I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't.
I came anyway.
The light was visible from three sections over. Thin line beneath her door, cutting through the blue-dark of night cycle like an accusation. Most of the station sleeps during this shift. She doesn't. I felt her before I saw that light. The echo of her emotional state bleeding through the walls I put between my senses and the rest of the world.
Not fear. Not rage. Something underneath both. Something that tastes like grief.
I couldn't not come.
The door opens before I can announce myself. She's standing there in grey fatigues, barefoot, her red hair downfor once. It catches the corridor light like copper wire. Her green eyes meet mine. No surprise in them.
"I knew you'd come." Her voice is flat. Military-report flat. The tone that means she's already made calculations I'm still catching up to.
"The light under your door?—"
"Bullshit." She steps back. Not an invitation. Just making space for the inevitable. "You felt me. That's what you people do."
I step inside. The door closes behind me with the soft hiss of a seal engaging. Her quarters are exactly what I expected. Spartan. Military precise. Bunk made tight enough to bounce a credit chip. Weapons locker, workout mat, a single shelf with gear maintenance supplies arranged by frequency of use.
Nothing soft.
Except the box.
It's open on her small table. The one personal item in the entire space. I see the photograph before she can move to hide it.
My feet carry me there without asking permission. My hand reaches for the frame. She doesn't stop me.
The photograph is old. Actual film, not digital. Someone thought this moment mattered enough to make it permanent. The unit stands in front of a transport, twenty faces that look impossibly young. Holt's on the far left, his arm around Vasquez. Webb is there too, fourth from the right, before anyone knew what he'd become.
I'm in the center. Younger. Cleaner. My bioluminescence caught mid-pulse, glowing soft against my temples. Smiling.
And beside me: Astra. Her shoulder under my hand. Her face turned slightly toward me, caught mid-laugh atsomething someone said. The green of her eyes bright even in the photograph's faded colors.
We were good.
"Before." The word comes out rough. I clear my throat. Try again. "We were good. Before."
"Before you left me to die." She's across the room now, arms crossed, body language screamingdon't come closer.
"Before that. Yes."
The common roomat Sigma-9 smelled like bad coffee and desperation. We'd been running joint operations for three months. Empri tactical assets paired with human combat specialists, the theory being we'd complement each other's strengths.
The theory was right. The execution was brutal.
I remember: late shift, both of us too wired to sleep. She was teaching me some human card game, the rules so convoluted I suspected she was making them up as she went. Her hands moving, shuffling the deck with practiced speed. My hands trying to keep up. Failing.
"You're cheating," I said.
"Prove it." Her grin was sharp. Challenging.
I could have. Could have read her emotions, sensed the spike of mischief, called her on it through psychic certainty instead of evidence. I didn't. That wasn't fun. What was fun: watching her try to keep a straight face while she dealt from the bottom of the deck.
Training together. Her human speed against my Empri senses. She was faster than she should be, adapting tactics mid-movement, turning my advantages against me. I'd pin her. She'd slip free. I'd sense her next move. She'd already be somewhere else.
"How?" I asked after the fifth time she got past my guard.
"You're reading my emotions. I'm reading your body." She tapped my shoulder, the exact point where I'd tensed before every strike. "You move before you feel. Just barely. Just enough."
