Page 11 of Galactic Sentinels, Vol. 1 (Chronicles of Pherebos #1)

I watch my sister dozing peacefully on the chaise longue in her room, positioned right at the threshold of her dematerialized door that opens onto the garden.

It’s the warmest part of the day, so there’s no risk of her catching a chill.

This is also the time I usually step out to check on the vegetable garden.

Real insects buzz from flower to flower, pollinating as they go.

Trees stretch and twist however they please, unconfined by artificial constraints.

During the day, I feel at peace. This planet is beautiful—so much more alive than the sterile corridors of the base where we spent nearly our entire lives.

Prianka feels it too. When she’s not resting, she’s constantly marveling at the birds, the insects, the colors.

Henri even had a bench installed at the edge of the trees—though he found the idea a little absurd.

But it’s perfect. Sitting there, listening to the wind rustle through the leaves, is one of the purest pleasures I’ve ever known.

And what a technological marvel it is. The AI manages to create gentle air currents by subtly adjusting atmospheric pressure beneath the energy dome, encouraging pollination. It’s a quiet miracle—one of many on this strange, beautiful world.

A soft rustling behind me pulls me out of my thoughts. I turn and see Prianka standing, slowly making her way toward the back of the garden, just a few meters away.

“Prianka?”

“Look, it’s a butterfly!” she exclaims, pointing with delight at a magnificent specimen—larger than a hand, its wings nearly transparent and edged in brilliant fuchsia pink.

She’s right. It’s stunning. Every day on Jaga-18 brings new wonders—life forms the Confederation has carefully introduced to this young world. Each one feels like a small miracle.

“You didn’t sleep long,” I note, remembering she lay down less than twenty minutes ago.

“Well, I’m tired of lying around, doing nothing with my hands,” she says with a playful sigh. “And I already spend part of my day in that wheelchair. Let me enjoy the garden with you, just for a little while. ”

I watch as she lifts her arms to the sky, as if to embrace the sun, then begins to spin slowly, her head tilted back, a wide smile lighting up her face.

It fills me with joy to see her like this—radiant, free, alive.

Without looking where she’s stepping, Prianka spins once, twice, three times—then suddenly stumbles. Her foot catches on a root, and she falls hard onto her side. A sickening crack echoes through the garden.

“Prianka!” I cry, rushing toward her.

But it’s too late. She’s already gone pale, her eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Talk to me—where does it hurt?” I ask, though I already know the answer won’t change what needs to be done.

“My hip,” she gasps, her voice tight with pain.

Damn it. She won’t be able to walk to the regeneration pod near the entrance of the house. And I can’t carry her—not that far, not with her injuries. There’s only one option.

Henri.

The thought makes my stomach twist. He’ll help, of course. He’ll say all the right things, wear his mask of concern. But the price will come later—after Prianka’s out of the pod, when no one’s watching.

My hands tremble as I pull out my command pad and type a quick message to the governor, explaining what happened .

A few minutes later, Duncan—one of Henri’s guards—comes running around the corner of the house.

“Ileana? Prianka?”

“Here!” I call out, waving him over.

He kneels beside us without hesitation, his movements gentle as he lifts my sister into his arms. She lets out a few soft moans of pain, but doesn’t resist.

“How’s my favorite girl?” he says with a wink, trying to lighten the moment. “You know, all you have to do is ask and I’ll come spend more time with you.”

Even through her tears, Prianka manages a giggle.

Duncan is charming—young, kind, and often assigned to our household, especially to help with Prianka. If she let him, I’m sure he’d confess his feelings. But that’s not going to happen. Not now.

He follows me inside, carrying her carefully through her room and into the small vestibule where the regeneration sarcophagus sits—pale green and humming softly, waiting.

I place my hand on the control panel, and the lid opens with a quiet hiss. Duncan gently lays her down on the cool surface.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says softly, brushing her hand before stepping back.

I reach for the sterilized blade nearby and begin cutting away her clothes—quickly, carefully, trying not to cause her more pain. The sarcophagus requires direct skin contact to function properly. Duncan respectfully turns his back, shielding her with a privacy cloth .

In less than two minutes, she’s ready—naked, vulnerable, but safe. I lean in, blow her a kiss, and touch her cheek with my fingertips.

Her face is tight with pain, her eyes wet. I close the lid gently, and the machine hums to life.

