The Sons of Mars transport ship cleaved its way through the velvet dark of space, engines trailing a steady bloom of blue fire. Stars wheeled past in a silent blur, the kind of silence that pressed against the bones. Behind them, the galaxy spun on uncaring. Ahead—destination burned into the void like a promise—they approached The Block.

  It loomed in the distance, maybe a mile off and growing larger by the second. A steel monolith, alive and breathing like a beast. The Block, a mobile colony that wandered the stars on the back of its own massive thrusters, had come to rest in the Oceana Sector. A cluster of half-terraformed planets sparkled nearby, scattered like pearls in black water.

  “Hell of a sight,” Henryk muttered.

  He stood beside Edward, who leaned into the observation glass with his chin resting on his knuckles, studying the construct. Ships buzzed in and out of its docking corridors, tiny fireflies in the artificial dusk. Work bots drifted between scaffolds like insects threading a hive. The Block wasn’t a planet—but it breathed like one, labored and restless.

  “What’s the blue crap on the end?” Henryk asked, pointing through the glass.

  Ed squinted, then chuckled. “That? Construction sealant. Airlocks and pressure domes. They're always expanding. Patching holes and making new ones. That side’s off-limits though, still pressurizing. We’ll be docking on the far end.”

  “Which dock?” came Axel’s voice from a nearby chair, reclined back, boots up, head tilted just enough to show he was half-interested.

  “More like which ten,” Ed replied, deadpan.

  “God damn,” Arthur muttered behind them.

  He stepped into view, grinning as always. Behind him came the squires, younger and sharper now. Even Kieren, taller than he’d been, broader in the shoulders—that taste of divinity still lingering on his skin like a faded tattoo. He met Henryk’s eyes briefly, something like memory flashing between them, and then looked away.

  Henryk smirked. Still turning away. That’s what I thought.

  Further back, sprawled out against the observation wall like bored cats, sat Mateo, Wilbur, and Franklin. Their eyes tracked The Block with a kind of lazy awe.

  “I keep forgetting,” Henryk said, “they haven’t been through the shit like we have. I’ve been breathing your air so long, I almost thought we were born on the same ship.”

  Ed waved a hand. “Relax. This isn’t even a real op. Maelia’s got us babysitting while she plays diplomat. We’re here to make sure her speech goes off without a hitch.”

  “Something easy,” Wilbur murmured, as if daring the universe to ruin it. He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for months. “Thank God for that.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Mateo said, his voice laced with that familiar burn of chaos. He grinned like he wanted the world to punch him. “I could use some danger. Feels like the Sons of Mars just keep kissing Henryk’s ass.”

  Wilbur chuckled, not quite sure if he was meant to laugh.

  Henryk didn’t rise to the bait. He just kept watching the dark monolith ahead, the slow turning of docking bays like clock gears in the void. “We meeting Bri and Adaline down there?” he asked.

  Ed scratched the back of his head. “Yeah. If they haven’t gone insane dealing with the locals or buried themselves in college prep.”

  Henryk nodded absently, eyes locked on the glass. The Block had drawn closer. Its docking arms looked like the claws of a dead god.

  “So what? We’re just meant to babysit?” Franklin asked. His voice had the tone of someone hoping for a lie.

  Ed sighed. “Look. Don’t fuck around too much. But Maelia’s speech isn’t until 3PM tomorrow. We’re free until then. Sightsee, stretch your legs, get into trouble—but mild trouble. When the time comes, I want all of you back in your suits, eyes front.”

  The others were already laughing, clapping each other on the backs, hungry for solid ground beneath their feet and the pull of gravity on their bones.

  Ed just shook his head. “God help me, I’m surrounded by children.”

  Ed’s voice came low, curling into a sigh that lingered for a moment like smoke in stale air. But then, a smile crept across his face, easy and warm.

  “…It’s been a rough stretch at the academy. We’ve lost people. So have your fun. Just don’t be stupid.”

  They all laughed, a few cheers going up like sparks off steel.

  Henryk bumped Ed with his elbow, a grin tugging at his lips. “That’s real chill of you… nice not having lectures, drills, or professors breathing down our necks for once.”

  Ed smirked with his eyes closed, scratching the back of his head as if trying to erase a worry that had been etched there. “I have my moments,” he muttered. But then something flickered in his expression. His eyes opened. A glint, sharp as broken glass, shone in them.

