The march through the cafeteria was silent except for the hum of the overhead lights. Commander Virk

  walked in front of them, her stride crisp, every motion measured. Bash followed half a step behind,

  Rixor at his side, shoulders tight, breathing shallow. Neither spoke. The officer’s presence radiated

  authority in a way that demanded quiet.

  Do not speak unless addressed directly, S-C warned, her tone sharp and subdued. Observation mode

  only.

  Got it, Bash thought back.

  They entered through a wide door rimmed in white light. The Coordination Facility looked like a

  training arena and courtroom combined, half simulation space, half observation platform. Ranks of

  holo-panels hovered above the floor, each projecting faint resonance signatures from previous cycles.

  The air smelled faintly of sterilized metal.

  The Reincarnates were already there, lined up in a loose formation. Murdok stood in front, his deep

  green armor catching the ambient light. Behind him, the others, blues and whites, watched with barely

  veiled contempt. A few bore faint bruises or scuffs from the cafeteria fight.

  Commander Virk stepped forward. She was imposing, her frame dense with muscle, her brown armor

  etched with the insignia of the Reincarnate command corps. Her voice, when it came, filled the

  chamber with practiced authority.

  “Cycle incident report 83-C. Cafeteria altercation between one Novarch Green, one Novarch Grey, and

  fifteen Reincarnates.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Bash and Rixor. “We will determine accountability.”

  Bash stood straight. He could feel every gaze in the room, half hostility, half morbid curiosity. He

  caught Murdok’s smirk from across the floor.

  Virk’s gaze shifted between both groups. “Reincarnate Murdok, you’ll speak first.”

  Murdok stepped forward, posture rigid but voice dripping with restrained aggression. “Commander

  Virk, the Novarch initiated contact. We were taking our meal, standard rotation, when he...” Murdok

  pointed at Bash “spoke out of turn. Mocking hierarchy. Disrespecting rank.”

  Rixor’s jaw dropped, but Bash didn’t move.

  Murdok continued, tone rising with conviction. “When corrected, he became hostile. Attacked without

  provocation. We responded in restraint, as per protocol.”

  Several of his comrades nodded. too quickly, too rehearsed. Bash could almost hear his father’s voice

  in his head: They’re overselling it. Classic diversion.

  Virk turned slightly. “Novarch 98,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Response.”

  Wait, S-C urged. Let the Reincarnates build their case first. Speaking too soon establishes

  defensiveness.

  Bash held his ground, jaw tight, saying nothing.

  Rixor, unable to contain himself, blurted, “That’s not what happened! They shoved me first, he was

  trying to...”

  Virk cut him off with a look. “Silence unless called upon.”

  The room fell still. For a moment Bash thought she would simply record Murdok’s version as fact. But

  then Virk’s gaze returned to him.

  “Well?” she said.

  Bash inhaled slowly. His training instincts took over, the posture, the tone, the precision of military

  response. “Permission to speak freely, Commander.”

  That single phrase changed the air. Virk’s brows lifted slightly, caught off guard by the exactness of his

  tone. “Granted.”

  Bash met her eyes directly. “We were eating quietly. The Reincarnates approached our table. One of

  them shoved my roommate. I told them to back off. They escalated.” His voice stayed even, controlled,

  every syllable deliberate. “I defended myself and my peer until the engagement was halted.”

  The silence that followed stretched long. Even S-C didn’t speak.

  Finally, Virk said, “You claim defense.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “No disrespect intended?”

  “None, Commander.”

  She studied him for several heartbeats, expression unreadable. “Your speech patterns. They’re…

  practiced.”

  “Training, Commander.”

  “What kind of training?”

  Bash hesitated. Careful, S-C warned. Too much detail draws inquiry.

  “Coordination discipline,” Bash answered simply. “It stays with you.”

  Virk’s eyes narrowed further, but she said nothing.

  One of the Reincarnate blues muttered under his breath, “Coordination, my core…”

  “Enough,” Virk snapped. Her gaze swept both sides. “There will be no more words. At dawn, all parties

  involved will report here for combat evaluation, discipline through merit. Each side will field two

  Spartors. The outcome will determine accountability.”

  Rixor stiffened. “Wait, me too?”

  “You were present,” Virk said curtly. “You will represent your cycle.”

  Before Rixor could argue, the doors hissed open behind them.

  A figure stepped in, taller, leaner, clad in blue armor trimmed with silver veins of light. His presence

  shifted the room. The Reincarnates straightened instinctively. Even Virk’s jaw tightened.

  “Commander Jouk,” she said stiffly. “This matter concerns my division.”

  “Correction,” Jouk replied smoothly, voice like cool steel. “It concerns both divisions. A conflict

  between Reincarnates and Novarchs falls under shared jurisdiction.”

  Virk’s tone sharpened. “Discipline is my purview.”

  “And fairness is mine,” Jouk countered. He glanced at Bash and Rixor, then back to her. “You’re

  ordering a duel between seasoned Reincarnates and two Novarchs who haven’t completed orientation.

  That’s not discipline, it’s spectacle.”

  Murmurs rippled through the Reincarnates. Virk’s eyes flared. “Are you questioning my authority?”

  “I’m questioning your balance.” Jouk stepped closer, unflinching. “If you want truth, submit all

  involved to a Nexus memory evaluation. Let the system verify what actually happened.”

  Several Reincarnates visibly tensed. Their faces betrayed them, a flicker of guilt, panic, resistance.

  Virk noticed.

  Jouk pressed the advantage. “What’s wrong, Commander? Don’t trust the Nexus to confirm your

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  version?”

  Her glare could have cut alloy. “The duel will proceed.”

