The Coalition's secure chamber assembled itself from light.
Twenty-one silhouettes coalesced in a tiered amphitheater of pale blue, each avatar keyed to a live presence somewhere across known space. Identity glyphs hovered above every seat: ADMIRAL CHARLES (EARTH NAVCOM), DIRECTOR SHIRIN HALE (SCIENCE—GAMMA-7), COMMISSIONER RALVEK (SECURITY), AMBASSADOR NARIUS (NARIAN CORPS), CHAIR OSEI-PRIME (INTERSPECIES ETHICS), and a dozen others—jurists, medica, culture liaisons. One node was a muted silhouette with no name, carried on a clearance band none of the others challenged.
Admiral Charles opened without ceremony. "You have Captain Renara's memorandum. Anomalous family resonance, accelerated development in the child, limited empathic spill—no aggression, no hazard. Recommendation: monitor on station." His jaw set. "Reactions?"
Director Hale's avatar leaned forward, eyes bright behind the science sigil. "The harmonics described intersect low-frequency EM coherence and warp echo. That's the same signature band we tag on subspace lattice disturbances. I want expanded telemetry: continuous band-capture around the family, access to Prell's raw scans, and passive monitors shipwide."
Commissioner Ralvek's scaled features tilted. "Monitors shipwide for an infant? Science creeps; security pays. I'll say it plain—containment. Relocate the family to a secure clinic until we know what we're holding."
Narius' bioluminescent crest pulsed once, restrained. "Containment of my niece's child would be a diplomatic rupture. We are discussing a family, not a pathogen."
Chair Osei-Prime spread hands, voice calm. "Ethically, proportionality governs. We lack evidence of harm. We have ample evidence of personhood. Oversight, perhaps. Relocation, no."
A tactical jurist flicked a finger. "Admiral, the memo omits any mention of the public atrium incident last cycle."
Charles' gaze hardened a degree. "Renara submitted what she could corroborate and defend. I trust her judgment."
"Convenient," Ralvek muttered.
Hale ignored him. "If the child's resonance couples to environmental conditions—alignments, warp thresholds—we need to predict peaks. That requires models. Models require data."
"Data can be collected without converting a starship into a laboratory," Narius said. "Gamma-7 has a history of forgetting the difference."
A new voice: Counselor Mei-Lin (Cultural Affairs) raised a hand. "We risk repeating old errors. We've turned families into case studies before and paid for it in public trust. This should remain, as much as possible, a domestic matter under medical care the parents consent to."
Ralvek hissed softly. "Until something cracks. Then you'll ask why security didn't act. I propose a minimal cordon: restrict child access to sensitive decks, require escorts for any public gathering, and impose reporting windows on incidents—two hours, no exceptions."
"Restrictions carry their own risks," Osei-Prime said. "To the child's development and to the crew's morale. Stigmatize her and you will create the danger you fear."
Hale tapped a holo to life, a stylized curve arcing upward. "The developmental profile in Renara's memo is off the chart. If even half of it is accurate, we're witnessing cross-species neural synthesis plus external coupling. We need a supervising clinician with clearance who can differentiate empathy from lattice contact."
Narius inclined his head. "Doctor Prell has delivered hybrid births and already holds the family's trust. That will matter when ethics collide with protocol."
Several windows flickered as side-channels bloomed; text scrolled—jurisdictional queries, standing orders, procurement chains. The unnamed silhouette remained motionless, but a faint priority glyph pulsed above it like a heartbeat.
Admiral Charles cut through the murmur. "We're not voting on whether to care. We're deciding how. Here's the ground truth: witnesses exist; logs exist. We won't bottle this up. We can choose an approach that doesn't turn a child into a fault line."
Ralvek's voice dropped half an octave. "Then put a leash on it."
Mei-Lin bristled. "On her, Commissioner. Pronouns matter."
Osei-Prime nodded. "Words shape outcomes."
