The soft hum of the Asteria's engines faded as Thalia walked down the quiet corridor, her steps slow, measured. She hadn't expected her mother to arrive so soon, but then, in the ever-tightening diplomatic web surrounding her bond with Anthony, things moved quickly. Too quickly.
Her maternal progenitor, known formally as Selara, was Narian in the truest sense: sharp-eyed, composed, and accustomed to seeing things no one else could. Thalia had always admired her for that clarity, even if it often left her feeling like she was being analyzed under a microscope.
Today, it felt no different.
She knew her mother would sense something was off before she said a word.
As she approached the observation deck where they were to meet, she felt her pulse quicken. That's it, she thought. The calm before the storm.
The door slid open, and there she was.
Selara stood with the same poise as ever, her neural filaments arcing elegantly over her head, wrapped in formal attire — a silver cloak with delicate, luminescent patterns running down its edges. Her eyes, a deep violet, focused on her daughter immediately.
Thalia stopped in her tracks, the air thick between them.
> "You've been quiet," Selara remarked, her voice smooth yet not without a trace of concern. "More so than usual."
Thalia forced a smile, trying to appear at ease. "Just... busy."
Her mother's eyes didn't leave her. "Busy, yes. But not distracted."
It wasn't a question.
Thalia felt it then — the unspoken inquiry hanging in the space between them, as if her mother had already begun to form her conclusions.
> "You're thinking of something," Selara continued, stepping closer. "You're hiding something, Thalia. And when you hide, you make it more obvious than you think."
Thalia's heart rate sped up. She forced herself to breathe, but the weight of her mother's words settled heavily. She could already feel the soft pulse of her bond with Anthony vibrating in the back of her mind — his quiet presence, his steadiness, always just a breath away.
And now, more than ever, she wished that same sense of steadiness would help her calm the growing storm in her chest.
> "I'm not hiding anything," Thalia said carefully, but the words came out more uncertain than she'd planned.
Her mother's gaze softened slightly, a rare flicker of empathy appearing in her expression, but only for a moment.
> "You're not hiding," Selara said, her voice gentle. "But something is hidden from you. And you've known it for some time, haven't you?"
Thalia flinched, instinctively pulling back. Her mother was right. She had known it, perhaps even before she'd allowed herself to understand what was happening to her body. The faint nausea. The lightheadedness. The changes in her scent. The subtle alterations in her bioluminescent patterns — the ones that Anthony had noticed first, long before she'd acknowledged them.
Her mind rushed to Anthony, who would be waiting in the docking bay, probably wondering where she'd gone.
Her mother took a step closer, her voice softening with understanding.
> "Your neural patterns are changing, Thalia. I know you well enough to see it in your filaments. I understand the bond between you and the human, but... this..." Selara trailed off, her gaze flicking down at Thalia's abdomen. "This is different."
The last word hit Thalia like a jolt. Her hand unconsciously moved to her stomach, the motion instinctual, protective.
> "What are you saying?" Thalia asked quietly, her voice thick with emotion.
Selara's eyes softened, but only for a brief moment before they sharpened again, focused.
> "I'm saying I've been monitoring the subtle shifts. Your emotional signature has been out of sync with your typical patterns, and the human you've bonded with..." Selara paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "Your connection with him is growing stronger. But I fear the complications of this. It's not just the bond between you two, is it?"
Thalia swallowed, fighting the lump in her throat.
> "Mother, I—"
The door to the observation deck slid open behind her, and Thalia felt him before she heard him.
Anthony.
He walked in, his steps steady, his presence grounding her — even without looking at him, she could feel him. The pulse between them, still faint, but there.
> "Everything alright?" Anthony's voice cut through the tension, both simple and loaded with an unspoken question.
Thalia turned, taking a deep breath, trying to keep her composure.
Her mother's sharp gaze swept over Anthony, noting his presence without immediate comment. She didn't need to say it. Thalia knew what her mother was thinking.
Thalia could feel her pulse quicken. Would this moment ever come without fear?
Her mother straightened, her expression unreadable. Then she looked back to Thalia, her voice cold and clear.
> "I see it now." Selara turned to face Anthony fully. "So, you are the human who has tied my daughter's future to you. I assume you know what this means?"
Thalia felt the weight of her mother's words settle over her like a cold blanket. But before she could speak, Anthony stepped forward.
> "I know what it means to care for her," he said, his voice calm yet firm. "And I know what it means to be part of something bigger than myself."
Selara eyed him for a long moment, a sharp scrutiny that felt both clinical and curious.
Then, finally, she nodded, her posture softening slightly.
> "That is what I needed to hear," Selara replied. "But I still have questions. Both of you."
Thalia's heart skipped a beat.
> "What kind of questions?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
> "The kind that will require answers," Selara said. "But for now... we will talk. Soon."
---
Selara turned from the viewport, her expression more unreadable than before. But Thalia saw it—the glint in her mother's eyes that meant gears were turning behind her composed façade.
> "There are too many variables to ignore," Selara said at last. "Even if this bond is real—and it is—I must understand what it's doing to you, Thalia. To your body. To your neural system. And now... possibly more."
