May 13, 2313
"Your ring is a reminder of war, remember your training, listen for the whispers, prepare for the inevitable, there is no peace." This was the mantra of my dead childhood.
"I left a memento for you from your mother in your new quarters. Open it as you leave this decaying planet. Here is your assignment," my father said, handing me the cube. Before letting it go, he added, "Valora, survive."
He broke conventional protocol by using my first name, a pronouncement of endearment, but the banned word "mother" was what took my breath. His parting remarks loomed as twelve other escaping ship commanders hung on to their leader's final perfectly enunciated words.
"Yes, sir," I said, masking affection for fear it would be perceived as weakness on the platform. Zerian soldiers don't cry.
"Report to your ship."
I saluted and turned my back to my father on Kavarka. This has become my last memory of him.
Those who escaped are alive today because of him. I have been blessed with pride in his sacrifice and duty, but an endless sinking pit gathers inside my heart because I'm not enough to fulfill his legacy.