Yes...
You still with me... Arala.
The tension in the Xeca is so thick, and Chef could slice it, sauté it, and serve it as a main course for a depression-themed dinner party.
It's sticking to my skin. It feels like sweat, but cold.
Gibu-gibu.
Gross.
Vice is still in the chair, staring at the ceiling like she hopes a solution will drop out of the ventilation shaft. Prof is aggressively typing on her datapad, probably calculating the exact statistical probability of us all dying of heartbreak. Mommy is rocking Xecta, humming a lullaby that sounds more like a dirge.
And the argument isn't over. It's just simmering, like one of Chef's stews that she forgot on the back burner.
"You still have the serum?" Vice asks. Her voice is flat. Dead. "The poison?"
"It is secured in my lab," Prof replies without looking up. "Stasis field. Cryo-lock."
"Destroy it," Vice orders.
Prof stops typing. She looks up. Her glasses catch the dim emergency lights, hiding her eyes.
"Vice," she says, her tone logical, annoying, and terrifyingly calm. "If Capt returns as a Queen... if he breaches the hull... that serum is the only thing that will stop him from impregnating us with Krall larvae."
"Don't say that!" Xecta wails from Mommy's lap. "He wouldn't! He loves us!"
"The Queen does not love," Prof states. "The Queen consumes. It is biological fact. If he turns... Capt we know is gone... the data suggests..."
"I don't care about your data!" Vice screams. She jumps up again. She is like a goyo-goyo of rage. Up and down. Up and down. "He is not a statistic, Prof! He is... he is..."
"He is a biological time bomb!" Prof yells back. It's rare to see Prof yell. It's like watching a calculator get angry. "And I promised him! I promised I would pull the trigger! Do you think I want to? Do you think I want to kill the only man who ever made me feel... efficient?"
Prof stands up. She is trembling.
"I loved him too!" Prof cries. "I loved his variables! I loved his chaotic inputs! But I honor his logic! And his logic says he has to die to save you!"
"Then his logic is flawed!" Vice draws her blaster. She points it at Prof.
The room explodes into chaos.
"Vice!" Mommy shouts, pushing Xecta behind her.
"Put it down, Vice!" Chef scrambles to her feet, her hands igniting with Flambe fire.
"No!" I scream. I run between them. I wave my arms. "Stop it! No shooting! Shooting is for bad guys! We are the bibikira! We are the hama-hama squad!"
"Move, Private," Vice growls. Her eyes are wild.
"I am holding a shield!" Prof argues, her clones flickering into existence around her. Three naked clones appear, looking sad and defensive. "I am protecting his legacy!"
"You are destroying his future!" Vice cocks the blaster.
The air is crackling. My skin is prickling. It feels like the moment right before a lightning strike. The wuz-wuz is off the charts. It's too much. It's too loud. It's too sad.
And then...
A sound cuts through the screaming.
It's not a blaster shot. It's not a sob.
It's static...
Coming from the main comms panel. The one Navi has been staring at for three days.
"Mic check... one, two... is this thing on? Or did Arala chew on the cables again?"
The room freezes.
Vice drops her blaster. It clatters to the floor with a loud bang. Prof's clones vanish instantly. Chef's fire goes out. Mommy gasps.
We all turn. Slowly. Like rusted gears grinding together. We look at the speaker.
That voice...
It's deep. It's rough. It vibrates in my chest. It resonates in my purupin. It doesn't sound like wind chimes. It doesn't sound like a girl.
It sounds like gravel and honey...
And trouble.
"Vice," the voice crackles. "Get your ass to the command chair. And fix your hair. You look like you fought a tornado and lost."
Vice brings her hands to her mouth. She is shaking. "Ragia?"
"Navi," the voice continues. "Pre-flight sequence. Disengage the docking clamps. Override code: Alpha-Zero-Six-Nine. And stop crying. Salt water is bad for the console."
Navi lets out a choked squeak and spins her chair around, her fingers flying across the keys.
"Chef," the voice draws. "I am starving. I haven't eaten in three days. I want Kivile. Hot. Boiling hot. With extra pork bits. And if you use ice, I will airlock your favorite spatula."
Chef falls to her knees, laughing hysterically. "Yes, Capt! Right away, Capt!"
"Mira," the voice softens just a fraction. "I need a lift. Xeca booster is cold. Can you warm it up with your Graviton for me? Like you warm up the bath?"
Mommy smiles. A real smile. The years melt off her face. Her rabbit ears shoot straight up. "Oh, my boy. My hungry boy."
"Shorty," the voice commands. "Med Bay prep. Get the scanners ready. But keep the needles away. I've had enough poking to last a lifetime."
Xecta jumps up, wiping her tears. She salutes the speaker, her tail wagging so hard her whole body shakes.
"And Arala..."
I hold my breath. My heart is doing the clak-clak against my ribs.
"Don't change," the voice says. "Keep being the annoying, perverted little sister. I need noise. This place is too quiet."
"Ranyan!" I scream. "You big idiot!"
"Yeah, yeah," the voice chuckles. "Now, open the damn door. My hands are full."
We all turn to the main airlock door at the back of the bridge.
The heavy metal bolts hiss. Steam vents from the seals. The hydraulic gears groan.
The door slides open.
And...
There he is.
He is not wearing the white prisoner uniform. He is wearing his old leather jacket, the one with the patch of a skull eating a pizza on the shoulder. His boots are scuffed. His mismatched socks... one green, one striped, are peeking out.
But that's not what I'm looking at.
I'm looking at his shoulders. They are broad. Huge.
I'm looking at his jaw. Square. Stubble-covered. Rugged.
I'm looking at his hair. It's short and messy.
And black. Pitch black. Not a spot of red in sight.
He is a man.
He is the man.
He is standing there, leaning against the doorframe like he didn't just escape a maximum-security prison on Mars. In his left hand, he is holding a bottle.
A dark, dusty bottle with a gold label.
Ginjang?
He grins. It's a wide, wolfish grin. His teeth are white and flat. No fangs. No slit pupils. Just warm, golden, human eyes that look at us like we are the most delicious things in the universe.
"Did you miss me?" he asks, lifting the bottle. "I brought drinks."
For a second, nobody moves. We are stunned by the sheer giga-giga magnitude of his presence. The wuz-wuz in the room shifts from sadness to pure, unadulterated electric lust.
Then, we all inhale at the same time.
And we scream.
His name...