The corridor outside their quarters echoed faintly with the sound of laughter — high-pitched, small, and wholly unfamiliar to a ship where most voices were clipped, disciplined, and adult. Anthony paused at the doorway, letting the sound wash over him like sunlight breaking through steel.
It had been two years since the anomaly had blessed — or marked — the beginning of his daughter's life. Two years since every sensor reading and whispered rumor had tangled with their private reality. The passage of time had not dimmed the strangeness of that moment, but it had given them something else: a measure of peace.
The doors parted with a soft hiss.
Inside, Thalia sat cross-legged on the floor, her turquoise skin glowing faintly in the ambient light. Across from her, their daughter tumbled forward onto the mat, giggling at her own clumsy momentum. Her neural filaments — shorter and thinner than Thalia's, but already responsive — flickered in soft violet pulses as she pushed herself upright again.
Anthony dropped to one knee. "And what adventure are we having now?"
The child turned at once, wobbling as she climbed to her feet. Her words came halting but insistent, her vocabulary still limited but her intent sharp. "Fly… fly big sky!"
Thalia chuckled, though her neural filaments betrayed a ripple of embarrassment-tinged blue. "She overheard you in the hangar yesterday," she explained. "Something about starfighter drills."
Anthony grinned, scooping the girl into his arms. "So it's my fault, then."
Their daughter nestled into him, her small fingers clutching at the insignia on his chest. Her gaze was distant for a moment, eyes too sharp for her age. Then she whispered, almost conspiratorial: "Sky watches."
Anthony's arms stiffened just slightly. Thalia noticed, her filaments shifting in quiet inquiry.
"She says things like that," he murmured. "How often?"
Thalia's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not every day. But… often enough. When she looks at the stars, it's not just looking. It's like recognition."
They exchanged a look heavy with unspoken memory.
The child wriggled to be put down, and Anthony obliged. She toddled back to the mat, then spun on unsteady feet to face them both. "Doctor Prell!" she announced, as though summoning him.
Thalia's filaments flushed pale blue now — embarrassment laced with humor. "She's learned names too well. She'll embarrass us the next time we walk into the medical bay."
Anthony exhaled slowly, forcing a smile. "Better Prell than Admiral Charles."
---
The next day, Doctor Prell was summoned — not by the child's uncanny timing, but by routine. At Thalia's insistence, her development was checked monthly.
The Andorian physician leaned over his console, antennae twitching as he compared neural resonance scans. The little girl sat on the biobed, legs kicking idly against the base, violet filaments dancing playfully with the air. She hummed, her tune more vibration than melody.
Anthony and Thalia stood to one side, watching.
"Well?" Anthony asked after a moment.
Prell didn't look up. "Cognitively… accelerated. Significantly." His voice was even, clinical, but his antennae betrayed interest. "Linguistic milestones that should emerge between three and four years are present now. Motor coordination is only slightly advanced, but mental resonance…" He tapped the console. "Off the charts."
"Because of the bond," Thalia said quietly.
"Because of something," Prell corrected, finally glancing up. "Whether it's hybrid neurogenetics, environmental influence, or external…" He let the last word hang unsaid.
Anthony bristled. "She's not an experiment."
"No," Prell agreed, softer now. "She's a child. Which is why we keep watching. Quietly." He turned back to the console, his antennae lowering in thought. "But she will not be able to hide this from her peers much longer."
---
It became clear the following week.
The ship's childcare space was small but carefully designed — padded surfaces, adaptive holo-toys, a gentle simulation of an Earth park blended with narian bioluminescent flora. For the handful of children aboard, it was enough.
Anthony lingered near the doorway, observing as the babysitter — Ensign Harel, a young Betazoid whose calm presence made her ideal for the role — kept gentle watch.
His daughter moved among the others, her filaments pulsing violet in greeting, sometimes blue when she stumbled. Another child, human, handed her a block. She accepted it, then tilted her head.
"You dream," she said softly, in a voice that stilled the others.
The boy blinked. "What?"
"You dream… big water." Her words were halting, her eyes far away. "Scary. But fun."
The boy's eyes went wide. He turned to Harel. "How did she know?"
Anthony's stomach tightened. He looked to Thalia, who had come to stand beside him. Her filaments flickered uncertainly, violet and blue intermingled.
"Anthony," she whispered, "she's starting to speak what she senses."
Before he could reply, the girl dropped the block and clapped her hands, dissolving the moment into simple childish laughter. The tension in the room cracked like glass under strain, and Harel coaxed the others back into play.