  “What?” Henryk asked, catching it. “What’s got you smiling like that?”

  Ed chuckled, the kind that sounded like someone hiding dynamite behind their teeth. “…Just wondering whether we ought to let you in on the surprise or not.”

  Henryk raised an eyebrow. “Surprise?” he echoed, already leaning in like a kid about to unwrap something forbidden.

  “Yeah,” Ed said, patting him on the shoulder before stepping toward the console. “Axel, help me get this ship down. And… Wilbur, yeah, that’s your name.”

  Franklin blinked, turned to Wilbur, then back at Ed with a tight frown. He pointed at his own chest. “He’s Franklin. I’m Wilbur.”

  Ed froze, eyes widening. “Ah, shit. Sorry.”

  Franklin rolled his eyes so hard they almost echoed. “Fucking asshole,” he muttered, flopping into one of the vacant seats. The yellow spray of incoming data lit up across the screen in front of him, painting his tired face in artificial sunlight.

  Ed turned back to Henryk, and this time his grin was uncontainable. “Bea and her contact here… miracle workers, man. They got them ready. Today.”

  Henryk’s heart skipped a beat. “The Stargazers? Both One and Two?”

  Ed nodded. “Took hell and half the bureaucracy to pull it off, but yeah. Even the Test Types have a few quirks, but they’ll run. Subpar, sure. But they’ll run.”

  Henryk threw a hand over his head and staggered backward like the words had struck him across the chest. The whole room spun. Stargazers. The prototypes. Transformable Warcaskets. The kind of tech the Mercurian labs had poured decades into cracking. He’d never thought he’d get to see one up close, let alone pilot one. Not now. Not this soon.

  His fist shot up in the air, and he rocked on his heels, laughter bursting from him unbidden. “I’ve got to see it. Right now.”

  “…And you will,” Ed said calmly, as though reining in a thoroughbred. “We’ve just got to clear customs first. After that, I’m sure Bea won’t mind sparing you for an hour or two. Run some basic tests. Get a feel for the system.”

  “Hell yeah,” Henryk muttered, still barely containing himself. “This trip’s already turning out better than expected. But why keep it a surprise?”

  Ed looked at him for a long moment before leveling a firm hand on his shoulder. His voice dropped to something quieter—more personal. “When I was going through your personnel files, I saw something. They log everything, you know. Every name, every score… every birthday.”

  He smiled, but there was weight behind it. Not just joy—recognition.

  “Quite the shock to see yours is tomorrow.”

  Henryk blinked. His birthday. The word felt strange, like an old coat pulled from the back of a forgotten closet.

  He’d honestly forgotten. With his sisters and mother so far…they would’ve reminded him. But…

  And with the missions and the training and the drills stacked so high they blocked out the sun, he wouldn’t have remembered if his damn tablet didn’t ping him the next morning.

  Tara

  Iman and Tara stood on opposite ends of the elevator, the hum of machinery rising with each floor. The silence between them was hot and close, like something waiting to explode. Both stared, practically daring the other to blink. Iman’s smile was sharp and fake, all teeth and venom. Tara’s fists were balled so tightly that the skin around her knuckles had gone white.

  “Your smile says we’re good… we’re good,” Tara muttered, voice tight, eyes not leaving Iman.

  Iman held her gaze for a long second, her grin fading by degrees. The smile didn’t reach her eyes. It never had.

  Tara snapped. “…What the fuck is your problem?”

  Iman didn’t answer right away. She rolled her shoulder into the wall, leaned into it like she was trying to disappear. Her eyes followed the flickering panel above the door as the numbers ticked up. Every floor another second closer to hell.

  “We’ve fought side by side for years,” Tara said, the heat creeping into her voice. She mirrored Iman’s motion, stepping closer but not turning away. Not backing down. “We’ve saved each other’s asses more times than I can count. We survived the academy. The hell they put us through. I’m not going to be your punching bag, and Squad 3 won’t either.”

  Iman’s glare was sharp enough to cut through plating. But Tara didn’t flinch. Not anymore.

  “I thought you’d be in a better mood this morning,” Tara pressed.

  “…And why would that be?” Iman shot back, her voice low and cold. Then she laughed, but it was empty. “Woke up late. No breakfast. Got three command texts yelling down my throat.”

  Tara smirked. That was the mistake.

