He finally boarded the transport bound for the capital.

  Jack sat by the porthole. The metal hull of the transport still gave off a faint heat; the cabin smelled of disinfectant and machine oil—a strangely comforting mix, unlike the stench of blood, smoke, and rotting foliage that had clung to the lowland jungle.

  Outside, Garipan receded. The planet’s orbit had been crowded with engineering vessels and giant transports—like medics stitching up the corpse of a wounded beast. Human recovery, or rather recovery driven by profit, was astonishingly efficient.

  The transport climbed until Garipan became a tiny world. Ant-like figures on the surface raced to rebuild the planet at dizzying speed.

  Two days later, the ship touched down at Concordia’s airport.

  The terminal was vast, capable of handling hundreds of transports simultaneously. Riding the moving walkway, Jack stared at the familiar yet strange skyline beyond the transparent alloy wall and felt a sense of unreality. He had lived here almost twenty years; a year of war had aged the city and him both.

  The airport ran like clockwork: people hurried, faces relaxed, holographic ads crowed about victory and reconstruction. Everything was at odds with his last memory of the city—taut with dread before the invasion.

  Had he changed, or had the world?

  A driverless car slid along Concordia’s upper transit lanes. Jack rode in the back, the city flashing by. He felt a kind of guilty hometown nerves—something like “near-home shame.” He wondered whether his “heroic deeds” had leaked to his old street, even though the higher-ups had promised to keep his name secret. Part of him hoped his reputation might have been washed clean—that the “cowardly mechanic” tag had been replaced by that mysterious halo of “rescued prisoners.”

  The car turned onto Jones Street. Jack stood before his house and looked at the crooked tree out front. Memories rushed in—he’d grown up here, spied on nearly every girl across the street as a boy. Returning now, his feelings were complicated.

  An old man across the street opened his door with a bag of trash. He glanced at Jack, glanced away, then did a double-take. Recognition hit him; his weathered face flushed. He pointed at Jack, speechless with excitement.

  Jack smiled, waving a greeting—assuming the neighbor was simply thrilled to see him. Suddenly, the old man dropped the trash, grabbed his cane, and began to beat it on the ground, bellowing at the top of his lungs:

  “Jack’s back! That fat bastard’s back!”

  Tears sprang to Jack’s eyes—what a warm welcome. These were the neighbors who’d seen him grow up.

  “Everyone with daughters—don’t let them bathe!” the old man hollered next. The neighborhood erupted in a rapid, machine-like clatter of shutters and doors slamming—so many doors closing, it sounded like gunfire.

  The street emptied. Kids and gossiping girls vanished. A single yellowing leaf rose on a gust kicked up by the slammed doors and drifted past Jack.

  His smile froze.

  Reputation—ruined, again.

  Growing up on this block, Jack had been shameless and brazen; he’d peered through windows, tinkered with circuitry to pick locks, and listened through walls. Any hint of a pretty girl and he’d be there. Neighbors had enough—if anyone caught him spying, they’d beat him as if he were their own son. No one would trust a little shit like him.

  Jack trudged inside, dumped his bag, and collapsed onto the dust-covered couch. Dust rose; he coughed. Anger flared. He grabbed a throw pillow and hurled it to the floor.

  “Dammit! So what if I’m back? You lot are a bunch of narrow-minded idiots! What’s so great about your underdeveloped girls?” he shouted, breathing hard, looking at the empty house. A pair of parental photos hung on the wall, watching in the dim light.

  Suddenly quiet, Jack walked over and wiped the dust off the pictures. His father in work clothes, his mother smiling gently, young and hopeful in a photo taken in front of this very house.

  “Mom, Dad…” he murmured. “I’m home.”

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  A few days later, he stood at the Concordia cemetery on the outskirts—a quiet place away from the city’s clamor. Twin suns filtered through thin clouds, casting a soft gold over orderly rows of stones like a silent city.

  Jack found his parents’ grave: simple black granite etched with two names—John Harlan and Mary Harlan. The flowers he’d left before the war had withered.

  He knelt, brushing away leaves and dust with slow, gentle movements as if not to disturb anything.

  “Mom, Dad,” his voice rough, “I’m back. I’m still alive.”

  The wind stirred the dry leaves.

  “I know I haven’t been a good son,” he said, head bowed. “You wanted me to grow up steady—get a decent job, marry well, live an honest life. But I—kept screwing up.”

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  His eyes stung. He swallowed.

  “When the war started, I was terrified. I wanted to run. And I did.” His voice dipped. “I’m not a hero, Dad. I never was.”

