The Smai Grand’s dining hall glowed with warm, amber light, the clink of silverware and the soft strains of Moon River weaving through the air. In the center, the massive holographic screen flickered to life, replaying scenes from the grand ceremony in Cadian City.

  On-screen, the transport ship descended onto the landing platform. The reporter’s voice brimmed with patriotic fervor: “And here they are—heroes of the Terran Commonwealth, returned safely to their homeland!”

  Colonel Sterling stumbled out of the hatch, and a wave of applause went through the dining hall. Jack flinched at the sound. Watching it now felt… absurd. He remembered that moment all too well—hunched in the shadows of the troop bay, letting Sterling take the first step into the flashbulbs and cheers.

  On the holoscreen, Sterling embraced an old comrade, tears streaking his weathered face. The image was framed like a painting of noble suffering, perfect for the history reels. Guests around the room dabbed at their eyes.

  Jack lowered his gaze, his own eyes damp—not from sentiment, but from the sudden, sharp contrast between the clean, publicized version of war and the filth burned into his memory. His mind conjured the scent of wet dirt, hot blood, and pulverized bone. The memory pressed in like a hand on his throat. At least, he thought, I brought them home alive.

  A faint hum bled through his table’s surface screen, the hotel’s info-net quietly updating the live feed. For Jack, it carried an echo—like static overlaying a memory he didn’t want.

  Under the table, Nova’s hand found his. Her touch was warm, steady. He hadn’t even realized his fist had clenched. Slowly, the tension bled out of his shoulders.

  “Where were you then?” she asked softly, a sly glimmer in her eyes.

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  Jack’s mouth twitched. “Right there.” He pointed at the screen, where a young female soldier was running into her family’s arms. Off to the side, barely visible in the shadow of the transport, a stocky figure slunk away like a petty thief.

  Nova stifled a laugh, squeezing his hand with mock reproach. They shared a quiet smile—until a sharp voice cut through the music.

  “Get up. Why are you sitting here?”

  They turned. A small group—men and women their age, dressed in expensive eveningwear—had gathered beside the table. The one who spoke, a slick-haired young man with a designer suit, eyed them with disdain.

  “A mere lieutenant,” he said, letting the rank drip with contempt, “and a woman with so little respect for the sacrifices of real heroes? This table isn’t for you. Get out.”

  Jack’s jaw tightened, but Nova spoke first, her tone calm and precise, as if reciting from a scientific paper.

  “First, our laughter had no direct causal relation to the images on the screen. Second, ‘respect’ is a subjective state, impossible to measure from external observation. Third, under both Commonwealth law and the hotel’s own service terms, we are paying customers. Your command for us to ‘leave’ is therefore logically unsound and legally void.”

  She paused, looking up at him with an expression usually reserved for dissecting primitive microbes. “Any further questions?”

  The young man, Julian Vance, blinked, unaccustomed to such treatment. His date, a glamorous woman in a crimson gown, leaned in and said coldly, “That’s the Smai heir you’re speaking to.”

  “Oh,” Nova said, her voice touched with sudden, almost pitying realization. “A hereditary cognitive deficit. That would explain it.”

  “You dare insult me!” Julian snapped, his cheeks flushed a deep red with rage. “Lieutenant or not, when I say leave, you leave. Even a colonel would.”

  Jack finally leaned back, folding his arms, the picture of lazy indifference—except for the quiet weight in his eyes. The HUD lens in his retina flickered faintly, tagging Julian’s face with an overlay: [Civilian: No Threat].

  “Kid,” he said, his voice low, almost conversational. “Trust me. You do not want to find out what a real colonel does when you back him into a corner.”

  The music around them had faded. Other guests were watching now, whispers running like static through the room. Near the door, one of Julian’s friends lifted a slim data-slate, subtly angling it toward Jack’s table. The screen caught a shimmer of the holo-feed, glitching once—like an eye blinking in the dark—then cleared.