Rhea getsthe same pitch a day later.
Different setting. Different suit. Same bullshit.
They offer her her show back—bigger, better, unfiltered. Prime slot. Unlimited access. The voice of the new order.
She stares at them for a full thirty seconds before saying, “Go to hell.”
I love her so much it hurts.
We don’t say goodbye.
We don’t do press tours or interviews or retrospectives.
We take our daughter.
And we vanish.
This time, together.
The ship’s a piece of junk.
She’s old. Ugly. Half the paneling is sun-faded and the other half is probably held together with spit and bad decisions.
She’s also fast. Small. Unregistered.
Perfect.
I carry Ripley up the ramp while Rhea negotiates docking clearance with a grumpy little Sarkan who keeps calling her “missy.” Ripley’s hugging a stuffed warbeast she named Wobble.
“You sure this thing flies?” she whispers in my ear.
I grin. “Barely.”
We settle her into the co-pilot seat. She swings her legs like she owns the stars.
Rhea finally boards, hair windblown, grinning like a thief who just pulled the heist of her life.
She drops into the pilot chair beside me. Flicks a few switches. The ship hums to life, shuddering like an old cat stretching its spine.
“Where to?” she asks.
I glance at Ripley.
Her eyes are bright. Free.
“Anywhere she can grow up without needing to fight.”
Ripley chirps, “Can I pick?”
We both laugh.
Rhea kisses my cheek. “She gets that from you.”
“Nah,” I say, wrapping my arm around them both. “She gets the fight from me. The soul? That’s all you.”
The ship lifts off.
The stars stretch wide.