  Iman’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Don’t start acting peachy now. I know you went and talked to your man.”

  Tara’s expression darkened instantly.

  Iman scoffed and shook her head. “Whatever. Like I care anymore. Shit just keeps turning into more shit.”

  Tara’s voice sharpened. “Maybe if you took a deep breath and looked in the mirror… maybe then you’d finally face whatever it is you’re trying so damn hard to bury.”

  Iman opened her mouth to snap something back, but Tara didn’t stop.

  “I didn’t even want to tell Zachary. But it was after Mari talked to you.”

  That hit.

  Iman’s eyes went wide, so wide the whites showed. Her whole body stiffened like she’d been punched in the stomach. “…M-Mari said we talked?” Her voice cracked. Her throat dried.

  Tara glanced away, arms folding now, the fight leaving her piece by piece. Iman wasn’t shouting anymore. That fire had flickered into something else. Something Tara didn’t expect.

  Was that fear?

  Was that guilt?

  Tara didn’t know. But Iman’s face had gone red. Not with rage, but with something uglier. Something more human.

  “Yeah,” Tara said quietly. “She mentioned it. I don’t know why. With the warpath you’ve been on, I honestly got scared for her. We’re both strong, sure. Tall, trained. But Mari’s different. She’s… she’s a small thing. Good in a Warcasket, yeah, but she’s not a frontline trooper. Not really.”

  “Y-Yeah,” Iman cleared her throat again. “A small thing…”

  She scratched the back of her head, suddenly restless. Her fingers fidgeted, desperate for something to do.

  “Wait, did she say anything else, or…?”

  Her voice trailed.

  She hated saying Mari’s name now. Just like she hated saying his.

  Henryk’s.

  Both of them had turned into rot in her stomach.

  Ghosts with names.

  But this was a different sort of shame.

  Why did she do that when she was drunk? God, what the hell was wrong with her?

  It wasn’t the act. It was the way it happened. The way she let it happen. How easy it was. How natural it felt to push Mari down, to hear her breathing hitch, to leave marks where fingers shouldn’t have gone. Iman remembered the heat in her own chest, the way Mari’s voice caught, the way her body didn’t resist. That was what stuck with her. Not guilt. Not even regret. Just the realization that something inside her wanted it.

  Mari was smaller. Maybe younger. Definitely softer. But that wasn’t why it haunted her.

  It was before Mari that things made sense.

  Henryk had been simple. Expected. He was a straight line in a world of curves and broken logic. She gave herself to him like a knife handed off at a checkpoint. Sharp, dangerous, but understood. He was her choice, and her punishment. Someone she could rot with. Someone she deserved to rot with.

  Mari made things complicated. Confusing. Dangerous in a different way.

  Tara’s hair today was swept into a long, military ponytail. Auburn, but almost ginger in the right lighting. Especially in this sterile elevator light. A few white bandages clung to her cheekbones like paper apologies, and she wore the stiff officer’s uniform of House Mercury like it had been starched into her skin.

  Iman stared at the uniform first. Then, briefly, her eyes drifted. Chest. Shoulders. That tight line of Tara’s throat.

  She blinked and scolded herself. This was Tara, for God’s sake. Not Piper. And even if she was, Piper wasn’t… wasn’t anything. She wasn’t anything. Just another ghost in Henryk’s orbit. A girl with copper hair and those stupid, gentle eyes. And soft—

  No. No, stop.

  Iman pressed her hand to her face, fingers curling into her temple like she could squeeze the thoughts out. She didn’t know if it was religion. Or guilt. Or whatever cosmic punishment was handed to girls like her. But she knew this: she was stuck with Henryk. Forever. No matter where he was. She’d allowed him in. Her body, her past. He was a stain she couldn't wash out, and no matter what, she'd never allow another man to touch her.

  That was a promise. To God. To herself.

  And yet… Mari had been different. A silver lining, maybe. A detour no one had to know about. But the fear—that ice-cold fear—she’d felt after? That wasn't pretend. That was bone-deep panic. The kind that could stop a heart. She wasn’t gay. She wasn't.

  She wasn’t a faggot.

