The First Child (STARLIGHT CHRISTMAS)

Chapter 1 Hada

HADA

The message waits for me like a loaded weapon.

I stare at the communication terminal in my quarters, the priority seal blinking red against the standard-issue gray walls.

Three days of deep-space transit, and command finally decides to patch through whatever news couldn’t wait until my return to Earth.

The seal reads Personal - Immediate Response Required, which means someone I care about is either dead or in enough trouble to qualify.

My hands shake as I break the encryption. Not from fear—I buried that reflex years ago in the outer rim campaigns. This is caffeine withdrawal and too many sleepless shifts monitoring sensor arrays for phantom Korvani raiders that never materialized.

The hologram that springs to life isn’t a superior officer or a medical examiner. It’s Janet Mehock, looking older than her forty-three years and wearing the kind of expression that announces bad news before words ever form.

“Hada.” Her voice carries across the light-years like a prayer. “I’m sorry to be the one telling you this.”

My stomach drops.

“Margot Altell died in a transport accident three days ago. System failure during atmospheric entry on Kepler Station. She and her partner, both gone instantly.”

Margot. My throat closes around her name.

I knew this call would come eventually—deep space logistics has a way of killing the people you care about—but knowing doesn’t soften the blow.

Margot Altell, who saved my life in the Jakarta raids.

Margot, who talked me through my first panic attack after the bombing on Titan Station.

Margot, who sent me photos of her baby daughter every few weeks like clockwork, grinning beside a tiny face that looked nothing like her mother’s human features.

Janet’s hologram continues talking, but the words blur together until one phrase snaps my attention back.

“—named you as legal guardian.”

“What?”

“Aniska Altell. Margot’s daughter. You’re listed as the designated guardian in her military service record.” Janet’s image flickers, the long-distance transmission wavering. “The child is currently on New Eden Colony, where Margot was stationed. You’ll need to—”

I cut the transmission.

The silence in my quarters feels thick enough to drown in. Margot is dead. The woman who dragged me out of my own wreckage more times than I can count, who somehow found love and happiness in this godforsaken galaxy, is gone. And she left me her baby.

A baby I’ve never met. A half-Zephyrian child born into a universe that barely knows what to do with interspecies relationships, let alone their offspring.

I sit there for maybe ten minutes, staring at the blank terminal screen, before muscle memory kicks in.

Pack light. Check transport schedules. File the necessary leave paperwork.

Move forward because standing still means drowning in the kind of thoughts that got three good soldiers killed on Hestia Prime.

The transit to New Eden takes four days.

Four days to read Margot’s service file, study the colony reports, and pretend I have any idea what the hell I’m doing.

The files tell me Aniska is six months old, born healthy despite the complications that come with her mixed heritage.

There are medical reports I don’t understand, cultural briefings that raise more questions than they answer, and a single video message Margot recorded for me just after the birth.

I watch it once and delete it immediately. Some grief is too raw to revisit at thirty thousand feet above a planet I’ve never seen.

New Eden sprawls across the screen as we descend—a patchwork of human engineering and Zephyrian bio-architecture that somehow works together without looking like a compromise.

The settlement is larger than I expected, more established.

Permanent structures instead of prefab shelters.

Gardens instead of survival rations. People who chose to build something instead of just survive.

The transport touches down at midday local time, and the gravity of the colony hits differently than ship-standard.

Heavier. More real. I shoulder my single duffel bag and follow the other passengers through customs, past Zephyrian officials whose bioluminescent markings pulse in patterns I can’t read.

The nursery complex sits in the heart of the civilian district, marked by soft curves and warm lighting that screams “family-friendly” in every architectural detail. I’ve been in combat zones that felt less intimidating than this place.

Inside, the lobby hums with quiet activity.

Human and Zephyrian staff move between rooms with the efficient calm of people who know exactly what they’re doing.

Behind soundproofed walls, I catch glimpses of children—some fully human, others with the telltale features of mixed heritage though none half-Zephyrian like Aniska.

The air smells like cleaning supplies and something sweet I can’t identify.

“Captain Blaxton?”

