“Captain,” Williams calls from his station. “The Zephyrian vessel requests permission to dock.”
“Granted. And Williams? Send word to all department heads. I want this place running like clockwork while our guests areonboard. No mechanical failures, no atmospheric hiccups, and absolutely no one gets drunk and starts singing space shanties in the corridors.”
“What about slightly buzzed humming, ma’am?”
“I’ll allow light humming. But keep it festive.” I struggle to keep the smile out of my voice.
The lift doors open with a soft chime, and I step inside, selecting Docking Bay Three from the panel. As the car descends through the station’s central core, I catch a glimpse of the main promenade through the transparent windows. Crews are already hanging garlands along the bulkheads, and someone has managed to rig up twinkling lights that cast warm pools of gold against the sterile metal surfaces.
It looks like Christmas. If Christmas happened inside a tin can floating in the void.
The thought should depress me, but instead, I find myself smiling. This place has been home for three years now, longer than anywhere since I left Mars Colony. These people—my people—deserve something beautiful to remember. Something that makes the endless rotation of duty shifts and recycled air feel a little more human.
The lift slows, and I straighten my shoulders as the doors open onto Docking Bay Three. The honor guard stands at attention, their dress uniforms immaculate under the harsh lighting. Through the massive viewport, I see the Zephyrian ship settling onto the deck with fluid, almost organic grace. It’s unlike anything in the human fleet—all flowing curves and crystal protrusions that seem to shift color as I watch.
“Atmospheric seal confirmed,” Harrison reports from the control booth. “Alien vessel is secure and pressurized.”
The ship’s boarding ramp extends with barely a whisper of hydraulics. For a moment, nothing happens. Then three figures emerge, and I get my first real look at the species that could change humanity’s future.
They’re taller than I expected, moving with an elegant economy that makes every human gesture seem clumsy by comparison. Their skin carries a subtle luminescence, as if lit from within. Delicate markings trace along their temples and hands. The traditional diplomatic robes they wear shimmer like captured starlight.
But it’s the one in the center who captures my attention completely.
He’s tall even by Zephyrian standards, with pale silver hair that catches the dock lights and violet eyes that seem to see everything at once. The markings along his temples pulse with a soft lavender glow, and when he moves, it’s with the kind of controlled grace that suggests either dancer or warrior.
This must be Envoy Zylthar Quoril, First of the Zephyrian Trade Consortium.
I step forward, falling into the formal rhythm of first contact protocols. “Envoy Quoril, welcome to Deep Space Station Halcyon. I am Captain Selena MacGray, commanding officer of this facility.”
He inclines his head in what I recognize as the Zephyrian equivalent of a bow. “Captain MacGray. We are honored by your hospitality.”
His voice carries an accent I’ve never heard before, each word precisely articulated with just a hint of something musical underneath. When he looks directly at me, those purplish-blue eyes seem to catalog every detail—my posture, my expression, the way I hold my hands.
I extend my hand for the traditional human greeting, hoping he’s been briefed on our customs. For a split second, he hesitates, staring at my outstretched palm like it might explode.
Then, with obvious reluctance, he reaches out and briefly clasps my hand.
The contact lasts maybe three seconds. His skin is cooler than mine, with a texture that’s almost crystalline. But what startles me is the way he flinches—actually flinches—the moment our skin touches. He pulls back immediately, his expression shifting from diplomatic neutrality to something that looks almost like distress.
Heat flares in my chest. Not embarrassment—anger. Pure, irrational anger that this alien diplomat just made it clear that touching me was about as appealing as grabbing a live plasma conduit.
I’ve been snubbed by politicians, ignored by superior officers, and dismissed by men who thought military rank was wasted on someone with breasts. But I’ve never had someone recoil from basic physical contact like I carried some kind of plague.
My smile doesn’t waver, but my voice takes on the particular edge reserved for people who’ve just made a serious mistake. “I hope your journey was comfortable, Envoy. Our medical staff has prepared quarters according to your specifications, and I’m sure you’ll find everything to your satisfaction.”
“Your preparations are more than adequate,” he replies, but his gaze shifts somewhere over my left shoulder. The markings along his temples have darkened to a deeper purple, though I have no idea what that means in Zephyrian body language.
“Excellent. Chief Harrison will escort you to your quarters, where you can rest before tonight’s festivities.” I gesture toward the control booth, where Harrison stands ready with a diplomatic smile. “I trust you’ll find our holiday celebration... educational.”
Something flickers across his expression—surprise, maybe, or confusion. “Holiday celebration?”
“Christmas, Envoy. A human tradition involving food, music, and general merriment. I thought it might provide an interesting cultural exchange opportunity.”
“I see.” He pauses, those lilac eyes studying me again with uncomfortable intensity. “Captain MacGray, might I ask... do all human females command such significant military installations?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s inappropriate—though it definitely edges in that direction—but because of the way he asks. There’s genuine curiosity there, along with something that might be respect.
“Some do,” I reply carefully. “Starfleet promotes based on merit and ability, not gender.”
