“Hey, storm baby, bedtime’s over for you, huh?”
He laughs harder.
I look down at the monitor. The signal strengthens, crawling higher on the spectrum, threading itself through the white noise. The melody of it reminds me of Vakutan war chants translated into data pulses: rhythmic, steady, alive.
“Someone’s reaching,” I murmur.
The rational part of me—professor, engineer, human—wants to explain it away. Crosstalk. Atmospheric reflection. Maybe even a hacking attempt.
But the other part, the one that lived and died and lived again in the cockpit beside Naull,feelsit.
It’s not coming from Rhavadaz.
It’s comingthroughRhavadaz. Through the Meld.
Across stars. Across minds.
“God, Naull… what did you build?”
The signal flares.
Garma squeals and reaches both hands toward the monitor, little fingers flexing like he’s trying to grab the sound itself.
“Garma, no!” I rush forward, but it’s already too late. The frequency peaks—and the static turns warm, golden, almost musical.
Helaughsagain, louder this time, eyes wide, glowing faintly. Not a trick of the light. Actual glow. A deep amber halo rolling under his irises like captured sunset.
My breath catches. “Oh my God…”
He’s connected. Somehow, he’s?—
The signal drops. Flatline.
Silence.
The glow fades, but the afterimage lingers in my mind, burned there.
He looks up at me, cheeks flushed from the excitement, and in that small, perfectly human voice says, “Mama?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, kneeling beside the crib. “Mama’s here.”
He pats my cheek, giggling, but there’s something new in his expression—focus. Understanding.
“Home,” he murmurs.
My blood goes cold.
“What did you just say?”
He blinks. The word doesn’t come again, but the baby monitor does something I’ve never seen it do before.
The status light begins to pulse red-white-red.
Message-light.
I back away slowly, the floor creaking under my feet. My breath fogs in the chill.
“Not possible,” I say again, because maybe if I keep saying it, the universe will listen.
