Epilogue #2
Tor'van nodded, then brought up the secondary expansion projections. "We've received requests from seven different species for custom habitat designs. All want the human-Zandovian collaborative approach applied to their quarters."
Seven species. Seven different biological requirements, cultural preferences, spatial needs. The project would take years.
I felt excitement spark in my chest. "When do we start?"
"Three weeks. Assuming you're willing to expand your team.
" Tor'van looked at Maya's image on the comm screen.
"Ms. Chauncy, I'm formally offering you a position as Senior Habitat Designer, reporting directly to Jalina.
We need your expertise for the Talaxian sector particularly—their gravity requirements are complex. "
Maya's face did something complicated—surprise and gratitude and residual trauma all fighting for dominance. "I... yes. Thank you, Captain. I accept."
The meeting continued for two hours, discussing logistics and timelines and resource allocation.
But I barely heard half of it, too busy watching Maya's expression shift from haunted to hopeful as Tor'van outlined her responsibilities.
Too busy feeling Zor'go's hand rest casually on my shoulder whenever he leaned over to point out structural considerations on the holographic displays.
Too busy realizing that this impossible, complicated, cross-species collaboration was home now.
Not Earth. Not the Liberty. Not any place I could mark on a map.
Home was being understood. Being valued. Being part of something larger than individual survival.
When the meeting ended, Dana pulled me aside while Zor'go discussed technical specifications with Er'dox.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah. Why?"
"Because you've been crying."
I touched my face, surprised to find moisture on my cheeks. "Happy crying. Not sad crying."
"There's a difference?"
"Apparently." I wiped my eyes, smudging charcoal. I didn't remember getting on my fingers. "I was just thinking about how far we've come. Ten months ago, we were convinced we'd die on that burning planet."
"And now you're designing habitats for seven different species and dating the Head of Operations."
"Bonded to the Head of Operations," I corrected. "There's a difference."
Dana's green eyes went soft. "I know. Er'dox explained the bonding ceremony to me. It's serious."
"It's terrifying."
"Because you're committed to someone from a different species who you'll never be able to return to Earth with if rescue comes?"
"Because I'm not sure I'd choose Earth anymore if rescue came." The admission came out raw and honest. "Because I think I'd choose him. Choose this. Choose a life I never planned but somehow fits better than anything I left behind."
"That's not betrayal, Jalina. That's growth."
"Feels like betrayal sometimes."
"I know." Dana glanced at Er'dox, her expression unguarded for once. "But we're allowed to build new lives. To find happiness in impossible situations. The people we lost—they'd want that for us."
Would they? I didn't know. Couldn't know.
But I wanted to believe it.
Bea's face appeared on my comm display, interrupting my spiral. "Weekly dinner tonight? My quarters, 1900 hours?"
"I'll bring dessert," I promised.
"Actual dessert or your sketches of dessert?"
"Why not both?"
She smiled—a rare, genuine expression that transformed her usually serious features. "Bring Zor'go. And tell Dana to bring Er'dox. Zorn's cooking for eight."
"Eight?"
"Maya, Garrett, and Prisha are coming. Building community requires regular social interaction. I read a study." Her expression went slightly mischievous. "Also, Elena's coming. Vaxon will coincidentally arrive thirty minutes late."
Dana groaned. "You're meddling in their disaster of a relationship."
"I'm a doctor. I see a patient with symptoms, I treat them. Their symptom is unresolved sexual tension. The treatment is forced proximity in a low-stakes social environment."
"That's not how medicine works."
"It's exactly how therapy works." Bea's image flickered slightly as she adjusted her comm. "1900 hours. Don't be late."
She disconnected before Dana could argue.
I looked at Dana. She looked at me. We both started laughing at the same time.
"Elena's going to murder Bea," Dana said.
"Vaxon's going to murder Bea."
"It'll be the first joint human-Zandovian homicide."
"At least they'll finally be working together."
We were still laughing when Er'dox and Zor'go rejoined us, both looking confused by human emotional responses as usual.
"What's funny?" Zor'go asked.
"Bea's matchmaking," I explained.
"That's not funny. That's psychological manipulation."
"Exactly. Which is hilarious when it's not happening to us."
His markings flickered with resigned amusement. "Humans are complicated."
"You love it."
"I love you. The complications are simply part of the package."
Er'dox made a sound that might have been an agreement. "Dana brings sufficient complications for both of us."
"Excuse me?" Dana's voice went dangerous.
"I said that with affection."
"Say it with less affection and more groveling."
They bickered as we left Operations, that comfortable back-and-forth of couples who'd found their rhythm. Zor'go and I followed, his hand finding mine automatically, his stride adjusting to match my shorter legs.
"Dinner at 1900," I said. "Bea's hosting. Elena and Vaxon will be there."
"That's a disaster waiting to happen."
"That's entertainment waiting to happen."
"You're cruel."
"I'm practical. If they're busy arguing with each other, they won't notice how much time Maya spends staring at nothing or how Garrett flinches every time someone moves too fast behind him. Distraction serves multiple purposes."