The Security Commissioner rolled a shoulder. "Fine. Call it what you want. The leash remains."
Director Hale's tone softened a fraction. "Admiral, if you insist on remaining aboard Asteria, at least mandate a protocol: weekly uploads of de-identified neuro-harmonics; event-triggered dumps on any resonance spike; an appointed oversight clinician; and a prohibition on third-party experimentation without parental and command consent."
"That last clause stays," Charles said. "Non-negotiable."
Narius' crest warmed. "Wise."
A Del'Shari archivist clicked their mandibles lightly. "We should also prepare language for external inquiries. 'Unique family resonance consistent with known human–Narian bonds; stable; monitored.' No mention of entities."
Hale made a small face. "Euphemism has a half-life."
"And panic has none," Charles replied.
Silence, then a dry voice from Legal. "We'll need to reconcile this with the Interstellar Species Compatibility Accords. There's no explicit clause for… this."
"Write one," Charles said.
The unnamed silhouette blinked—for the first time. A single, almost imperceptible flicker passed across its boundary. No words; no glyph. But several participants glanced at it anyway, reflexively, as if a door had opened somewhere offscreen.
Charles cleared his throat. "Recommendations on record: oversight on ship; supervising clinician; no relocation; restricted public exposure; reporting windows; no external study without consent. Objections?"
Ralvek raised a claw. "I maintain my call for relocation."
"Noted and overruled for now," Charles said. "Ethics and Diplomacy concur: family remains aboard under command authority."
Hale added, "Name the clinician today. Delay breeds rumor."
Narius' light dimmed and brightened, the Narian equivalent of a measured breath. "Choose someone who understands a child is not a dataset."
Mei-Lin nodded. "And someone the parents will actually trust."
Osei-Prime folded hands. "And someone who can tell us no."
A small smile ghosted the Admiral's mouth. "An endangered species."
The Security Commissioner's sigil flashed. "Timeline?"
"Orders drafted in twelve hours, transmitted in twenty-four," Charles said. "Oversight begins immediately upon receipt. Supervising clinician to be named in the order."
Hale tilted her head at the muted silhouette. "From whom?"
No answer. The nameless node pulsed again—one beat, then stillness.
Charles didn't blink. "From Oversight."
Narius' crest cooled. "Which office?"
"Need-to-know," the Admiral said, the old bureaucratic ice settling over his words. "And right now, you don't."
The ethics chair's avatar looked toward the dark node for a heartbeat longer than polite, then released the gaze. "Very well. We'll judge the choice by outcomes."
"See that you do," Charles replied.
He swept the chamber with a final look. "You all have your lanes. Stay in them. We do this surgically, or we don't deserve these uniforms. Dismissed."
One by one, windows extinguished. The amphitheater dimmed, light draining like water from a basin. The last to vanish was the nameless silhouette—after a pause just long enough for the Admiral to notice and say nothing.
Alone, Charles let the command mask slip a fraction. He rubbed at the line between his eyes and exhaled. "Don't make me regret this, Renara," he murmured to the empty room.
Across space, packet drafts compiled themselves, stamped with priority seals. Somewhere inside the sealed stack, a name field waited—Supervising Clinician: [PENDING]—for a hand none of them had seen to write what it already knew.
___
Aelira had a new game.
She called it "up, down," though the rules shifted depending on her mood. Sometimes it meant climbing onto the back of the couch and leaping into Anthony's arms. Other times it meant pointing at stars through the viewport and declaring which ones were "up" and which were "down."
That evening, it meant stacking her blocks into a precarious tower on the floor of their quarters. Each block balanced with a care that seemed far too deliberate for her age. She'd pause between placements, tilt her head, and hum under her breath as if listening to music only she could hear.
Anthony sat cross-legged across from her, ready to catch the tower if it toppled. Thalia leaned nearby, her filaments drifting in slow, restful arcs.
"Up, Daddy," Aelira announced, placing another block on the wobbling tower. "Up, then down."
