Page 130 of Aviatrix

So, I focus on what I can. The three of us walking in, row one, a united front. Lark stays close, his shoulder brushing mine. I gently guide Amber, who’s trembling but trying to be brave.

I catch sight of several agents with comms at their ears, hands twitching at their belts. Something’s off. They’re scanning the crowd, not the perimeter. Looking for someone. Or something.

I don’t have time to think about when or how the next attack might come. All that matters is getting us to our seats.

Thankfully, Sasha and Thea are just behind us. Their grim expressions are a strange kind of comfort.

I turn back and hug Thea tightly. “Update?” I whisper.

“All good to go,” she murmurs.

Then, Sasha wraps me in a tighter hug. “Space Command is here,” she breathes into my ear.

I pull back. Her eyes meet mine, and in them I see the fear she’s trying to mask.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her softly, noticing the tremor in her fingers.

The rest of Alien Warfare is behind us. There’s an older man with bug eyes, two gray-haired vets from Camp Obsidian, and a woman in her fifties with dyed red hair. Beside her is Frances—Lark’s Academy friend and the woman who helped me in San Diego. She’s holding the red-haired woman’s hand. I offer a small smile. Frances returns it, but her eyes are wide.

I finally turn forward, only to feel Lark’s hand settle gently on my lower back. Around us, news crews and dignitaries murmur and shift. Former presidents, camera flashes, whispered prayers.

But that single touch reorients me.

I place my hand on Lark’s arm, and whisper, “Space Command is here.”

He bends slightly and says, “Let’s hope they know what they’re doing.”

I kiss his cheek—a staged gesture—but still warm. Still reassuring. I inhale his woodsy cologne and remind myself what we’re doing here.

And what we might lose.

A reverend dressed in black stands beside Wingard’s closed casket. There was never a body recovered. Just ash and rubble. The casket is a symbol of the man who once felt like a national treasure, despite how horribly he treated his only child.

I glance up at Lark as the reverend lifts both hands and begins.

“We gather today not just to lay a leader to rest, but to honor the echo of a life that touched every corner of this nation. President Wingard C. Jones did not strive for perfection, but he strove for purpose. He believed in service, in sacrifice, and in the sacred responsibility of carrying others when they could not walk alone.”

He pauses for dramatic effect. Amber’s hand starts to sweat in mine.

“In times of war and peace,” the reverend continues, “in unrest and unity, he did not turn from the weight of duty, he shouldered it. Some will remember his policies. Others, his speeches. But those who knew him best will remember his stillness in a storm. His steel in the face of fear. And his tenderness when the cameras were gone.”

I force myself not to look around. Not to search for whoever—or whatever—might come for us. But I can’t help it. My eyes drift to a black patch of sky across the Potomac. An alien ship hovers over D.C. It’s not as massive as I imagined, but it’s still large enough to cast a long, haunting shadow.

“Today, we do not bury a man,” the reverend’s voice draws me back. “We plant his legacy, so it may rise again in those who carry on his work. In those who still believe in something higher than power. In those who still dare to lead with heart. Let us not simply mourn what has been lost. Let us become worthy of the hope he had for us.”

Beside me, Lark shifts under the glare of a hundred camera lenses.

“Now,” the reverend says gently, “Sarah Banner will perform the President’s favorite hymn.”

A young woman steps onto the stage with a violin in hand. She wears a black dress and her blonde hair is pulled back with a matching headband.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

That’s when I realize the Vice President Rourke isn’t here. Neither is Jan Ming, the Secretary of Defense. In fact, none of Wingard’s cabinet have bothered to attend this sickening charade. They’re not in attendance because they know what’s going to happen.

I reach for Lark’s hand. He leans down, and I whisper against his ear, “Rourke’s not here.”

He nods, jaw clenched, his expression stone. He knew. Of course, he knew. That cowardly bastard wouldn’t show. He probably blamed it on the looming alien threat.