Chapter 7
ALAINA
They say you forget the pain once the baby’s in your arms.
Bullshit.
I remember every second.
The contraction that made my hips feel like they were splitting apart. The burn of muscle stretched past reason. The endless press of time, of bodies, of light too bright and voices too sharp. The terror that I wouldn’t survive it. That he wouldn’t survive it.
They had to sedate me at one point. I bit a nurse. I roared.
And when he finally came out—slick, red, wailing—I didn’t cry.
Not right away.
I stared.
Because the first thing I saw weren’t the fists or the wet curls of hair or even the way his mouth was open like he already had things to say.
It was the eyes.
Golden. Bright as twin novas.
I broke.
Right there, sobbing into my palms while the nurse handed me this squirming, furious little creature who looked half like me and half like something from the stars.
“He’s perfect,” I whisper, voice hoarse, throat raw from hours of screaming.
And he is.
He’s mine.
I name him Caelix. Half from a name I read in a pre-Alliance myth, half because it feels like his. Strong vowels. Sharp consonants. Vakutan cadence wrapped in human heart.
He grabs my finger and holds on like he owns me.
He does, really.
My whole damn life recalibrates around him in the space of a breath.
One nurse asks if I want to list the father on the certificate.
I just look at her.
She doesn’t ask again.
The days after are a blur of antiseptic and lullabies. Feeding schedules and sleepless nights. His cries are like sirens—sharp, urgent, impossible to ignore. My breasts ache. My back feels like I got hit by a hover rig. Every time I stand up too fast, the world tilts sideways and mocks me.
But his breath—light, soft, sometimes wheezy from his not-quite-human lungs—it centers me.
There’s a moment, maybe day four, where he stops mid-wail and looks at me. Like he knows. Like he sees through all my bullshit.
And I think, Okay. I can do this.
I wait a week before I try to contact him.
Troka.
Because even though he left, even though he vanished without a single damned word, he deserves to know.
I don’t know how long soldiers serve. I don’t know where they get deployed. I don’t even know if he’s alive.
But I find a contact point—backdoor military uplink through a cadet I bribed with free drinks and a promise of discretion—and I send the first message.
It’s simple.
“You have a son.”
Nothing dramatic. No threats. No pleas. Just the truth.
When the message doesn’t bounce back, my stomach flips.
He got it.
He saw it.
I wait.
No reply.
Over the next few weeks, I send more.
“He has your eyes.”
“He started smiling yesterday.”
“We’re doing okay. But you should know.”
Each one gets more raw. More me. Less guarded.
“I don’t need your help. But he might want to know you someday.”
“He deserves better than silence.”
“You left without a word. You think that didn’t matter? It mattered.”
Then at last, “Coward.”
I regret that one the second it sends.
But I don’t unsend it.
I never get a single response.
Caelix grows faster than human babies. Vakutan genes, maybe. His spine straightens early. His little fists are strong. He growls when he’s hungry, a low sound that makes the other mothers in the postnatal clinic side-eye me like I’m raising a rabid animal.
But he smiles too.
Oh, stars, he smiles.
And when he falls asleep on my chest, his little claws curled against my skin, I stop giving a damn about who stares.
I’m raising a miracle. I’m raising him.
I go back to work at The Docking Bay Lounge two weeks after the birth. Jorla flips when she sees me walk in.
“You look like hell,” she says.
“Feel worse.”
She softens. “You bring him?”
“Daycare drone in the break room.”
Her eyes widen. “You strapped a military-grade watchbot with a pacifier?”
“He loves the sound of the repulsors,” I say, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
She shakes her head. “You’re out of your damn mind.”
“Not denying it.”
And we get to work.
I learn how to change a diaper with one hand while holding a drink tray in the other.
I memorize the sales cycle for formula supplements and learn which black-market vendor has the best rates on hypoallergenic wipes.
I ration sleep in micro-doses and nap during my tram rides.
I don’t drink. Don’t flirt. Don’t entertain questions.
Caelix comes first.
Always.
And even when I’m dead on my feet, even when my shoulders ache and my nipples are sore and my back’s a mess of tension knots, I go home, pick him up from the drone cradle, and hold him tight against my chest.
Because he’s mine.
Because we matter, even if his father never thinks to show up.
But I still check the compad.
Every morning. Every night. Every break.
One message. One ping.
Anything.
Nothing.
Sometimes, I pretend maybe the system glitched. Maybe he never got them.
Maybe he’s dead.
Or he forgot me the second he shipped out.
None of it helps.
So I stop hoping. Stop writing.
And just live.
Because this little boy needs a mother who doesn’t break every time a message stays unread.
I’m stronger than this. I have to be.