“If it comes to that,” she says, “we’ll do it together. But until then…”
She turns my chin. Kisses me. Slow. Deep. Grounding.
“…we teach her how to live.”
The registry panelhisses sparks under my glove, a stinging flash that bites my knuckles as I torque the last node into the hull’s cavity. Ozone stings my nose, sharp and acrid. A thread of smoke curls into the stale, recycled air like it’s whispering secrets I’d rather not hear. But the panel’s green now. Power rerouted. Beacon scrambled. Our ship—the one that’s carried our scars and second chances—is someone else’s on paper.
I sit back on my haunches, wiping grime across my sleeve. The sweat sticking to the back of my neck is cold now. I’ve been under this floorplate too long.
Above me, Ripley’s face appears upside down in the hatch opening, smudged with carbon and shining with pride.
“Did we do it?” Her eyes glitter.
I reach up, tapping a finger against her nose. “We did. She's ready for her name.”
She clambers down the ladder like a baby spider monkey, barefoot and beaming, and scampers over to the terminal. Rhea’s already leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, smirking softly as she watches her daughter command the moment.
“All right, Commander Rip,” I say. “Final task. Name our girl.”
Ripley plants her feet wide, fists on her hips, serious as a tribunal judge. “I name her... The Red Star.”
Rhea blinks. “That’s beautiful, honey. Why that name?”
Ripley grins like she’s just figured out the secret to faster-than-light travel. “Because it’s strong,” Ripley says with no hesitation, her voice firm. “And pretty like Mom. And flies fast like me!”
We both laugh. It’s not polite chuckling—it’s full-bellied, eye-watering laughter that shakes the ribs. The kind we didn’t know we could still have.
Rhea reaches up, brushes at her cheek. Her smile wavers, lips pressing together. I see the shine in her eyes even through the dim lights of the bay.
“She’s the best of us,” Rhea whispers.
And just like that, I can’t breathe for a second.
That night,we lie in the cargo bay, the one place on theRed Starwhere gravity’s half-decent and the stars stretch in a long uninterrupted view across the ceiling panel. We strung up the hammock ourselves—Ripley picked the colors, a clash of neon-pink plasteel and navy-blue sailcloth stitched together like a patchwork dream.
She’s asleep in it now, curled into a half-ball, her thumb tucked near her cheek, blanket knotted around one ankle. She mumbles once—something about “rocket socks”—and then settles again.
The lights are low. Just the dull amber of engine standby glowing like the heartbeat of a sleeping beast beneath us.
Rhea shifts beside me on the blanket, our shoulders touching, the heat of her skin seeping into mine.
Her voice barely brushes the air. “Do you think we’ll ever stop looking over our shoulders?”
The question hangs, fragile and sharp.
I swallow against the knot in my throat. My eyes track the scuffed piping overhead, the memory of blood and fire and alarms still echoing in the bones of this old ship.
“No,” I say, after a breath too long. My voice is rougher than I want it to be. “I don’t think we ever will.”
Rhea exhales, soft and trembling.
“But,” I add, pulling her closer until her back settles against my chest, her spine fitting to me like she was always meant to be there, “I think we’ve stopped running from what matters.”
She’s silent for a long beat. Then she nestles deeper into the crook of my arm, her fingers brushing over mine. “We should let her be a kid.”
“We are,” I murmur, pressing my lips to the crown of her head.
“I mean really,” she says. “Let her plant something and forget to water it. Let her build a fort and cry when it collapses. School. Friends. Ground beneath her feet.”