  She’d given herself to Henryk. Chosen him. And he chose Piper—fine. Let him chase her around the barracks like a mutt on heat. Iman could fuck a dozen girls in the dark, all soaked in whiskey, and just call it history. Women have been blaming booze for centuries.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  But if Mari—if anyone—ever told the Academy, her family, the goddamn galaxy what really happened in that supply closet… Iman didn’t know what she’d do. Probably kill her. Probably not even flinch.

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied Tara’s posture. Depending on what she was about to say, this elevator might never reach its destination.

  Tara sighed. Deep. Too deep. “She just said that she talked to you. Said she felt like she made a breakthrough or something.”

  Iman’s stomach tensed. Her knuckles itched. Tara’s sigh kept going, leaking despair like a cracked pressure valve. “That’s one of the reasons I even came into this elevator.”

  Then Tara’s head thunked gently against the metal wall. And the sound—soft, real—hit Iman harder than it should’ve.

  Her eyes widened, unprepared for the soft hiccuping sobs that followed.

  “Iman…” Tara’s voice was thin. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’re like a different person.” Her tears were real now, soaking her cheeks as she kept speaking. “You’re being so cruel. To everyone.”

  Iman said nothing. She looked down at her boots. Scuffed. Dirty. Like her. Shame radiated up her spine like static in a bad comms signal.

  “…But if you can’t move on,” Tara whispered, “then you have to learn to live with it. Because no one’s happy with this.”

  Iman sighed. Her mind stirred. Henryk. His back turned as he walked away. Maybe forever. And the bitter part? The most bitter, poisonous part? She didn’t even know anymore if she’d welcome him back with open arms—because she loved him—or shoot him dead for leaving her here with herself.

  She touched her face again. Mari hadn’t told anyone. Thank God. Even Iman had to admit she’d been vicious, way past the line during that little encounter. But maybe the others were right. The 34th were her men. Her unit. Her family. And she couldn’t keep bleeding them just because she was bleeding inside.

  The elevator dinged, gears groaning like the whole thing had been holding its breath. The doors peeled open.

  Both Iman and Tara wore new masks. Half-real smiles. Tara sniffled, quickly wiping at her eyes, trying to pull herself together.

  Then she felt something press softly to her cheek. A napkin.

  She blinked. Looked at it.

  Iman grinned—or close to it. Maybe even giggled. “Might be an OCD thing I got from my grandpa, but I always grab a couple from the mess. Habit.”

  Tara chuckled through it, and this was her Iman. The one that thought about her men, thought about others. Maybe… she was still young. A grizzled commander, yes, but Tara would forget she was still a girl around her age. Just more skilled. More competent. Especially in some areas than in others.

  “Come on, let’s get this shift done and I’ll grab us dinner,” stated Iman. “I’ll pay, my treat.”

  “Iman,” Tara said, unsure.

  But Iman waved it off. “I insist,” she said. “You’re right, it’s a little peace offering. I know the Block’s got a bunch of different spots. A lot of places with food from Old Earth. Different cultures, mashed into space canteens.”

  Tara’s face reddened. She scratched the back of her head. “O-okay, if you insist,” she said.

  Iman flashed a smile, tossed her a thumbs up.

  Yet, as Iman and Tara walked down the halls earlier that day, a thought returned. Not a new one. One that stalked her—feral, sleepless. It slithered in around 4AM, when the liquor left her lips cracked and the ceiling spun like a collapsing sky.

  Tears clinging to Henryk’s collar. Her lips still raw from kissing Mari too hard. From biting.

  She’d closed her eyes in the dark. Just for a moment. And it came rushing in like blood to a wound.

  Her room—half-remembered, half-made-up. Henryk behind Mari, moving like punishment given shape. The sound of flesh, slow and brutal, echoing into the dark like something sacred and defiled all at once.

  Mari didn’t moan. Didn’t cry out. She mewled. Like an animal gone soft at the belly, bucking into every thrust like it was the only thing she had left.

  And Iman… Iman was there. She always was.

  Close enough to feel the sweat off Mari’s back. One hand on her cheek, stroking down with a kind of reverence that scared her. The other pressed flat against Henryk’s spine, coaxing him forward, deeper, like she was building the rhythm herself.

  She hadn’t just imagined it. She’d needed it.

  And when her fingers slid beneath her waistband—last night, silent in her room, her breath fogging against her pillow—she didn’t call out Henryk’s name.

  She didn’t call out Mari’s either.

  She cried both. Muffled. Shame-tangled. Like her mouth didn’t know which one she belonged to anymore.