The voice belongs to a middle-aged Zephyrian female whose silver markings identify her as medical staff. Her English carries the precise diction of a translator implant, each word carefully chosen.

“Dr. Velanni. We spoke over subspace.” Her expression holds the professional sympathy of someone who delivers bad news as part of her job description. “Aniska is in room seven. I should warn you that she’s been… difficult since the news arrived.”

Difficult. That’s a word with about fifty different meanings when applied to children, none of them good.

Room seven sits at the end of a corridor lined with observation windows. Through the reinforced glass, I see cribs equipped with monitoring equipment that looks like a cross between medical tech and alien artistry. Most of the rooms are quiet. Room seven sounds like a war zone.

The crying hits me first. Not just the sound, but the feeling. A pressure behind my eyes that makes my sinuses ache and my chest tighten. The nurse beside me winces and adjusts something on her handheld device.

“Empathic projection,” she explains. “All Zephyrian children develop it, but with Aniska, the emotional feedback is… intense.”

Through the window, I see her. Tiny fists flailing above a standard-issue crib, dark hair plastered to her skull with tears and sweat. She’s smaller than I expected, more fragile-looking. But the sound coming from her lungs could wake the dead, and every cry seems to resonate directly in my bones.

“How long has she been like this?”

“Three days. Ever since we received confirmation of her parents’ deaths.” Dr. Velanni’s markings shift to a deeper silver—concern, maybe, or frustration. “She won’t settle for anyone. Won’t take a bottle. We’ve had to provide IV nutrition.”

Three days. This child has screamed in grief for three days, and somehow I’m supposed to fix it for her.

I reach for the door handle when footsteps echo down the corridor behind us. Heavy boots on metal flooring, moving with military precision. I turn, expecting another medical officer or maybe colony security.

Instead, I find myself face-to-face with the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

Beautiful isn’t the right word. It’s too simple, too human for what stands before me.

Tall and lean with the kind of grace that suggests predatory speed, midnight blue hair that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, and silver-gold eyes that pin me in place like a targeting system.

Intricate patterns trace his pale skin—markings that pulse with soft blue light as his gaze takes my measure.

Zephyrian. Obviously. But there’s something else, something in the way he carries himself that screams authority and barely contained power.

“Dr. Velanni.” His voice holds an accent I can’t place, each word precisely articulated. “I came as soon as I received your message.”

“Commander Ominox.” The doctor’s markings shift to what might be relief. “This is Captain Blaxton, the child’s designated guardian.”

The male—Commander Ominox—studies me with the kind of clinical assessment that makes my spine straighten. His gaze moves from my worn service jacket to the duffel bag at my feet, cataloging details with military efficiency.

“You’re smaller than I expected,” he says finally.

Heat flares in my chest. “Excuse me?”

“For someone claiming guardianship of Aniska Altell.” He steps closer, and I catch the scent of something clean and sharp, like ozone after a lightning strike.

“I am Commander Sylas Ominox, spiritual leader of the New Eden Zephyrian community. According to our law and custom, the child belongs with her father’s people. ”

The crying from room seven intensifies, as if Aniska senses the tension building in the corridor. The pressure behind my eyes becomes a sharp pulse of pain.

“According to human law,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the urge to step backward, “she belongs with her designated guardian. That would be me.”

“Human law.” He pronounces the words like they taste bitter. “The child is half-Zephyrian. Her empathic abilities require training and guidance that only our priests can provide. You cannot possibly understand what she needs.”

“What she needs is someone who knew her mother. Someone who gives a damn about more than just her alien DNA.”

The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don’t take them back. This arrogant bastard doesn’t get to show up and dismiss Margot’s choice like it means nothing.

His silver-gold eyes narrow. “And you believe your military training qualifies you to raise an empathic child?”

“I believe Margot Altell was one of my closest friends, and she trusted me with her daughter’s life. That qualifies me to tell you to go to hell.”

The silence that follows stretches taut as a tripwire. Dr. Velanni looks between us with the expression of someone watching a diplomatic incident unfold in real time. In room seven, Aniska’s cries take on a different quality—sharper, more urgent.