Chapter 26
KYLDAK
Ipush open the double doors to the medbay and the hiss of filtered air is the first thing that ratchets me back to life.
The sharp smell of antiseptic, cold metal, and sterile lights floods me, and I blink against the brightness as my boots echo on the clean floor.
My heart hammers like a war drum in my chest.
The silence is thick. Not the silence of emptiness, but the silence of waiting.
In the center of the room lies a single bed, surrounded by machines that beep rhythmically in soft blue and white lights.
And on that bed, under sterile sheets, a child sleeps.
Golden-red hair flares out like a halo. Pale skin — too pale for this world — quiet and smooth.
On his arms, tiny freckles that catch the light: scaled, shimmering, like dusted gemstones. My breath catches.
Jaela stands at the foot of the bed, backlit by floodlamps. Her face is gray, hollow, tear-streaked, but her eyes blaze with all the things she’s held in. She whispers, barely audible: “Kel, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
The child stirs. The machines soften. His eyelids flutter. I feel like every breath in the room has gone slow. I kneel down beside the bed, knees clicking on cold tile. My hands hover, unused, trembling.
I look at him. That face — so much hers, so much me — it hurts. My voice is a rasp: “Kel… it’s me.”
He blinks once. He studies me, his eyes sliding from Jaela to me, confusion and curiosity mingling there. Then—and this slams me—the corner of his mouth lifts in a small, shy smile.
“You look like my drawings,” he says.
My head snaps. My throat is dry. I swallow hard, trying to force words through the dam of emotion.
“I look like your dad,” I whisper.
He nods, faintly, as though that little phrase is all he needed to confirm something he already knew.
“You came,” he says.
Silence crashes down. I can’t breathe. My heart tears open.
Tears break. I can’t stop them.
“Kel… son,” I choke. “You—and me—this… I’m here.”
He watches me, wide eyed. I reach out, trembling, and touch the back of his hand. His skin is warm. Softer than I expected.
Jaela slides beside me. Her voice cracks as she says, “He’s been waiting.”
I press my thumb over Kel’s scaled freckles. The pattern is faint but real. A heritage. A marker. A promise.
The machines hum. The lights flicker. Instruments hum life around us. Yet in this space, it is just us.
I lean closer. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice ragged. “I’m sorry for being gone. For every moment you had to wait.”
Kel’s eyes water, small tears sliding down thin cheeks. He lifts a hand and wipes them away.
“I waited,” he says, fierce in that soft voice. “I drew you. I said to the sky, ‘If Dad sees me one day, he’ll know me by my pictures.’”
The memory of her drawings — nights she showed me his sketches of a strong man with gold eyes, half-shadowed — that memory burns inside me now. That she kept them, showed him, nurtured hope in the void.
I break. My body folds, tears wet, voice raw. “I am your dad. I’m here now.”
Jaela presses a hand on my shoulder. Quiet. Strong.
Kel’s fingers grip mine. Small strength. Trembling.
“I want to know you,” he says.
I nod. So hard it shudders in me. “I’ll tell you everything. I’ll hold you. I will never leave you again.”
He stares at me, bridges between childhood and manhood flickering in his eyes. The monitors beep. Air tastes of antiseptic and tears. I take a breath, steadying myself.
Jaela leans in softly, whispering in his ear, “He’s come back for you, Kel.”
Kel nods again, a serious gesture, and exhales. He drifts sleepily, eyelids heavy.
I watch him, chest tight. My tears fall freely.
Jaela stands, brushing something from her cheek. She gently lifts a blanket over him. I stay kneeling. I trace a path across his face — his brow, his cheek. I taste everything: fear, relief, hope.
The technicians drift in: medics, nurses, protective suits peeling away. They begin soft steps to check his vitals, attach monitors to me, to Jaela. Their voices are distant. A nurse says, “Stable. Vitals good. No rejection signs yet.” Another murmurs, “This hybrid physiology is astonishing.”