She stepped forward and extended a hand—an old gesture of maternal reassurance. Thalia accepted it, even as something clenched in her chest. For all her stern logic, Selara had never been cruel. She just expected excellence, discipline, predictability.
None of which described the path her daughter was now walking.
> "If you truly believe I am with child," Thalia said softly, "then ask me directly."
Selara didn't blink.
> "Are you with child, Thalia?"
It was Anthony's turn to tense. Though he stood quietly beside her, Thalia could feel his pulse through the bond. Rapid, uncertain.
Thalia inhaled slowly and nodded. The confirmation came with surprising relief.
> "Yes."
There was silence—measured and long.
Selara's neural filaments moved, not with alarm or judgment, but in slow, sweeping arcs that signaled processing. No anger. No disapproval.
Just... thought.
> "How far along?" she finally asked.
> "Barely a month. Perhaps less," Thalia admitted. "I only confirmed it two days ago. The signs were... subtle at first."
> "And you've told no one else?"
> "Only Anthony. And now you."
Selara gave a slight nod, then turned her gaze to Anthony.
> "You suspected the moment she knew, didn't you?"
He nodded. "I didn't understand at first. It came like an echo—something warm, then uncertain. She felt joy and fear at the same time, and I... I felt both too."
Selara's eyes didn't waver. "Do you understand what this could mean?"
> "Yes," he replied without hesitation.
She looked at Thalia. "Does he?"
> "He does," Thalia said firmly. "And I do too."
A long pause.
Then Selara sighed and stepped back. "Come with me. Both of you."
They followed her through the corridors of the station to a more private suite—a Narian medical enclave that was rarely used outside of dignitary visits. Inside, Selara accessed a console and brought up an interface filled with fluid motion and bio-neural symbols.
> "Your father would have wanted to be here," she said, not looking at Thalia. "He was always the more emotionally grounded of us."
> "You mean the more sentimental," Thalia replied gently.
> "Yes," Selara conceded. "He would have cried. I suspect I will simply overanalyze."
She gestured for Thalia to sit. Anthony remained by the door, watching closely but staying back as Selara passed a hand over a scanner and began running silent readings.
The soft hum of medical pulses filled the room.
Selara's filaments pulsed once.
Then again.
> "There it is," she whispered.
A display formed between them, showing the vague silhouette of something tiny, coiled within the gentle rise of Thalia's inner bio-signature—barely more than a speck, but undeniably alive.
Anthony stepped closer, as if drawn by gravity.
> "I didn't expect to feel anything," Selara said after a moment. "But I do."
Thalia turned to her. "What are you feeling?"
Selara hesitated. Then: "Hope. And fear. Equal parts."
She turned to Anthony. "Not because you are human, Commander. But because what you have created together defies everything we believed about compatibility. Physiology, culture, cognition—your bond is already rewriting what we know."
She looked back at the image. "And now it writes again."
Thalia's voice was quiet. "Will the child be okay?"
Selara's filaments shifted, this time in the slow rhythm of maternal instinct. "I believe so. But we will monitor it closely. This is not simply a hybrid—this is a new equation, a new variable in a universe that already resists order."
> "You mean they could be... something else entirely?" Anthony asked, voice hushed.
> "Something new," Selara said. "Not less. Not more. But new."
They stood in silence for a moment longer, all three of them absorbing the image of the life that hadn't existed just weeks before.
Then Selara stepped back.
> "You will need time. And privacy. I will speak to Ambassador Narus about protecting your medical records from the Coalition review boards. They'll want access. They won't get it. Not unless you consent."
> "Thank you," Thalia said quietly.
> "And when the time comes," Selara added, "you will have my support. As your mother. As a Narian elder. And eventually, as something more terrifying than either."
Anthony blinked. "Terrifying?"
Selara turned to him with a rare, gleaming smile.
> "A grandmother."
---
Later that evening, the lighting on the Asteria dimmed as the day cycle came to an end. Thalia and Anthony stood alone on the bridge, the stars a drifting sea beyond the viewport.
Neither said anything for a long time.
Then, at last, Anthony turned.
> "Your mother took that... better than I expected."
Thalia chuckled softly. "She always does. Eventually."
> "She called me terrifying once."
> "She calls all humans terrifying. Don't take it personally."
> "Oh, I didn't," he grinned. "But you did hear her use the term 'grandmother,' right?"
> "And now the entire galaxy should be afraid."
They both laughed softly, the bond between them humming with warmth and something deeper—something rich with promise.
And just as the moment settled into quiet contentment, Anthony's hand brushed hers.
He felt it then—a ripple, faint but unmistakable.
Their connection.
Fluctuating.
Responding to something beyond either of them.
---
As Thalia turned toward the display console, she saw it: a faint anomaly in the energy readings—the same unknown signature from before, just a little clearer now.
A little closer.
She froze.
Anthony followed her gaze, and together they watched the pulse flicker like a heartbeat on the screen.
> "It's still watching us," she whispered.
> "No," Anthony said, stepping closer to the readout. "It's learning us."