"We're going to teach you everything," Jalina promised.
"Keep you safe," Bea added.
"Love you fiercely," I finished.
Er'dox pressed his forehead to Dana's, then to Liberty's in a Zandovian gesture of deepest affection. "And show you the stars. All of them. Every world in this galaxy that your mother and I will explore together."
"Our daughter will grow up knowing no boundaries between species," he continued. "Will prove that different worlds can create something beautiful together."
Vaxon's arm tightened around me. I glanced up to find him watching Liberty with an expression that made my heart clench.
"What?" I asked quietly.
"Thinking about the future."
"Dangerous activity."
"Thinking about us. In a year, maybe two. When you're ready." His cobalt eyes met mine. "Children who'll carry both our legacies. Who'll prove love transcends biology."
My breath caught. I'd thought about it, alone at 0300 hours when insomnia hit and the future felt both terrifying and possible. Thought about tiny hands and brilliant minds and everything that could go right or wrong.
"I'm terrified," I admitted.
"So am I." He smiled. "But we're good at being terrified together."
"Give me a year. Let me finish the shield upgrades. Help integrate the new survivors. Get Will stabilized in his role."
"Then?"
"Then we'll talk about tiny humans with your warrior instincts and my complete inability to sit still."
"They'll be perfect chaos."
"They'll be ours."
Liberty made another small noise, distinctly annoyed this time. Dana laughed, shifted her to a more comfortable position. Er'dox hovered anxiously, a massive warrior reduced to a nervous new father.
It was perfect. All of it. The messy, complicated, absolutely miraculous reality we'd built from disaster.
Captain Tor'van cleared his throat. "I'll leave you to celebrate. But Dana, Er'dox, Mothership's entire crew wants to meet her when you're ready. We've never had a hybrid birth before. She's historic."
"She's ours first," Dana said firmly. "Historic second."
"Agreed." He inclined his head, respect, not just command acknowledgment. "Congratulations. All of you. You've created something beautiful here."
He left. The door sealed behind him.
We stayed, all eight adults crowded around one tiny human-Zandovian miracle. No one spoke. Didn't need to.
This was home. Not Earth with its familiar gravity and breathable air. Not even Mothership with its corridors and systems and endless missions.
This. Us. This impossible family forged in wormhole disaster and burning planets and the desperate choice to survive together.
I'd lost my birth planet, my original crew, my naive certainty that the universe made sense. But I'd gained something immeasurably more valuable: people who saw my chaos and loved me anyway. Who stood beside me in the dark and promised we'd face whatever came next together.
Dana caught my eye, smiled, exhausted and happy and absolutely certain.
Jalina touched Liberty's tiny hand with reverent fingers.
