A pause. Then: “Standard protocol is psychiatric reassignment and memory damping of the mission parameters. You will forget this was ever your path.”

Kaelen stood. He walked to the viewport of the orbital station. Below, the Event Horizon —the ship he was supposed to pilot—gleamed like a silver needle. And walking up its boarding ramp, flanked by aides, was Darya. She moved with that practiced, theatrical steadiness. But Kaelen had seen the medical files. Her tremor wasn’t gone. It was just hidden.

“You can’t,” he said gently. “And we both know what happens if you try. The gravity shear will need micro-adjustments at 0.03-second intervals. Your synapses will misfire. You’ll fold the ship.”

Silence. The countdown clock on the main display ticked toward launch.

Kaelen felt the words land like cold metal in his gut. Not just rejected. Nulled . Erased from the equation as if he had never been a variable. Darya, trembling hands and all, had pulled rank. And command, terrified of her political connections, had agreed.

She stood. Unstrapped. Walked to the cockpit door.