I glare at them. This is my child. Their words are facts, not miracles. I nod once. I press my lips to Kel’s forehead. He twitches, murmurs in sleep.
I whisper, “I’m here, Kel. I am here.”
Jaela kneels beside me and takes both my arms. We kneel together, silent, weighted by everything we’ve lost, everything we fight for now.
I look at her. Her eyes so human and worn. I whisper, “We have him.”
She squeezes my hand. “We do.”
The hum of life-support, the soft breathing, the cold sterile room—it’s all real now. I close my eyes, pressing my cheek to Kel’s. And I promise again: I won’t leave. I won’t hide. I will carry him through whatever comes.
Everything changes in that stare. Everything becomes salvageable.
I come awake to voices I don’t understand — soft tones, clipped accents, machines humming low, glass doors sliding. My skull throbs, pain radiates from my ribs as though someone smashed them and then left me to bleed. I taste antiseptic and metal on my tongue. I blink. The room resolves.
White walls. Overhead lights too harsh. Beeping monitors. Sterile smells. A bed too small. Two beds, maybe — but I see only one, and it holds three lives.
I see Jaela first. She’s curled beside Kel, her cheek pressed into his back. Her hair is damp, matted. Her eyes snap open when I shift. Recognition — fear — relief. She leans over him and brushes back hair that’s spilled over his pillow.
Then I see him. My son. Kel. He lies pale and small, tubes trailing, wires attached. His golden-red hair shines under hospital lights, freckles shimmering on his arms — soft little scales that catch flecks of light. He’s thinner than any child should be. Fragile. Yet breathing.
I try to speak. My throat is raw.
“Jaela?” I croak.
She looks at me, tears in her eyes. “Kyldak.” Her voice is soft, trembling. She reaches out a hand.
I shift, wince in pain, and lean closer. The monitors beep faster. My vision flickers. She grips my hand.
Kel stirs, shifting under the blankets. He opens one eye. It’s slow, heavy with medicine and media that pulses in behind him. He blinks at me, uncertain.
I kneel by the bed, every muscle screaming. The bed is narrow, the sheets cold. I press a hand to Kel’s forehead — warm, soft. Anxiety and awe tangle in my gut.
“Dad…” His voice is small, fragile. He must strain for each syllable.
Tears flood me. I can’t stop them. They run down my cheeks, salt on my lips. I shake.
“I’m here, Kel,” I whisper, voice raw. “I’m your father.”
He nods, eyes half-lidded. “You came.”
I swallow. The words hit me harder than any weapon ever did. “Yes, I came.”
Jaela pushes aside, gestures toward him. “Kel, say hello.”
He blinks. “Hello, Dad.”
I laugh — broken, racked — but it’s real. My chest aches. I touch his hand. He grips my finger.
I don’t move. I can’t. The world is too big, too alive. The beeps of machines, the hiss of airflow, the sterile scent — they press in on me.
The doctor enters — scrubs, mask, eyes cautious. The nurse follows. Medical instruments in hand.
Jaela stands. She faces the doctor, voice quiet but firm. “Is he stable? Will he recover fully?”
The doctor offers a small nod. “We’ve completed the extraction. No rejection signs so far. His vitals are stable. He’s in critical recovery — but yes, he has a fighting chance.”
She exhales. Relief cracks her voice. She turns to me. “They said you were compatible beyond expectation.”
I nod mutely.
Kel coughs gently — a small rasp. I stiffen. The doctor steps forward, adjusts a line.
“Don’t strain,” the nurse murmurs.
He shakes his head. “I need to talk to Dad.”
I lean in closer. “I’m right here.”
He blinks again, closes his eyes, drifts.
I lean back, my hand still on him. Jaela reaches over and slips hers into mine. Our fingers lace.
Tears still in my eyes, I blur into the soft white hum of the medbay. The last thing I notice is Jaela’s lips pressing to my forehead, and the faint, steady beep of the monitor marking Kel’s heartbeat — alive, present.