Page 20 of Galactic Sentinels: Vol. 1
The blonde from earlier tries to intercept me, but nothing has flavor anymore. I slip past her and make my way back to the SIL, avoiding any chance of crossing paths with the one whose name I refuse to even think.
“If you want my opinion, you’re making a huge mistake!” Wingo tries one last time, his voice laced with concern.
“Good thing I’m not asking for it!”I shoot back, my frustration and sorrow spilling over.
I rush into the SIL—my refuge from the pain. It’s time to leave. To put distance between myself and the woman who unknowingly stole my heart.
As the ship’s doors seal behind me, I struggle to breathe. It hurts more than I thought possible, even though all I said to her was a simple “hello.” But I have to let go—for her sake.
Time to go.
Chapter 6.
Ileana, 18 months later.
I watch my sister dozing peacefully on the chaise longue in her room, positioned right at the threshold of her dematerialized door that opens onto the garden. It’s the warmest part of the day, so there’s no risk of her catching a chill. This is also the time I usually step out to check on the vegetable garden.
I slip outside, letting the sunlight wash over me as I move through the garden, picking the fruits and vegetables we’ll share for dinner. Here, the plants grow freely, following their own rhythm. It’s nothing like BN-35, where everything was grown in vertical hydroponic towers, every variable tightly controlled. Here, nature has taken over—guided at first by Confederation tech, but now thriving on its own.
Real insects buzz from flower to flower, pollinating as they go. Trees stretch and twist however they please, unconfined by artificial constraints. During the day, I feel at peace. This planet is beautiful—so much more alive than the sterile corridors of the base where we spent nearly our entire lives.
Prianka feels it too. When she’s not resting, she’s constantly marveling at the birds, the insects, the colors.Henri even had a bench installed at the edge of the trees—though he found the idea a little absurd. But it’s perfect. Sitting there, listening to the wind rustle through the leaves, is one of the purest pleasures I’ve ever known.
And what a technological marvel it is. The AI manages to create gentle air currents by subtly adjusting atmospheric pressure beneath the energy dome, encouraging pollination. It’s a quiet miracle—one of many on this strange, beautiful world.
A soft rustling behind me pulls me out of my thoughts. I turn and see Prianka standing, slowly making her way toward the back of the garden, just a few meters away.
“Prianka?”
“Look, it’s a butterfly!” she exclaims, pointing with delight at a magnificent specimen—larger than a hand, its wings nearly transparent and edged in brilliant fuchsia pink.
She’s right. It’s stunning. Every day on Jaga-18 brings new wonders—life forms the Confederation has carefully introduced to this young world. Each one feels like a small miracle.
“You didn’t sleep long,” I note, remembering she lay down less than twenty minutes ago.
“Well, I’m tired of lying around, doing nothing with my hands,” she says with a playful sigh. “And I already spend part of my day in that wheelchair. Let me enjoy the garden with you, just for a little while.”
I watch as she lifts her arms to the sky, as if to embrace the sun, then begins to spin slowly, her head tilted back, a wide smile lighting up her face.
It fills me with joy to see her like this—radiant, free, alive.
Without looking where she’s stepping, Prianka spins once, twice, three times—then suddenly stumbles. Her foot catches on a root, and she falls hard onto her side. A sickening crack echoes through the garden.
“Prianka!” I cry, rushing toward her.
But it’s too late. She’s already gone pale, her eyes wide and brimming with tears.
“Talk to me—where does it hurt?” I ask, though I already know the answer won’t change what needs to be done.
“My hip,” she gasps, her voice tight with pain.
Damn it. She won’t be able to walk to the regeneration pod near the entrance of the house. And I can’t carry her—not that far, not with her injuries. There’s only one option.
Henri.
The thought makes my stomach twist. He’ll help, of course. He’ll say all the right things, wear his mask of concern. But the price will come later—after Prianka’s out of the pod, when no one’s watching.
My hands tremble as I pull out my command pad and type a quick message to the governor, explaining what happened.
