Page 37 of Starlight, Starbright
The carol ends. The group dissolves into conversation and laughter. Paige leans against me, and I put my arm around her shoulders. The gesture feels natural now.
“This is family,” she says quietly. “Not the one you're born into. The one you choose.”
I look around the celebration. At Giorgi Perrin laughing with the grandmother who made terrible cookies. At Yuki Tanaka teaching children to make paper chains. At Morris and his friends attempting another carol. At the little girl in red showing her mother the tree where her ornament hangs.
These people nearly died. Would have died if the sabotage succeeded. But they're here, celebrating, building community in the cold dark of space. Building light.
“Then I choose this,” I say. “All of it. You. Them. This impossible, inefficient, beautiful human tradition of refusing to surrender to darkness.”
She turns in my arms, looking up at me. The Christmas lights reflect in her eyes, creating patterns of red and green and gold. “I love you.”
“And I you.” The words come easily now. “My thanei.”
We kiss there in the middle of the celebration, and several people cheer. I register the sound peripherally while focusing entirely on her. On the warmth of her mouth. On the way she fits against me like we were designed for this. On the rightness of choosing her, us, this.
When we finally separate, my markings blaze gold across every visible surface. I don't care who sees. Let them see. Let them know their captain has found perfect balance.
We stay for another hour. Eat questionable food. Attempt another carol. Accept gratitude from crew and colonists who understand we saved them. I even manage to have what Paige calls a “normal conversation” with three different people, though my definition of normal may differ from hers.
Eventually, we slip away. Not to return to quarters—not yet. Instead, we head to the observation deck.
The observation deck sits empty during the celebrations, which means we have it to ourselves. The lit habitation rings of the Polaris create patterns of warm light against the darkness, thousands of windows glowing with life.
We stand at the viewport in comfortable silence. Her hand in mine.
“The Council will hear about this,” I say eventually. “About us. About how humans and Zephyrians succeeded together on this mission.”
“Will you get in trouble?” She looks up at me, concern visible in her expression.
“Possibly.” I consider the likelihood. “They sent me here to prove integration was a matter of pure logic and discipline. I failed that mission spectacularly. But I succeeded in proving something else.”
“What's that?”
“That integration requires more than logic. It requires trust. Vulnerability. The willingness to let biology and emotion work together instead of suppressing one for the other.” I turn to face her fully. “That love and logic aren't opposing forces. They balance each other.”
She reaches up to touch my temple. The touch is intimate, familiar now. “Your people might not see it that way.”
“Some won't. Others will.” I capture her hand. “There's a growing movement among my people questioning the suppression protocols. Studying the success stories from integrated missions. I won't be the last Zephyrian to choose this path.”
“So we're pioneers.” She smiles slightly. “Breaking ground for future couples.”
“Yes. Though that was not my intention when I arrived aboard the Polaris.” I pull her closer. “My intention was to maintain perfect emotional control while commanding humans. Instead, I fell in love with one.”
“Best laid plans,” she says.
“Indeed.” I look past her at the stars beyond. At the ship carrying ten thousand souls toward a new world. The habitation ring windows glow warm along the curve of the ship. “My people have a word—thanei—for perfect balance. The moment when opposing forces combine to create something stronger than either could be alone.”
“I remember.” Her smile is warm. “You told me last night.”
“You are my thanei, Paige Martin.” I touch her face gently. “My perfect balance. And my Christmas star.”
Her expression shifts. “You remember that story? About my grandmother?”
“I remember everything you tell me. Your grandmother's star that brought light to travelers. Her tradition of making wishes on the brightest star in the sky.” I gesture toward the viewport, toward the endless field of stars beyond. “We're travelers now. All of us. Sailing toward a new world. And you're the brightest light I've seen.”
She pulls me down and kisses me. Soft and thorough. When we separate, tears shine in her eyes—happy tears, I decide after analyzing her expression.
“I love you,” she whispers. “My logical, brilliant, impossible alien captain who remembers my grandmother's stories.”