Zor'go stopped walking, pulling me to face him. His ice-blue eyes studied my face with uncomfortable intensity. "You're taking care of everyone again."
"Someone has to."
"You're allowed to need care too."
"I have you for that."
"Yes. You do." He cupped my face with one large hand, his touch impossibly gentle. "Every day, Jalina. Not just when you've reached breaking point. Every day, you're allowed to need me."
My throat went tight. "I'm working on it."
"Work faster. I'm patient but not infinite."
"Noted."
He kissed me then, right there in Mothership's corridor while crew members flowed around us with varying degrees of amusement and exasperation. When we broke apart, his markings were doing that rapid pulse-shimmer again.
"1900 hours," he said. "I'll bring wine."
"You hate Bea's wine."
"I love you. Supporting your friends requires occasional sacrifice."
"That's the most romantic thing you've ever said."
"The bar is concerningly low."
I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. "Come on. We have six hours before dinner. I want to show you the new courtyard designs for the Talaxian sector. Maya and I developed a gravity-transitional space that—"
"Uses differential pressure zones to create species-specific environments within a shared framework?" He pulled up the schematics on his wrist display. "I reviewed them this morning. Brilliant work."
"You reviewed them and didn't tell me?"
"I'm telling you now. They're brilliant. The mathematics are elegant. The spatial design is inspired." His markings flickered. "You're becoming an exceptional architect, Jalina."
"I had a good teacher."
"You had adequate instruction. Your talent is innate."
We reached the observation deck, my favorite place on Mothership, where floor-to-ceiling viewports showed the infinite dark beyond. A handful of crew members occupied the space, but they gave us privacy, the universal courtesy of recognizing a moment.
Through the viewport, stars stretched in unfamiliar configurations. The Shorstar Galaxy, where we'd been flung by wormhole chaos and cosmic indifference. Where we'd built lives from wreckage and hope.
"Dana's making progress on the communication buoy," I said quietly. "Real progress. She thinks she'll have a working prototype within six months."
"I know. She discussed the technical specifications with Er'dox."
"If it works, if we make contact with Earth—"
"You'll have to choose," Zor'go finished. "Yes. We've established this."
"I don't want to choose."
"I know."
"I want both. I want to know what happened to Earth, to know if humanity survived. But I don't want to leave Mothership. Don't want to leave this." I gestured at the stars, at the ship, at us. "Don't want to leave you."
"Then don't."
"It's not that simple."
"It's exactly that simple. If rescue comes and you don't want to go, you don't go." His hand found mine again, threading our fingers together despite the size difference. "I won't pressure you either direction. Whatever you choose, I'll support. Even if you choose Earth."
"You'd let me go?"
"I'd hate every moment of it. I'd be devastated and furious and probably redesign Mothership's entire operations structure out of spite.
" His markings pulsed with dark humor. "But yes.
If returning to Earth is what you need, I'd let you go.
Because love means wanting someone's happiness even when it conflicts with your own. "
I turned to face him fully, craning my neck to meet his eyes. "What if I told you I've already chosen?"
His markings went very still. "Have you?"
"Yeah." The word came out steady, certain.
"I choose Mothership. I choose the expansion project.
I choose building something that matters with someone who understands my vision.
" I squeezed his hand. "I choose you. Even knowing it means I might never see Earth again.
Even knowing it's terrifying and complicated and completely irrational. "
"Love is categorically irrational."
"That's the most romantic thing you've ever said."
"The bar remains concerningly low." But his markings were pulsing rapid-fire now, that brilliant crystalline blue that meant joy. "You're certain?"
"As certain as I've ever been about anything." I smiled, feeling the truth of it settle into my bones. "The best buildings aren't planned. They're discovered in the building. Like love. Like home."
He lifted me then, ignoring the startled looks from nearby crew members, pulling me close enough that I didn't have to strain to reach him. His kiss was gentle and thorough and full of promises neither of us could guarantee but both of us meant.
When he set me down, his expression had gone soft in a way I'd never seen before.
"I love you, Jalina Chauncy."
"I love you too." I adjusted my glasses, straightened my shirt, and tried to pretend my hands weren't shaking. "Even though you're terrible at romantic gestures and you lecture me about structural mathematics at inappropriate times."
"Those aren't flaws. Those are fundamental aspects of my personality."
"I know. That's why I love you."
Behind us, the stars continued their eternal dance through the dark. Ahead of us, Mothership's corridors stretched toward a future we'd build one design at a time, one day at a time, one impossible choice at a time.
We turned toward our quarters, our shared space, designed collaboratively over three months of compromise and creativity, and I felt something settle in my chest. Not quite peace. Not quite certainty.
But close enough to both that I could breathe without the constant weight of grief pressing against my ribs.
"1900 hours," Zor'go reminded me as we walked. "Dinner with your friends."
"Our friends," I corrected.
"Our friends." His markings pulsed with warmth. "Our life. Our home."
"Yeah," I said, leaning into his side despite the height difference making it awkward. "Our home."