Zoric
Christmas morning arrives with Paige asleep against my chest, her breathing steady and warm.
I've been awake for a while, watching the way early light from the viewport paints patterns across her face. Calculating the probability that this is real, that I didn't imagine last night, that she's actually here in my quarters after everything we survived.
She stirs, her hand sliding across my chest, following the pattern of markings there. They brighten in response—gold spreading from where she touches. I've stopped trying to suppress the reaction. What's the purpose? She knows. She's seen. She's chosen me anyway.
“Morning,” she says against my shoulder, voice rough from sleep.
“Good morning.” I press a kiss to her hair, an action that still feels foreign but increasingly natural. “We should report to the bridge.”
“Should we?” She tilts her head back to look at me, amber striations in her dark eyes catching the light. “Or we could stay here and let Tanaka handle it.”
The temptation is significant. But duty remains duty, regardless of personal preferences. “The crew will notice our absence.”
“The crew definitely noticed us leaving together last night.” She traces a marking along my collarbone. “I think they have a pretty good idea where we are.”
“Then we confirm their conclusions by appearing together this morning.” I capture her hand, bringing it to my mouth. The gesture feels right even though my people don't typically express affection this way. “Officially.”
Her smile transforms her entire face. “Officially. I like that.”
We rise, shower separately for efficiency despite my strong desire to do otherwise, and dress in fresh uniforms. She produces a spare from her emergency locker—she's kept supplies here since the sabotage investigation intensified.
The practical efficiency of it pleases me.
The implication that she planned to stay here pleases me more.
I step through the bridge doors with Paige beside me, and the bridge goes quieter. The shift in attention is obvious.
Commander Tanaka rises from the captain's chair. “Captain. Chief Engineer. Good morning.”
“Commander.” I move to my station. Paige heads to the engineering console. Professional. Appropriate. Yet I can see everyone's elevated interest in our presence.
“Status report,” I request.
“All systems nominal, sir.” Tanaka pulls up the displays.
“Final repair crews finished their work at 0600 hours.
The Starbright grid is integrated and stable.
Life support, navigation, shields—everything's operating at optimal levels.” She pauses.
“Better than optimal, actually. Chief Martin's modifications during the crisis improved efficiency across multiple systems.”
“Noted for the official record.” I review the data streams. Everything she's said is accurate. The Polaris not only survived, but emerged stronger. “Damage assessment?”
“Minimal. Some cosmetic repairs needed in the outer hull sections. Nothing that affects operations.” Tanaka's expression remains neutral, but I detect satisfaction underneath. “We're ahead of schedule for reaching our destination.”
“Excellent work, Commander.” I turn to address the bridge.
“All stations, the crisis is officially concluded.
Security Chief Hale's investigation has secured a full confession from Walsh Burton. He acted alone, motivated by ideological opposition to integrated command structures. His sabotage program has been completely eliminated from our systems.”
Several crew members glance at Paige, then back to me. The implication is clear: her warnings were correct. Her investigation saved us. I see the shift in perception happening in real time.
The bridge doors open. Tobias Hale enters, moving directly to my position. “Captain, the prisoner's confession has been recorded and filed. I've prepared the full report for your review.”
“Thank you, Security Chief.” I accept the data file. “Your work throughout this crisis has been exemplary.”
“Just doing my job, sir.” He turns to face the bridge crew, his posture formal.
“I want to make a statement for the record.
The captain and chief engineer's coordination under pressure saved ten thousand lives. Their competence is beyond question. Anyone who suggests otherwise can bring their concerns to me personally.”
The challenge in his voice is unmistakable. Several crew members straighten. Morris nods firmly. Even Fletcher at navigation, whom I've observed maintaining suspicious distance from both Paige and myself, looks thoughtful rather than hostile.
“Noted,” I say. “Thank you, Security Chief.”
Tobias nods once and leaves. The bridge settles into working rhythm, but something has shifted.
Not complete acceptance—some crew members still maintain careful distance, still radiate discomfort with the situation.
But the open hostility has diminished. A beginning, as the outline suggested. Not an ending, but a beginning.
I catch Paige's eye across the bridge. She smiles, quick and private. Later, I promise myself. Later we can be unprofessional.
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.
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.”