  Iman blinked, and the world snapped back. The corridor around her was cold. Her chest rose once, sharp and shallow. But the heat low in her belly stayed.

  It pulsed.

  Not even shame could smother it.

  They both entered the main dock command area. Medium-sized, bordering on large. Fifteen, maybe twenty members of House Mercury filtered through the workstations and terminals assigned to Dock Area 7.

  “Alright everyone, let’s get this done. Routine and orderly like always,” Iman called, light but firm. She made her way to the command chair. Slid the cap on. Settled in. Deep breath. Before her stretched the stars—cold, endless—and beneath, the transports gliding in and out of The Block’s orbit like blood cells in a vein.

  Iman and the 34th’s job was simple in theory. Keep the dock orderly. Get the people on and off without incident. Watch for anything weird. Anything wrong.

  An hour passed. One cup of bitter black coffee. Everything ran smooth, smoother than it should have. More ships than usual. Food haulers, passenger crafts, some with clearance too high for their dock, marked for the VIP sectors. Politics above her paygrade.

  Jamar sat near the back, pushed into the unit by Anderson's laziness and Iman’s grace. A nepo-assist with enough brains to hold a radio post. Big hands, black and scarred from welding, twisted the dials in front of him. His eyes scanned the readout.

  “New ship… academy registration,” Jamar muttered.

  Heads turned. He felt the weight of it. Snapped his eyes toward Iman.

  “Getting… Martian numbers on this one, Commander.”

  Iman had been leaning on her fist, half-asleep with her coffee still warm in her palm. But now it spilled across the console, her spine snapping straight. Her eyes narrowed at the change in the black beyond the window.

  She coughed into her fist. “Well… hail them.”

  The air changed. Tightened. Static in the blood. The rest of the room picked up on it. They didn’t know why, but they knew enough. Jamar shrugged, flipped a few switches, and leaned into his mic.

  “Martian Transport, do you read… Martian Transport, do you read. Academy Designation 3447B.”

  Jamar’s voice broke the quiet like a stone tossed into still water. His eyes darted toward Iman, then flinched away the second they met hers. That stare—sharp, volcanic—burned hotter than anything in orbit. He swallowed and repeated himself faster now, a stumble in his words like he was sprinting through barbed wire.

  “Martian Transport, Academy Designation. Do you read? You need exact permission to dock. Do you read?”

  And then the screen above them convulsed to life.

  A low whine, a crackle of static. Black and white splotches flickered across everyone’s faces like some archaic strobe light. The whole room turned in unison, as if choreographed by war itself.

  Images loaded slowly, pixel by pixel. First, outlines. Then features. Then the full goddamn hull—up close, like it was pressing against the lens.

  Iman, Tara, and Jamar froze. Their silence said enough. The camera angle was tilted behind the command bridge, facing inward. Like someone wanted them to see everything. Everyone.

  The Sons of Mars filled the frame.

  Mateo stood between two others—Kieren, his frame bulked by Martian enhancements, and Wilbur, who looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. The poor bastard blinked behind glasses too big for his face, stammer frozen on his lips even in still image. Franklin was a wall of a man—stocky—but something in his eyes softened the whole image. Something kind. Gentle. Like he didn’t belong in this war but had come anyway.

  And Tyson. Christ, Tyson.

  He wasn’t a man so much as a sculpted threat, a brute who drew stares without asking. His mere presence made people uncomfortable. Not just the size, but the stillness. Like a predator waiting for a signal.

  Axel grinned like he’d just pulled off a heist, and Arthur mirrored it with a knightly smirk, the two of them spinning lazily in their chairs like they owned the place. Both were in outdated tunics and pants, outfits that mocked protocol. It was theater, and they were proud of it. The Mercurian students nearby—sharper, cleaner, all starch and spine—sneered openly at the display.

  And then there were two.

  Edward sat centerstage, reclining in the command chair like it was his throne. Blonde, pale, his features almost too clean, like someone had carved him out of glacier water and sunlight. One hand propped his face lazily, matching Iman’s pose like they shared a mirror across the void.

  And beside him—Henryk.

  Tara saw it immediately. The way Iman leaned forward, just slightly. The way her eyes locked to that screen like it was the last light left in the universe.

  Henryk didn’t need to move to command attention. He simply existed, and gravity adjusted.

