Page 21 of The First Child
“It’s December fifteenth,” I point out, holding up a string of lights that probably predates faster-than-light travel. “If we’re going to do this right, we need to start now.”
“Define ‘this.’“
“Christmas. ForAniska.” I gesture toward the baby, who sits in her adaptive chair watching our exchange with the focused attention of someone who understands far more than she should. “Her first Christmas, which means it needs to be perfect.”
“Perfect.” He repeats the word like it’s a foreign concept requiring translation. “And perfect requires…that?”
“That” is a collection of Earth holiday decorations I’ve accumulated since my first deployment. Mismatched ornaments, tangled light strings, an artificial tree that folds into something resembling festive vegetation, and enough holiday spirit to power a small space station.
“Among other things, yes.”
Sylas moves closer to examine the contents of the boxes, his expression shifting from exasperation to something approaching anthropological fascination. “Explain the cultural significance of these objects.”
“They’re not objects, they’re memories.” I lift out a crystalline ornament that catches the soft light from his wall panels, casting rainbow patterns across the ceiling. “This was my grandmother’s. She gave it to me before my first off-world assignment, said it would remind me of home no matter how far I traveled.”
His markings soften to warm amber as he watches me handle the delicate piece. “Sentimental attachment to material possessions.”
“Sentimental attachment to what those possessions represent. Love, family, the feeling of belonging somewhere.” I set the ornament carefully on the table, then turn to meet his gaze. “Things I want Aniska to understand, even if her family looks different than traditional human structures.”
“Ah.” Understanding flickers across his features. “This isn’t about religious observance or cultural tradition. It’s about creating shared experiences that bond family units together.”
“Exactly.” I pull out another string of lights, these ones designed to pulse in rhythm with ambient sound. “Margot used to talkabout the Christmases she had as a kid. How her parents would make everything magical, even when they couldn’t afford much. She wanted that for Aniska—the sense that she was part of something bigger than herself.”
“And you intend to provide that experience.”
“Weintend to provide it.” I pause in my unpacking to study his face, noting the way his expression has shifted from skepticism to something approaching curiosity. “Unless you have philosophical objections to holiday festivities.”
“Zephyrian culture includes celebration of seasonal transitions and community milestones. The specific traditions differ, but the underlying purpose—strengthening social bonds through shared ritual—is universal.”
“So, you’re not completely opposed to Christmas.”
“I’m opposed to chaos masquerading as celebration.” He gestures toward the boxes, which admittedly look like the aftermath of a festive explosion. “Your approach appears to prioritize quantity over organization.”
I can’t help laughing at the careful diplomacy in his criticism. “That’s because human Christmas decorating isn’t about organization. It’s about controlled chaos that somehow transforms into magic.”
“Controlled chaos.” He considers this concept with the same intensity he brings to spiritual meditation. “That seems contradictory.”
“Most worthwhile things are.” I smile wide.
The comment earns me one of his rare genuine smiles—not the polite expression he wears during official interactions, but thewarmth that transforms his entire face and makes my chest tight with feelings I’m still learning to navigate.
We’ve been careful since that first kiss mere days ago. Affectionate but restrained, aware that whatever’s building between us needs to develop alongside our responsibilities to Aniska rather than in spite of them. But moments like this, when his guard drops enough to let me see the man beneath the spiritual leader, make that restraint increasingly difficult to maintain.
“Where do we begin?” he asks, moving toward the boxes with the decisive energy of someone committing to a project.
“Tree first. Everything else builds from there.”
The artificial tree proves more challenging than anticipated. What should be a simple matter of unfolding pre-programmed branches becomes an exercise in engineering as we struggle to make synthetic vegetation look remotely natural. Sylas approaches the problem with methodical precision while I rely on intuition and increasingly creative profanity.
“This branch attaches here,” he observes, consulting the instruction manual with the dedication of someone translating ancient texts.
“That branch attaches wherever it looks right,” I counter, wrestling with a section that seems determined to fold in directions that defy three-dimensional space.
“There are specific connection points designed for optimal visual impact?—”
“Forget optimal visual impact. Christmas trees are supposed to be slightly imperfect. It’s part of their charm.”
Aniska watches our debate from her chair, making soft sounds that might be commentary or encouragement. Her empathic field radiates contentment mixed with amusement, as if she finds our bickering entertaining rather than concerning.
