To which Dr. Fender always said, I don’t think so.

Leo remembered one such conversation. Sitting at the patio table in late fall, the leaves of the trees stained bloodred and starting to curl. It was six months after the attack. Cities were still being rebuilt, a process that took time, despite all the advances in manufacturing afforded by the Aykari’s arrival. Leo’s father had grilled out—a rare occasion for a man who seldom cooked, preferring instead to have the drones drop off their dinner from local restaurants most of the time. The chicken-pineapple-pepper kabobs sitting on Leo’s plate had been one of Grace Fender’s favorite dishes. She made them every Friday night. Before.

They ate quietly, as they had all summer and into autumn, the boys occasionally piping up about what happened at school or something they’d heard about on the news. That day, Gareth mentioned a headline he’d read, about a stunning victory of Coalition forces over the Djarik out in the Medaran sector. Three Djarik frigates and untold support craft obliterated by joint Aykari and human forces. Djarik casualties were rumored to be in the thousands. A huge tactical victory.

Leo’s father frowned.

“That’s going to be me someday,” Gareth said. “I’m going to be the one blasting those bastards to dust.”

“Language,” Dr. Fender warned. Leo had never once heard his father cuss. In moments of frustration his dad would grunt instead, a gruff rumbling from the back of the throat followed by a sharp breath. Most of the time that was all he needed to regain his composure. Gareth, on the other hand, had taught Leo enough bad words to fill a notebook over the past several months. “And that’s not going to happen.”

“Says who? I’m almost fourteen,” Gareth protested. “A few more years and I can join the Coalition. Learn to be a fighter pilot.”

“Except your mother would never have allowed it,” Dad said. “And neither will I.”

Gareth bristled. Leo squirmed in his chair. Not a day went by that Leo’s father didn’t invoke their mother in some way. Not a day when he didn’t insist that Grace Fender was watching over them. A strange sentiment for a man who never once went to church. And yet he claimed she was up there somewhere.

“She’s the whole reason I’d be doing it,” Gareth protested.

“There are better ways to honor your mother’s memory than going and getting yourself killed.”

Leo’s father glanced at him and not Gareth as he said this. Leo shrank down in his seat, unsure why he was getting the look when his brother was the one doing the arguing.

“So we shouldn’t fight back?” Gareth asked, already steaming.

“That’s not what I said. I said you won’t be the one doing the fighting. Neither of you will. Not if I can help it. End of discussion.”

There was a pause as Leo picked at his rice. Then Gareth muttered, “That’s because you’re scared.”

“Of course I’m scared!” Dr. Fender said, raising his voice, but only for a moment. “We’re all scared. And believe me, I’m angry too. Just as angry as you are. But I made a promise to your mother that I would protect this family at all costs, and I intend to do so.”