But Anthony and Thalia exchanged another long look.
"She's not just ahead," Anthony said quietly. "She's… different."
Thalia's reply was soft, almost a plea. "She's ours."
Her filaments brushed lightly against his wrist, a touch of violet steadying the swirl of unease.
But across the room, their daughter tilted her face upward toward the artificial sky of the simulation. Her filaments pulsed faintly.
And in the silence between heartbeats, Anthony could have sworn he felt something pulse back.
---
Doctor Prell did not enjoy speculation without data. Yet lately, speculation was all that came to him.
He sat in the dim glow of his office, flicking through the child's readings again. Neuro-harmonics. Filament activity. Synaptic projections. All ahead of schedule, all stable — but all accompanied by fluctuations he could not explain.
The most recent entry caught his eye. A recording, discreetly flagged by Ensign Harel after her latest childcare shift.
Prell pressed play.
The girl's voice filled the quiet office. "You dream big water. Scary. But fun."
Then laughter. Play resuming.
Prell leaned back in his chair. His antennae tilted forward. "Not possible," he whispered, though he knew better. The harmonics said otherwise.
---
The next day, he found Anthony and Thalia waiting for him outside the medical bay.
"She spoke about another child's dream," Thalia said without preamble.
Prell hesitated. "Yes. I've seen the report."
Anthony's jaw tightened. "So it wasn't just imagination?"
Prell gestured them into the exam chamber, waiting until the door closed before answering. "Imagination cannot account for specific dream content. What she demonstrated was perception. Directed and conscious."
"Telepathy?" Anthony asked.
Prell shook his head. "Not exactly. Betazoids, Vulcans, even my own people — our perceptions follow predictable bands. Your daughter doesn't. Her resonance is… hybridized. And amplified."
Thalia crossed her arms, filaments curling inward protectively. "So you're saying she's dangerous."
"I'm saying," Prell replied evenly, "she is uncharted."
Anthony bristled, but Thalia placed a calming hand on his arm. Her filaments pulsed violet-blue, both embarrassed and quietly affectionate. "We already knew she was different. This only confirms it."
Prell nodded once. "Different doesn't mean unsafe. But it does mean others will notice. And soon."
---
Anthony didn't sleep well that night.
When he finally stirred from restless half-dreams, he found his daughter awake, perched on the edge of her small cot by the viewport. She was humming softly, her filaments glowing faintly in the dim light.
He sat beside her, rubbing his eyes. "It's the middle of the night."
She tilted her head. "Stars don't sleep."
Anthony froze, a shiver running down his spine.
She looked at him, eyes wide, innocent. "They talk. You listen, Daddy?"
His throat tightened. He forced his voice steady. "What do they say?"
The girl's filaments shifted — first violet, then a flicker of teal. "Not words. Just… looking. Waiting."
Anthony pulled her close, heart hammering in his chest. She rested her head against him, small and warm, as if what she had said was nothing at all.
But Anthony knew better.
---
By the end of the week, whispers had spread through the childcare room. Not from the children — too young to notice much beyond games — but from the adults. Ensign Harel spoke softly to another caretaker one afternoon, not realizing Thalia stood just around the corner.
"She said things again today," Harel whispered. "To Lieutenant Rinn's daughter. Something about colors in her dreams. And she was right. The girl cried after."
The other caretaker frowned. "Should we tell the captain?"
Harel hesitated. "Doctor Prell says to wait. But…"
Thalia stepped into view, her filaments calm but her gaze sharp. "But you're afraid of my child."
The caretakers stiffened, guilty, caught.
"No, Lieutenant," Harel said quickly. "Not afraid. Just… uncertain."
Thalia regarded them both a moment longer. Then she nodded, violet flickers running through her filaments. "Uncertainty is natural. But she is not unnatural."
She left before either could reply.
---
That evening, Anthony found her in their quarters, arms wrapped around herself as she stared out at the stars.
"She's only two," Thalia whispered. "And already people look at her differently."
Anthony approached slowly, resting his hands on her shoulders. "They looked at us differently too. From the start."
Thalia turned to face him, her filaments curling violet around his wrists. "But we chose this bond. She had no choice."
Anthony bent his forehead to hers. "Which is why we protect her. Together."
Their filaments and emotions mingled, violet steadied with human warmth. But even in that shared moment, Anthony felt the edge of something else. Watching. Waiting.
And when he glanced back at the cot where their daughter slept, her filaments flickered softly in dreams no one else could share.
