He turned his head, looking directly at me with eyes so fiercely familiar it hurt. “Are you ever going to fly again? Or are you just here to watch other people take the risks?”
His words weren’t laced with anger—they were laced with fear. He didn’t care about my medals, the Apex Syndicate files I helped dismantle, or the title on my desk. He just saw a mother who had stepped back into the machine that chewed up his father, terrified that the sky would eventually demand its full toll.
That night, alone in my quarters, the reality of my choice crashed down on me. The dramatic heroics of Flight 402 were over; the adrenaline had faded, leaving behind the grinding, quiet machinery of sacrifice. I realized that my toughest battle wasn’t out-maneuvering hijackers in zero gravity—it was proving to my son, and to myself, that wearing the uniform didn’t mean abandoning the family we fought so hard to protect.
The next morning, instead of heading straight to the command center, I walked down to the active hangar. The smell of JP-8 jet fuel and hot metal hit my senses, sharp and alive. Commander Vance, the base operations chief, was standing by the ladder of a dual-seat trainer, reviewing pre-flight diagnostics.
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