Page 25 of The First Child
Her voice carries through the chamber’s sound-dampening barriers, which should be impossible unless she’s standing directly outside the entrance. I rise with fluid grace that conceals how completely her proximity affects my concentration.
“Yes?”
“Could you come here for a minute? I need…” She pauses, and through our empathic connection, I sense uncertainty mixed with something that might be embarrassment. “I need help with something.”
I find her in the kitchen, standing before the food synthesis unit with an expression of barely controlled frustration. Aniska sits in her adaptive chair nearby, watching the proceedings with the focused attention of someone who finds adult confusion endlessly entertaining.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“I’m trying to program a traditional human holiday meal for Christmas day, but your food synthesizer apparently doesn’t recognize half the ingredients I need.” She gestures at the holographic display showing various error messages in elegant Zephyrian script. “I wanted to surprise you both with something special, but I can’t even get past the basic protein selection.”
The admission touches something in my chest that has nothing to do with empathic connection and everything to do with the thoughtfulness behind her gesture. She wants to create a meaningful experience for our family—wanting it enough to struggle with technology she doesn’t understand in pursuit of traditions that matter to her.
“Show me what you’re attempting to synthesize.”
She activates her personal data pad, displaying a recipe collection that represents culinary traditions from across human space. Turkey with traditional stuffing, vegetables prepared according to Earth-normal methods, desserts that require ingredients our synthesizer has never encountered.
“These are quite complex,” I observe, studying preparation requirements that involve timing sequences and temperature variations far beyond simple nutritional provision. “Are you certain you wish to attempt such elaborate cooking?”
“It’s not about the complexity. It’s about…” She trails off, color rising in her cheeks as she searches for words to explain the motivations I suspect even she doesn’t fully understand.
“About creating memories,” I finish quietly. “About giving Aniska the kind of Christmas experience her mother would have wanted her to have.”
“Exactly.” Relief flickers across her features at being understood without having to articulate feelings that probably seem foolish to someone whose culture doesn’t emphasize material celebration. “I know it’s probably silly…”
“It’s not silly. It’s love expressed through action, which is the foundation of all meaningful tradition.” I move closer to study the recipe specifications, noting ingredients that would require significant modification to work with Zephyrian bio-synthesis. “However, we may need to adapt some elements to work with available technology.”
“Adapt how?”
“Substitute compatible proteins, adjust flavor profiles to accommodate what the synthesizer can produce, maintain the essential character while accepting practical limitations.” I pause, considering possibilities that might bridge the gap between her cultural expectations and our technological constraints. “Or we could combine human and Zephyrian approaches.”
Her expression shifts from frustration to curiosity. “What do you mean?”
“Zephyrian celebration meals involve communal preparation where multiple individuals contribute different elements. Rather than attempting to recreate Earth traditions exactly, we could create something new. A fusion that honors both cultures while reflecting our family’s unique composition.”
“That’s…” She stares at me for a long moment, and through our empathic connection, I feel surprise giving way to something warmer. “That’s actually perfect. Show me what Zephyrian celebration food looks like.”
I activate the synthesizer’s cultural database, calling up traditional feast preparations that have sustained my people through centuries of communal gathering. The holographic displays show dishes that emphasize shared preparation and complementary flavors, foods designed to be created and consumed by groups rather than individuals.
“This is beautiful,” she breathes, studying the intricate presentations with growing enthusiasm. “Could we really combine these with human holiday traditions?”
“We could create something entirely new. A Christmas feast that reflects our family’s blended heritage.” The words emerge with more certainty than I expected, carrying conviction that surprises us both. “Aniska’s first Christmas should establish traditions that belong specifically to us.”
“Us.” She repeats the word softly, and I feel her emotional response through the empathic connection—warmth and recognition and something that feels remarkably like hope.
“If you’re amenable to collaboration.”
“I think I can manage collaboration.” Her smile carries enough mischief to make my markings pulse with involuntary response. “As long as you don’t mind if I curse at the synthesizer when it doesn’t cooperate.”
“I’m becoming accustomed to your creative relationship with profanity.”
“Good, because it’s definitely not going anywhere.”
We work side by side for the next hour, adapting recipes and experimenting with flavor combinations that honor both human and Zephyrian culinary traditions. The kitchen fills with the mingled scents of synthetic proteins and bio-organic seasonings, creating aromatic complexity that makes even Aniska coo with apparent approval.
But the food preparation becomes secondary to the intimacy of shared creation. Every time Hada leans close to read ingredient specifications, I catch the scent of her skin and feel my concentration splinter into awareness of her proximity. When she brushes against my arm while reaching for utensils, the contact sends warmth cascading through nerve pathways that have nothing to do with cooking and everything to do with desire I struggle to contain.
“Try this,” she says, offering a spoon with experimental sauce that combines human flavor profiles with Zephyrian preparation techniques.