  He was tall—six foot, maybe more—but it wasn’t just height. It was presence. The way his body filled out that gray sweater like it had been sewn across his frame. Brown work pants, scuffed boots, forearms taut beneath the sleeves. A spring coiled too tight. Strength that hadn’t fully unraveled yet.

  His hair had grown since Iman last saw him—long now, brushing the nape of his neck, falling in loose, unbothered strands over his brow. Brown so dark it flirted with black. A scar carved clean along his right eyebrow, faint but sharp. A dimple on his chin, one that looked like it belonged to another man—a softer man, maybe. But there it was.

  Tara felt it, even before she looked at Iman again.

  That was the reason. That was him.

  Iman hadn’t blinked once.

  “So,” Tara said, voice low, “this is the one. Iman?”

  There was no answer. Just that stare. She might as well have carved her name into the screen with her eyes.

  He was handsome, sure. But this? This kind of devotion? This kind of stillness?

  Tara exhaled slowly. “A first love,” she murmured. “It can mean a thousand different things.”

  And for Iman… it meant war.

  Then Ed spoke, voice cutting clean through the tension.

  “Hello, Commander,” he said, his lips curling into a smile that hadn’t been there seconds before. He rose with the ease of someone who never rushed unless it was to deliver bad news. “Glad to see you and your 34th made it here. Honestly, we were bracing for strangers, and I wasn’t in the mood for another long-ass cargo exchange circus. Trust me—I’ve got my horror stories.”

  Laughter cracked the ice in the room. Not just Ed’s crew, but even some from Iman’s 34th. Jamar chuckled. One of the Mercurian tacticians smirked behind their hand. Axel leaned back in his chair and clapped once, loud and lazy.

  But Iman wasn’t laughing.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

  Her arms folded tight across her chest. Her eyes locked on Henryk, and nothing else in that room.

  Iman just stared at him. Not a word. Not a blink. Just that hollow silence, the kind that echoes louder than a scream.

  Ed laughed—an awkward, throat-clearing sound that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. He turned and shot Henryk a look that said, You told me she was chill.

  Henryk’s eyes narrowed. She was. She saved our lives, remember?

  And Ed wanted to slap himself. Should’ve stayed. Just a little longer. Maybe…

  But the moment had already passed. Maybe they were both making too much of it. Or maybe not enough. Henryk took a breath, heavy, knowing that if anyone could get through, it had to be him. They had history. Marcus, the mission, the heat of it all.

  “Hey, Iman… what’s up?” he said, letting the words roll out with a practiced grin. “You and Marcus came in real clutch for that save. Sorry we couldn’t rendezvous after.”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  It wasn’t clear if she was echoing him or answering. She stared at him for a long moment—twenty, maybe thirty seconds—eyes flat and unflinching. Then her gaze shifted to Edward, slow and cold.

  “What do you want, Edward of Mars?” she said, voice sharpened to a blade, fingers curling into the arms of her chair like claws digging into flesh.

  Jamar felt someone jab his ribs. A blonde girl beside him leaned in, whispering out the corner of her mouth.

  “What the fuck’s up with the Commander? She glitching or something? Let’s just wrap this shit and dump ’em on customs.”

  Jamar raised both hands, wordless.

  Edward blinked. He turned to Henryk for backup, but the look he got in return was more of a shrug than support.

  “We’ve got special clearance,” Ed said, forcing his spine straight. “Support and observation for Politician Maelia. Orders from House Mars. What happened at Oceana, what the Neptunians did… it needs to be exposed.”

  Murmurs rippled through the room. Everyone here had a foot in Oceana, whether they liked it or not. The power vacuum between the Houses was an open wound, festering and raw. And now they were talking to the shame of it.

  Iman’s lip curled into a smirk. “Well… you’re on the list. That’s something.” Her head tilted. One of the techs—Briggs—caught her look and froze, eyebrows rising. She didn’t need to say anything. Her eyes gave the command.

  Briggs moved.

  “Send a drone back to their ship. Confirm passport cards. Full scan. If all’s clear, they’re good to dock.”

  Edward shot Henryk a glance. Henryk met it, quiet but clearly asking, What the hell is this?

  Even the soldiers in the Martian ship were fidgeting now. The delay was turning heads. The dock crews were staring, muttering. Someone coughed.

  “That’s like… another hour,” Briggs said, pulling up his terminal. “Thirty minutes there, thirty back.”

