Page 36 of Starlight, Starbright
The celebration in the main habitation ring exceeds my expectations for organized chaos.
Paige insists I attend. “It's Christmas,” she had said. “And you're partially responsible for everyone still being alive to celebrate it. They want to see you. We want to see you.”
The “we” included approximately three hundred colonists and crew members gathered in the central corridor, which has been transformed beyond recognition. The Starbright lights create patterns across every surface. Someone has fabricated a large tree from hydroponics materials, decorated with ornaments that appear to be constructed from repurposed ship components. Tables overflow with food—some recognizable, much of it mysterious. Music plays from speakers, something instrumental and soothing.
I stand at the entrance analyzing exit routes and crowd density patterns, trying to calculate the optimal time to make an appearance before returning to my quarters.
“Oh no.” Paige takes my hand. “No tactical analysis. No calculating the minimum social obligation time. You're going to participate.”
“I don't know how to participate in human celebrations.”
“Then I'll teach you.” She pulls me into the crowd. “It's tradition.”
The first person to approach is Giorgi Perrin, the civilian council head who requested Christmas decoration resources weeks ago. He offers his hand, and I accept the greeting ritual. “Captain. Thank you for everything you've done for us. For believing in our project.”
“Your decorative grid proved invaluable during the crisis.” I gesture to the lights overhead. “The civilian contributions were significant.”
“That's because you let us help.” He grins. “Not every captain would have trusted us to participate.”
More people approach. Yuki Tanaka from the civilian volunteers. Three engineers from Paige's department who worked the Christmas Eve repairs. A grandmother who tells me she's from Deck 4 and made cookies, which she presses into my hands despite my attempts to politely decline. The cookies are terrible but I consume them anyway while she watches, pleased.
“Captain!” A small voice at knee level.
I look down. The little girl in the red dress from yesterday stands there holding a paper ornament. Perhaps six years old, dark hair in braids, gap-toothed smile. She holds up the ornament expectantly.
I crouch to her level. “Hello.”
“Mama says you saved our ship. So I made you this.” She pushes the ornament toward me. It's constructed from folded paper, colored with markers, and depicts what I think is meant to be a star. “For the tree.”
I don’t have a tree. But the gesture is clearly significant, and I lack the context to refuse without causing offense. “Thank you. This is beautiful.”
“You have to hang it!” She points to a lower branch on the large communal tree.
I look at Paige. She nods encouragingly. I rise, move to the tree, and attempt to determine the proper attachment method.The child follows, explaining with remarkable patience where the ornament should be placed and how the hook functions. After three attempts, I succeed in hanging the paper star among the other decorations.
“Perfect!” The child beams and runs off to tell her mother about the captain hanging her ornament.
“You're doing great,” Paige says quietly beside me.
“I hung a decorative object on a plant. This does not require exceptional skill.”
“You participated. That's what matters.” She squeezes my hand. “Come on. Someone wants to teach you a carol.”
“I don't sing.”
“Everyone sings on Christmas.”
The “someone” is Lieutenant Morris, who has clearly consumed several glasses of something that has elevated his confidence substantially. He's gathered a small group attempting to harmonize, with varying degrees of success.
“Captain! Chief! Join us!” Morris waves enthusiastically. “We're doing Silent Night. You know it?”
“I'm familiar with the composition.” I've researched human holiday music extensively. “I don't know if my vocal range?—”
“Just follow along.” Morris starts singing, and the group joins him.
The melody is simple. The words are about peace and calm and holy night. I don't understand all the religious references, but the emotional content is clear. Hope. Light. Family.
I attempt to match the pitch and rhythm. The result is imperfect—my voice is too low for the human range, and I miss several notes entirely. But Paige sings beside me, her voice clear and on key, and when she smiles at my attempts I find I don't care about perfect execution.