I know from experience that within seconds, she’ll slip into stasis—free from pain, from fear, from everything. She’ll stay there for at least twelve hours. Bone regeneration takes time.

But she’s safe now. And that’s all that matters.

I turn to Duncan, trying to reassure him as best I can. He looks so worried, his brow furrowed as he watches the sarcophagus hum softly.

“Don’t worry,” I say gently. “She’s used to it. After her little session in there, she’ll come back to us good as new.”

“I know,” he replies, his voice low and heavy. “But it hurts so much to see her like this. It’s just… so unfair. Why can’t these damn pods cure her?”

“Because they don’t rewrite DNA,” I explain quietly. “They repair what’s broken, but they do it by copying the body’s original blueprint. And Prianka’s illness is in her genes. It’s the same thing that took our father.”

“But you’re not sick,” he says, confused and a little indignant.

“We’re not blood sisters,” I tell him. “My biological parents died when I was very young. They were best friends with Prianka’s parents—worked with them on this disease, actually. Chandra and Roland adopted me right after. They’re the only parents I’ve ever known. ”

He looks at the sarcophagus, his expression pained. “What are her chances, really?”

“Without the sarcophagus?” I shake my head.

“Worse than you think. But with it, she could live into her forties. Maybe longer. Her case is more severe than our father’s was.

And even with the pod, one bad fall—one fracture that hits a vital organ—and it could all be over.

Just like that. That’s why she uses the wheelchair most of the time. ”

“I care about her,” he says softly, almost like a confession.

“Then be patient,” I say, placing a hand on his arm. “She needs time to see that she’s more than her illness.”

“I will,” he promises, his voice full of quiet resolve.

He leaves, and I’m alone again—with the soft hum of the sarcophagus, and the silence that always follows.

***

The next morning, I return to the pod just as it finishes its regeneration cycle.

The light on the sarcophagus turns green, signaling the end of the process.

Henri has already left for the day. Last night, I slept alone in the small room next to the master bedroom—the one I use every night.

When he came home, he didn’t ask to see me.

But he probably will tonight. Or the night after.

I open the lid and meet Prianka’s gaze—rested, clear, and full of life.

“Hi, Sleeping Beauty,” I say with a grin, quoting one of the old Earth movies we used to love .

“Hey there! Sorry to be a bother,” she replies, her voice light.

“Are you kidding? I finally got to pick the movie without your dictatorship. It was glorious. I watched The Witcher —you know, the series you think is ridiculous because it’s ‘not believable’?”

She giggles, and the sound is like sunlight. It’s moments like this that make everything feel worth it.

Still, a shadow lingers in the back of my mind. One day, the sarcophagus might not be enough. One day, it might not be able to fix her.

But not today.

I hand her the soft tunic I laid out earlier and roll her wheelchair closer, just in case she wants to use it. She’s safe. She’s smiling. And for now, that’s enough.

She gets up and dresses quickly, then gently closes the lid of the sarcophagus. Her hands rest on the top, and she stands there, motionless.

“Prianka? Are you okay?” I ask, instantly alert.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just… weird.” She points to the small display on the pod’s surface. “Do you see that number? That’s the cycle counter. Last month, it was higher. There’s a two-cycle difference.”

My blood runs cold.

She turns to me, her eyes narrowing slightly, searching my face. I try to stay calm, to keep my expression neutral, but inside, panic flutters like a trapped bird.

“Look,” she insists. “Remember? I told you it was at two hundred twenty-two. Now it says two hundred nineteen. That’s strange, right? Do you know who else uses this pod?”

Her voice is calm, but her gaze is sharp—too sharp. She’s always been observant, always noticed the little things. I can’t lie easily to her. Not for long.

And yet… I have to.

In an instant, I’m back to that evening a week ago—the one that turned a perfect day into a nightmare.

I had picked Underworld for our movie night, one of those old Earth films with vampires, werewolves, and, most importantly, a fearless woman at the center of it all.

A woman whose courage I secretly admired.

After gushing over the heroine’s haircut, Prianka and I dove into the video archives to find a tutorial on how to replicate it.

An hour later, I had a pretty decent short bob—and I was proud of it.

For the first time in years, my hair was above my shoulders instead of trailing down to my lower back. I felt lighter. Freer.

When Henri showed up, I was nervous about how he’d react. But his usual smile put me at ease