  “Oh, I know,” Iman said, and the smile that bloomed on her lips was wolfish. She turned her eyes to the camera again. Ed was visibly sweating now. Henryk wasn’t much better.

  “Come on, Iman,” Ed said, voice cracking with false charm. “We’re good, right? House Mars and House Mercury? We’re allies now. You know who’s on this crew. Christ, our whole House is practically like—ten people.”

  She looked from the screen to Henryk. Her eyes didn’t soften.

  Then, finally, she turned to Briggs again. “Fine. Get it prepped. Make sure none of their shit gets lost in transit. I’m not doing that paperwork.”

  She leaned her cheek into her hand, weariness bleeding into her posture. She looked tired—but not tired enough to forget.

  Henryk stepped in. “Iman, come on. You know us.”

  That did it.

  Her eyes snapped open, lashes parting like a curtain to reveal the full glare of fury underneath. Her voice, when it came, was low and serrated.

  “Edward of House Mars,” she said, “do you not control your men?”

  Ed paled. “H-huh?”

  Her gaze was razors. She sat upright, eyes narrowed, her voice slicing clean.

  “I don’t know how you Martians do it on that dusty red rock, but where I come from, soldiers learn respect. Military discipline. Protocol.” Her fingers tapped the chair’s edge. “Which means your little lackeys don’t address a Commander of another House by nickname. So, let’s try that again.”

  She stood now, rising to her full height, calm as a loaded gun.

  “What,” she said, voice like frost across a pane of glass, “is my title… boy?”

  Silence.

  Even Briggs stopped typing.

  Ed swallowed. Hard.

  Henryk didn’t speak this time. He didn’t dare.

  And somewhere in the back of the room, Jamar muttered under his breath, “Oh shit…”

  …and Iman had a small smile at that. A small, sharp thing. Henryk cocked his head. He didn’t know why, but being called boy—especially from her lips—dug under his skin like a splinter you couldn’t tweeze out.

  “Commander Iman,” he said. “Can you look past this and cut us some slack?”

  Mateo buried his face in his hands. “What a horrible thing to say, you idiot,” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Iman’s lips trembled—just slightly—but it wasn’t sorrow that stirred behind them. It was laughter. A cruel, sudden wheeze that burst from her throat as she whipped her head aside and laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a full-bodied, echoing cackle that sent a ripple of unease through the room.

  “I’ll cut you some slack?” she barked, voice rising like a whip crack. “Oh, that’s rich. That’s fucking rich.”

  She spun toward the room, her voice suddenly barking with the kind of tone that made soldiers instinctively sit straighter, flinch harder. “Where the fuck is Briggs!?”

  Someone spilled their coffee in the far corner. Another technician near her workstation visibly jumped, nearly knocking a monitor off its hinges. Tara exhaled a sigh like she’d just seen a transport crash into a city block.

  Henryk shifted, uncomfortable, suddenly aware of just how many eyes were now on him.

  “What the fuck did you do,” Edward hissed beside him, teeth clenched.

  “I don’t freaking know,” Henryk mouthed back, helpless.

  A meek voice rose from one of the consoles. “He… he radioed in a minute ago. Said he’s prepping the drone. Should be ready in another couple minutes.”

  Iman clapped her hands once, a sharp report that cracked across the chamber like gunfire. Then came the smile—saccharine, fake, a stretched grimace that didn’t reach her eyes. “Well. You heard him.”

  It wasn’t a smile. It was a warning.

  The air inside the room shifted, tightened. You could hear the hard drives humming. Nobody moved. Nobody dared.

  “I can’t wait to let you in, Henryk,” Iman said, locking eyes with the screen again. “Especially you.”

  And then the camera cut to black. Silence. Like someone had just pulled the plug on the sun.

  All that was left was the sound of Iman’s breathing, heavy and uneven, a slow tide pulling inward and out. No one in the control room dared speak. They sat in the war room’s dim glow, waiting like condemned men in a trench waiting for the shell to drop.

  Then, at last, the doors hissed open. Briggs practically skipped into the command bay, waving a handful of documents and holding the drone’s guidance tablet like it was a golden ticket.