  “Then let’s do both,” Jouk said, voice dropping into challenge. “Combat evaluation at dawn, followed

  by Nexus verification. Whoever’s story fails alignment with truth faces council punishment.”

  The room froze. Even Murdok’s smirk faltered.

  Virk’s voice dropped low. “You overstep.”

  “Or you underestimate transparency,” Jouk replied. Then, quieter but edged, “Unless you don’t trust the

  Nexus.”

  The words landed like a strike. Everyone in the room knew she couldn’t refuse that without branding

  herself insubordinate to higher authority.

  Her jaw clenched. “Fine,” she said at last. “Duel first. Evaluation after.”

  Jouk gave a curt nod. “Agreed.”

  Murdok’s eyes met his across the room, not warning, not rage, just certainty. The kind that promised

  payback.

  Virk turned sharply. “Dismissed. Both sides prepare. Failure will be punished by Council standard.”

  She exited through the rear passage, armor ringing faintly with each step.

  Jouk waited until Commander Virk had disappeared through the far doors, her escort trailing behind in

  perfect formation. Only then did he turn, his gaze sweeping the room one last time.

  “Bash. Rixor. With me.”

  Neither spoke. The Reincarnates parted just enough to let them pass, a corridor of silent hostility. Every

  step through that narrow gap felt heavier than the last. Bash could feel their eyes on his back, hard,

  deliberate, unblinking. Rixor’s shoulder brushed his as they walked; the Grey trembled almost

  imperceptibly.

  They exited into the main hall. The massive doors closed behind them with a deep hydraulic groan that

  echoed down the corridor like the sealing of a tomb.

  No one spoke. The faint hum of the ship filled the void, low and steady. The lights lining the walls were

  dimmer here, narrow veins of blue-white illumination that barely touched the floor. Their shadows

  stretched long ahead of them, distorted by the curvature of the passage.

  Jouk walked at an even pace, hands clasped behind his back. His armor caught the light, a sharp glint

  with each measured stride. Bash followed half a step behind, Rixor dragging slightly, his breathing too

  loud in the silence.

  The walk felt endless, the kind of silence that crushed conversation before it began. Bash’s mind kept

  circling the same thoughts: the duel, the stares, the way Virk had looked at him like an equation she

  couldn’t solve.

  Rixor whispered once, “We’re dead.”

  “Quiet,” Jouk said, without turning. The word wasn’t cruel; it was command, absolute and final.

  They passed the branching halls of the dorm sector. Each junction glowed faintly, labeled in unreadable

  script. The place felt deserted, though Bash knew it wasn’t, there were always eyes somewhere,

  watching, recording, judging.

  The further they walked, the more oppressive the air became. Bash’s footsteps sounded too loud. The

  hum under the floor seemed to sync with his heartbeat. Even S-C stayed silent, as if unwilling to

  disturb the tension that hung over them.

  At last, Jouk slowed. Ahead, a faint glyph flickered - 225.

  He stopped, turning just enough that the light caught the side of his face. “Open it.”

  Rixor hesitated, then pressed his hand to the panel. The door hissed open, light spilling out from the

  small dorm beyond.

  Rixor keyed the pad. The door slid aside, and all three stepped in.

  The commander scanned the room, two bunks, clean floor, faint hum from the ventilation. Then he

  faced them. “You’ve made enemies, both of you.”

  Rixor looked ready to melt. “We didn’t do anything...”

  “They don’t care.” Jouk cut him off. “Tomorrow’s duel isn’t about guilt. It’s about control. The

  Reincarnates will aim to remove you from the board entirely. Dead opponents can’t testify.”

  Rixor went pale. “So we’re dead.”

  “Not if you’re smarter,” Jouk said. He turned to Bash. “You have instincts. Training. I saw that in the

  cafeteria.”

  “You were there?” Bash asked.

  “I watch everything in my division.” Jouk’s expression didn’t change. “You caught them off guard.

  Let’s see if you can do it again when they’re expecting it.”

  With that, he moved to the door. “Survive,” he said simply, and left.

  The door sealed with a hiss.

  For a moment, silence hung heavy between them.

  Rixor finally spoke, voice cracking. “If he saw everything, he could’ve cleared us. Why didn’t he?”

  Bash didn’t answer, but S-C’s voice came through, cool and precise. Because one of the Reincarnates

  carries political weight. Someone powerful benefits from protecting them.

  Bash repeated it aloud. “Politics.”

  Rixor’s hands curled into fists. “Great. We’re going to die for politics.”

  “Not if we don’t let them,” Bash said.

  Rixor began pacing. “You don’t get it, they’ve been through training! They’ve died before! They’ll…

  what if we just admit fault? Say it was our mistake...”

  Bash grabbed his shoulder, steady but firm. “Then they’ll keep walking over us. This ends tomorrow.”

  Rixor stared at him for a long moment, then nodded weakly. “Right. Tomorrow.”

  When Rixor finally crawled into his bunk, Bash sat at the table, staring at the dim light in the wall. His

  reflection looked back at him, green, dark, alien, and still somehow his own.

  S-C broke the quiet. You intend to fight.

  He didn’t look up. “Doesn’t look like I have a choice.”

  You could yield.

  “And prove them right?” He shook his head. “No. Not happening.”

  There was a pause. You risk elimination.

  “Then I risk it.”

  S-C hesitated again. Why defend Rixor? Statistical logic does not justify the risk.

  He leaned back, voice low. “Because no one else did.”

  That response does not align with Nexus protocol.

  “Good,” he said quietly.

  The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty this time. It felt like something had shifted, subtle, unseen.

  Understood, S-C said finally, her tone softer than before.