Page 21 of Galactic Sentinels: Vol. 1
A few minutes later, Duncan—one of Henri’s guards—comes running around the corner of the house.
“Ileana? Prianka?”
“Here!” I call out, waving him over.
He kneels beside us without hesitation, his movements gentle as he lifts my sister into his arms. She lets out a few soft moans of pain, but doesn’t resist.
“How’s my favorite girl?” he says with a wink, trying to lighten the moment. “You know, all you have to do is ask and I’ll come spend more time with you.”
Even through her tears, Prianka manages a giggle.
Duncan is charming—young, kind, and often assigned to our household, especially to help with Prianka. If she let him, I’m sure he’d confess his feelings. But that’s not going to happen. Not now.
He follows me inside, carrying her carefully through her room and into the small vestibule where the regeneration sarcophagus sits—pale green and humming softly, waiting.
I place my hand on the control panel, and the lid opens with a quiet hiss. Duncan gently lays her down on the cool surface.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says softly, brushing her hand before stepping back.
I reach for the sterilized blade nearby and begin cutting away her clothes—quickly, carefully, trying not to cause her more pain. The sarcophagus requires direct skin contact to function properly. Duncan respectfully turns his back, shielding her with a privacy cloth.
In less than two minutes, she’s ready—naked, vulnerable, but safe. I lean in, blow her a kiss, and touch her cheek with my fingertips.
Her face is tight with pain, her eyes wet. I close the lid gently, and the machine hums to life.
I know from experience that within seconds, she’ll slip into stasis—free from pain, from fear, from everything. She’ll stay there for at least twelve hours. Bone regeneration takes time.
But she’s safe now. And that’s all that matters.
I turn to Duncan, trying to reassure him as best I can. He looks so worried, his brow furrowed as he watches the sarcophagus hum softly.
“Don’t worry,” I say gently. “She’s used to it. After her little session in there, she’ll come back to us good as new.”
“I know,” he replies, his voice low and heavy. “But it hurts so much to see her like this. It’s just… so unfair. Why can’t these damn pods cure her?”
“Because they don’t rewrite DNA,” I explain quietly. “They repair what’s broken, but they do it by copying the body’s original blueprint. And Prianka’s illness is in her genes. It’s the same thing that took our father.”
“But you’re not sick,” he says, confused and a little indignant.
“We’re not blood sisters,” I tell him. “My biological parents died when I was very young. They were best friends with Prianka’s parents—worked with them on this disease, actually. Chandra and Roland adopted me right after. They’re the only parents I’ve ever known.”
He looks at the sarcophagus, his expression pained. “What are her chances, really?”
“Without the sarcophagus?” I shake my head. “Worse than you think. But with it, she could live into her forties. Maybe longer. Her case is more severe than our father’s was. And even with the pod, one bad fall—one fracture that hits a vital organ—and it could all be over. Just like that. That’s why she uses the wheelchair most of the time.”
“I care about her,” he says softly, almost like a confession.
“Then be patient,” I say, placing a hand on his arm. “She needs time to see that she’s more than her illness.”
“I will,” he promises, his voice full of quiet resolve.
He leaves, and I’m alone again—with the soft hum of the sarcophagus, and the silence that always follows.
***
The next morning, I return to the pod just as it finishes its regeneration cycle. The light on the sarcophagus turns green, signaling the end of the process. Henri has already left for the day. Last night, I slept alone in the small room next to the master bedroom—the one I use every night. When he came home, he didn’t ask to see me. But he probably will tonight. Or the night after.
I open the lid and meet Prianka’s gaze—rested, clear, and full of life.