  “Commander! I’ve got them!” he announced with the chirp of a man who had no idea he’d just stepped into the lion’s den. “Do you want me to toss them in the scanner or—”

  Iman extended her hand, fingers open and flat like a queen accepting tribute. Her emerald eyes glinted, her brows lowered into a line so thin it could cut paper. Then she bent her fingers once.

  “Gimme gimme,” she said.

  Briggs, grinning like a child, handed them over. He didn’t notice the way the others were watching him, the tension in their shoulders, the way some of the 34th subtly inched away from Iman’s desk like she was radioactive.

  Smart ones were staying busy. The rest were pretending to be.

  “Commander,” Briggs said again, trying to be helpful, “are you sure you don’t want me to toss them in the scanner? It’d be quicker than going through them one by one.”

  Iman ignored him.

  She sat, calmly flipping through the documents. Her left hand brushed aside the sleek black leather of the passport folder, her fingers—malt-colored, deliberate—turning each page with an almost meditative grace. Her expression didn’t shift, but her silence said more than words could.

  “I doubt we’ll find anything strange,” she said finally. “House Mars always had the best fakers. Or at least, they knew where to find them. Like this one.”

  She held up a passport, turned it slightly toward Briggs without really looking at him. Her tone was glassy, almost bored, but the room still hung on it. She was winding herself up, like a spring being turned tighter and tighter. One more turn and she’d snap.

  Behind her, someone coughed quietly. Another technician tapped nervously at his screen, hitting the wrong input twice before getting it right.

  …and she handed Briggs back the passports. All but one.

  “Commander?” Briggs asked, brow knit. He glanced down at the stack in his hands. Edward, Mateo, Tyson—names and faces, all accounted for. Except the last. The black, leathery volume still sat on Iman’s lap like a coiled viper.

  “Uhm… Commander, would you like me to—”

  Iman silenced him with a wordless smile. Not warm. Not cold. Just… unreadable. Briggs clamped his mouth shut before the rest of the sentence could bleed out.

  Tara rose now, uneasy. “Iman… aren’t you worried about what they’re going to say?”

  A chuckle floated from Iman’s throat—low and loose and wrong. Tara blinked. She had never heard Iman laugh like that before. Not like a commander. Not like a soldier. Like a girl with secrets and a sharp knife under her tongue.

  “A lot of crap gets lost in deep space,” Iman said, waving Briggs away like she was shooing a fly from her wine glass.

  Briggs hesitated, looked again at the book in her lap, then turned his gaze away like it burned his retinas. He returned to the drone without a word.

  Iman flipped open Henryk’s passport. His face stared back at her, still and expressionless, caught mid-smirk in bureaucratic amber. She smiled. It came out crooked, conflicted. She wanted to kiss the page. She wanted to rip it to shreds. Her hands twitched with impulse.

  She drew the book toward her jacket pocket. It slid in like a loaded gun. She didn’t know what she’d do with it when the bottle was in her hand later, when the rooms felt too small and her thoughts too loud. Maybe she’d cry. Maybe she’d light it on fire. Maybe she’d burn the whole damned Block down and call it justice.

  Briggs slipped out. Doors sighed shut behind him.

  Iman’s eyes drifted across the command room. Her voice cracked the silence. “Radio back to them. Let them know we’ll be sending their passports.”

  Jamar nodded slowly, choosing, like the others, not to glance at the black book nestled in Iman’s lap like a sacred thing. A cursed thing.

  Her lips trembled, then steadied like a blade set on stone. “I don’t know… I don’t care. The Martians are guilty. All of them. Something’s off about this, and I’m not going to pretend it’s not.”

  Tara gave her an exhausted, broken look. They thought they were making progress. Actual, human progress. But Iman had pulled the mask back down.

  Iman’s eyes locked on the display—a blinking dot suspended in a sea of void. The blip of the incoming ship. Henryk’s ship. “I don’t care what has to be done,” she said. “I want them searched. I want every bolt, every wire, every goddamn hair on their heads scanned and triple-checked. And then I want them waiting. Hours. Let them feel it.”

  The smile that followed was nothing short of sadistic. A queen who’d won a battle no one else even saw on the map.

  And the worst part?

  Iman got her win.

  Because that was the first time they stepped foot on The Block. The next day would be the speech. A moment of history. A broadcast of unity and hope.

  But when they arrived at 3PM, they weren’t let out until 10.

  Seven hours of sitting in silence.

  Seven hours of Iman’s wrath wrapped in red tape.