metal drifted in from the far filtration shaft, but the room felt frozen.

He looked down at his screen where the scant data on the Terian species still glowed, meaningless.

One directive. Clear as it had always been: Obey.

He ran a hand down his face. Cerani’s name pulsed at the back of his mind like a ripple he couldn’t stop. The only crime she’d committed was being born of a species conquered by the Axis. She didn’t even know that her people had had a home planet, once. On the surface, she was absolutely no threat. But if the Axis had buried her entire species because they couldn’t be controlled—then she was dangerous just by surviving.

And the worst part?

He knew in his gut and his heart that he would not obey Bendahn’s orders. He could not, if he was to live with himself. For a long time, he had said he owed the Axis for taking him in when he was orphaned, or that the Axis made advancements in technology that served everyone. But not anymore.

If the Axis were hiding Terian history from him, what else were they hiding? There had been something off about Bendahn. She’d appeared cold and unflappable, but he’d known her long enough to be able to sense underlying tension. Worry.

His thoughts descended to corridors as dark as the mine shafts. What if, as a child, he wasn’t rescued and saved like his own records stated?

What if his story wasn’t entirely different from Cerani’s?

Stavian rose. His wings—which he’d been told were useless and incapable of flight—flared as he walked toward the exit. He swiped his wrist over the sensor and watched the door slide open.

There had to be a way to learn the truth and keep Cerani alive, even if it meant breaking every directive left.