  The gravestones did not answer; only the wind replied.

  “But… I met someone.” Jack looked up, eyes softening. “A girl. Her name’s Meadow.”

  He pictured her—brave, gentle. “She saved me, Dad. Not just on the battlefield… here.” He pressed a palm to his chest. “She made me feel like maybe I wasn’t a total waste. Maybe I could do something.”

  He placed a fresh bundle of white flowers at the stone.

  “But now I don’t know where she is,” he said, voice trembling. “She disappeared on some mission. I… I’m worried.”

  He stood, inhaled, and said firmly, “I promise you—I’ll find her. I’ll protect her. I won’t run this time.”

  He bowed to the headstone, then turned away. The stones stood in the sunlight, watching him go.

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  Back home, Jack set about cleaning. He removed dust sheets, scrubbed windows, swept—arranging the house as if arranging his life.

  At night, he sat by the window and watched the closed curtains across the street and thought of Meadow: where was she now? Was she safe? Did she remember him?

  On the third evening, the doorbell rang. Irritated—who else would it be, a neighbor complaining about his return?—Jack opened the door.

  A middle-aged woman stood there. She looked to be in her forties, slim and simply but neatly dressed. Her hair fell to her shoulders with streaks of silver. Even with lines of age, she’d once been beautiful. Her eyes were gentle and tinged with worry—an expression that made Jack’s heart jump. He had seen that look before: in Meadow’s face.

  “Excuse me—sorry to bother you,” she said politely. “Is this Jack Harlan’s home?”

  Jack blinked, unsettled. “I’m Jack. Who are you?”

  She smiled, with a tired, anxious warmth. “I’m Meadow’s mother—Mingmei Lin.”

  Something buzzed in Jack’s head.

  Meadow’s mother?

  He remembered the girl who’d saved him and then vanished. He remembered her face, her last words.

  “Mrs.—Mrs. Lin,” Jack stammered, throat thick. “Please—please come in.”

  Mingmei Lin stepped inside and sat on the freshly tidied couch. Jack pulled a chair opposite, hands fidgeting.

  “I’m sorry for the mess,” he began, then realized how pointless the apology sounded.

  “It’s fine,” she said, then reached into her coat and placed a small object on the table: a transparent capsule, thumb-sized, the liquid inside glowing faintly blue.

  Jack’s heart tightened. He recognized it.

  “This is what Meadow left in a bank safe,” Mingmei said, voice trembling. “She told me—if I hadn’t heard from her in three months—to give this to you. I just retrieved it.”

  Three months.

  His hand shook. He knew what it was: a DNA capsule—an encrypted personal token. In this era, quantum computers could crack almost any cipher, but not DNA. DNA isn’t an invented code; it’s the code of life itself—uniquely grown, not computed. Even centuries hence, cracking DNA encryption would be a godlike power.

  Meadow had entrusted him with her DNA.

  “Did she say anything?” Jack whispered.

  She shook her head, eyes wet. “She didn’t say much. She hugged me and said she was sorry, then left. I’ve tried contacting her everywhere—no response. She said she was on a mission but wouldn’t say where. She looked… distraught.”

  A tear fell. “She told me if anything happened to find someone named Jack. She said—You would help.”

  Jack stared at Mingmei’s tears and at the faintly glowing capsule on the table. Something inside him cracked.

  He remembered Meadow on the battlefield: brave, steady, kind. She’d given him the will to live—and now she was gone, off on some assignment he didn’t know the details of.

  “I’ve been searching for her too,” Jack said, clenching his fists. His voice was raw. “She must have been deployed with the troops… she shouldn’t be in danger.”

  Even as he said it, he didn’t believe it. If there were no danger, why leave a DNA capsule with instructions to contact him in three months?

  Mingmei watched him and suddenly understood why her daughter had trusted this young man. He cared for Meadow. Truly cared.

  Jack breathed, crouched, and took her hand. It was cold and trembling.

  “Aunt—” he said, voice steadying, eyes earnest, “stay here. There’s a place I have in Garipan. Once I've sorted things out, we’ll go together. You can stay with me.”

  He looked straight at her. “I promise—I will find Meadow. I owe her too much.”

  Mingmei’s tears flowed freely. She gripped his hand and nodded.

  Outside, Concordia’s sky dimmed toward evening. The little DNA capsule glowed faintly on the table—a quiet, bluish promise. It sat there like an unanswered question.

  A promise. An unresolved answer.