Time aboard the Asteria passed with quiet inevitability. Days blurred into weeks, and amid patrols, diplomatic briefings, and system checks, a slow realization began to settle like a low orbit around Lieutenant Thalia.
It wasn't immediate. The initial changes were subtle — a slight shift in her posture, the way her neural filaments seemed less reactive to ambient ship stimuli, how she moved with an unconscious protectiveness around her midsection. But for those with trained eyes — and on a starship, most eyes were trained — patterns became difficult to ignore.
Some crew members noticed her requests for nutritional adjustments. Others caught the faint flush in her skin, a hue that came and went in unfamiliar rhythms. Commander Dravic, ever the observer, made a pointed comment one morning in the mess:
"Lieutenant Thalia's got that 'core shift' glow, doesn't she? Must be the lighting... or something."
The table had gone quiet. No one responded.
By the third week of whispers, silence had become the only protocol. No one was bold enough to ask — not aloud, not directly. It wasn't their place. The liaison officer and the narian ambassador's niece had earned a silent buffer of privacy that only rank — or politics — could pierce.
That silence cracked during the Inter-Coalition Alliance Summit.
Held aboard the Asteria for logistical convenience, the summit brought a cluster of Coalition brass and planetary representatives to observe updates on cross-species integration efforts. The room was an architectural marvel — all glass, curved alloy, and reinforced observation panels displaying the void outside.
Anthony stood in full formal uniform, his stance practiced but rigid. Thalia was beside him, her silver ceremonial sash subtly altered to accommodate the unmistakable curve of her abdomen — the detail that made rumors obsolete.
Admiral Charles was the first to approach.
"Lieutenant Thalia," he said with the kind of even tone that only long-time diplomats or career officers could master. "I trust you're well."
"I am, Admiral," she replied smoothly.
He nodded once. Then, with no preamble, turned toward the assembled guests. His voice carried with the force of intent.
"In the interest of transparency and given growing curiosity among Coalition delegates, it's time to clarify something that's become — plainly — visible. Lieutenant Thalia, is it true that you are carrying the first confirmed human-narian offspring?"
The room stilled. Even the gentle ambient hum of the ship's systems seemed to dim.
Thalia didn't flinch. Her expression was unreadable, her back straight. But within their neural bond, a ripple of tension brushed Anthony's mind like static.
It's time, her thought came. Not frightened. Steady.
With you, he replied, standing tall beside her.
"Yes," she said aloud, her voice clear and unshaken. "The child I carry is of both human and narian genetic heritage. This has been confirmed by medical scans, cross-validated with narian specialists, and recorded in Coalition health records."
There were no cheers. No applause. Only nods, quiet glances, the shifting of diplomatic weight in real time.
Ambassador Narus stepped forward next. If he harbored any personal emotion, it was buried under layers of cultural formality. He bowed — just enough — and spoke for the record:
"As representative of the Narian Matriarchal Line of Selyan Descent and elder of Lieutenant Thalia's direct lineage, I acknowledge the conception and accept responsibility for integrating this outcome into ongoing narian-human diplomatic frameworks."
Anthony could feel Thalia's thoughts. The strain of calculated formality. The frustration of joy repackaged as policy. And beneath it — quiet defiance. A willingness to carry both.
The summit moved on. Presentations resumed. Not a single member of the room asked a personal question.
Later, after the last dignitary had left and the event hall dimmed to its resting light, Ambassador Narus approached them again. But this time, his neural filaments pulsed with something else — not protocol, not formality, but pride.
"I waited to say this," he said, lowering his voice, "because you deserved the chance to speak first. Thalia. Anthony. This union — and this child — may become the bridge others never imagined."
Thalia's shoulders softened. "Uncle... thank you."
He stepped forward and rested his hand briefly over her abdomen — a gesture of familial recognition among their kind. Then to Anthony: "You've already done more than most liaisons ever manage. But this—this will require more than diplomacy. It will require courage."
"We're not short on that," Anthony said quietly.
Narus offered a rare smile. "Good. Then you'll do just fine."
The ambassador departed, leaving them alone with the distant hum of the stars beyond the glass.
Thalia let out a breath. Her hand found Anthony's.
So... no more hiding, she thought.
We never really were, he replied, squeezing gently.
Their bond pulsed — a whisper between minds — carrying all the certainty that the formal world around them still refused to speak aloud.
They were a family now. And the galaxy had just been officially informed.