---
The crew gathering was small by design — a casual meal in the mess to mark the end of a long patrol stretch. No speeches, no formalities, just a chance to breathe before the next assignment.
Anthony carried a tray to the table where Thalia was already seated, their daughter nestled between them in a specially adapted chair. The girl's filaments glowed faintly violet as she toyed with a piece of fruit, her curiosity shifting from food to people around her.
"Smile, eat, act normal," Anthony whispered.
Thalia gave him a sideways look, violet-and-blue flickering across her filaments. "Your version of normal is hopeless."
But there was amusement in her tone, and for a moment they both relaxed.
Until the incident.
It began innocently enough: Lieutenant Maren stopped by to greet them, her infant son in her arms. Their daughter leaned forward, peering curiously at the baby. Then, with no hesitation, she reached out and pressed her tiny hand against his.
The room went quiet.
"Blue water dreams," their daughter said clearly, her young voice carrying farther than it should have. "You'll swim but be scared. Don't be scared. Mommy will hold you."
Maren froze, eyes wide. Her son gurgled obliviously, but the color drained from Maren's face.
Around the room, conversations faltered. Forks paused mid-air. Dozens of eyes turned toward Anthony and Thalia.
Thalia's filaments flushed deep blue, embarrassment radiating. Anthony forced a calm smile, though his stomach knotted. "She's… imaginative."
But the words rang hollow. Too many had heard the same rumors. Too many had seen enough already.
Captain Renara, seated at the far end of the mess, set her utensil down slowly. Her four eyes blinked once, steady and unreadable. But Anthony felt the weight of that gaze settle firmly on them.
---
Back in their quarters, after excusing themselves under the pretense of fatigue, Thalia paced restlessly. Her filaments shimmered with rapid blue-violet pulses, flaring with each turn she made across the floor.
"This can't continue," she snapped. "Every day she grows stronger. Every day it's harder to pretend it's just development."
Anthony sat at the edge of their bed, hands clasped. "We knew this would come."
"Not this soon."
He looked over at the cot, where their daughter slept peacefully, unaware of the stir she had caused. Her filaments glowed in quiet rhythm, soft and unassuming, belying the storm she carried inside.
Anthony exhaled. "We need to tell Renara."
Thalia stopped pacing. "Do you want to lose her? To let the Coalition decide what's best for our child?"
"No," Anthony said firmly, rising to meet her. "But if we hide this much longer, we'll lose the ability to guide how it's handled. You saw Maren's face. She's already talking to someone tonight. Probably right now."
Thalia's eyes softened, but the tension in her stance remained. "And if Renara decides our daughter is a threat?"
Anthony reached for her hand. "Then we remind her what we've proven already — that difference doesn't mean danger. That bond doesn't mean control. And that this crew is family, not judges."
Her filaments shifted, violet slowly overtaking the blue. "You always make it sound so simple."
"Not simple. Necessary."
---
Doctor Prell arrived before they could call him.
"I heard," he said grimly, stepping inside without ceremony. "Half the ship will have, by morning."
Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you suggest?"
"Containment," Prell said bluntly. "Not of her abilities — of the narrative. If others believe she's dangerous, she will become dangerous in their eyes. Fear shapes perception more than fact."
Thalia tilted her head. "So we shape it first."
Prell nodded. "Exactly. Which means controlled disclosure, before rumor metastasizes."
Anthony frowned. "To Renara."
"To Renara," Prell agreed. "And then to whoever else she deems necessary. But we control the terms. Not frightened parents in the mess hall."
Thalia sank into a chair, rubbing her temples. "She's only two. She deserves time to just be a child."
Prell's voice softened. "Then give her that time by deciding this carefully. Hiding will not buy it. Shaping the story might."
---
Later, when the doctor had left, Anthony and Thalia sat side by side in silence. Their daughter stirred in her sleep, murmuring something soft, her filaments flickering like faint stars.
Anthony leaned his head against Thalia's. "What if she's not just ours anymore?"
Thalia's hand found his, her filaments curling around his wrist in a pulse of steady violet. "She'll always be ours. Whatever else she is."
And though doubt lingered, Anthony held onto that truth — fragile, but alive.
---
By morning, whispers ran through the corridors like an undercurrent. No one said it openly, not yet, but the phrase repeated in hushed tones:
The child sees more than she should.
And though most dismissed it as rumor, more than a few wondered what it would mean for the future of the Asteria… and beyond.