"Careful, star," Anthony said. "If it goes too high—"
"Down," Aelira finished, giggling. "But not scary down. Funny down."
Thalia chuckled softly. "She has your sense of humor."
Anthony smirked. "Terrifying thought."
The tower wobbled, then collapsed in a clatter. Aelira squealed with delight and clapped her hands.
"Again!" she declared.
---
Later, when the blocks were tidied and Aelira was curled up between them with her blanket, she spoke with that curious gravity that sometimes overtook her.
"My friend likes up and down too," she said matter-of-factly.
Anthony glanced at Thalia. "Your friend?"
Aelira nodded against her pillow. "The one who doesn't know time."
Thalia's filaments rippled faint blue, brushing against her shoulder. "Tell us about this friend."
"She's not a she. Not a he. Just… here." Aelira pointed upward, then downward, then tapped her chest. "Everywhere."
Anthony's throat tightened. He kept his voice gentle. "And what does your friend say?"
"Not say," Aelira corrected firmly. "Show. Feel." Her little hands opened and closed as if trying to shape something in the air. "Like warm water, like tickle stars, like… forever."
Thalia exchanged a look with Anthony. Her filaments pulsed violet and blue together, the Narian signal for mingled embarrassment and wonder. "Does your friend make you afraid?" she asked carefully.
"No." Aelira frowned, as if puzzled by the question. "They don't know afraid. They know waiting. Waiting feels… long. But not long. Because no time."
Anthony's heart hammered. He forced a steady tone. "Do they want something from you?"
Aelira blinked, thoughtful in a way that looked far older than her two years. "Want… to see. To feel. To be near." She tapped her chest again. "They like me. They don't know why. I don't know why. But it's good."
Thalia drew her closer, filaments brushing against the child's cheek. "Then you're safe, little star."
Aelira nodded sleepily, already drifting toward dreams. "Safe. With you. With them."
She was asleep before either parent could answer.
---
Anthony and Thalia sat in silence for a long time. The stars outside the viewport drifted past in quiet procession, indifferent to the storm gathering around their family.
"She's naming them," Anthony said finally. "Not with words. With meaning. Friend who doesn't know time. That's a label, even if she doesn't realize it."
Thalia's filaments folded inward, an anxious gesture. "She's framing the incomprehensible in terms a child can hold. Which means… she comprehends more than we imagined."
Anthony scrubbed a hand through his beard. "Renara's going to need to know."
"Yes." Thalia's voice was soft, resigned. "But not yet. Not until we understand what this means for her. For them."
Anthony's gaze lingered on their sleeping daughter. "For all of us."
---
The next day, in the astrometrics bay, Aelira's words echoed in Anthony's mind as he cross-checked stellar telemetry. Subspace patterns, gravitational waves, radiation echoes—they all blurred into one thought:
They don't know time.
He leaned back, rubbing his temples. "How do you fight—or trust—something that doesn't understand before or after?"
He hadn't realized Thalia had entered until her hand touched his shoulder. Her filaments brushed his arm, violet steady with reassurance.
"You don't fight them," she said softly. "You teach her to live with them. As we live with each other."
Anthony let out a slow breath. "And if they want more than that?"
"Then we'll face it. Together."
Their eyes met. The weight between them wasn't fear alone anymore. It was the dawning realization that their child wasn't just extraordinary—she might be the bridge the entities had been waiting for.
---
That evening, Aelira toddled into the mess hall holding a toy starship under one arm. The other children gathered around her, chattering, curious.
She held the toy up, beaming. "Up, down, spin!" she cried, sending it into a wobbly orbit around her head.
The children laughed. Their parents smiled with relief. For a fleeting moment, she looked like nothing more than what she was: a two-year-old at play.
But when she turned to Anthony and Thalia, eyes bright and filaments faintly aglow, she whispered, "They were watching. They like the game too."
The laughter around them kept flowing, oblivious. Only Anthony and Thalia felt the chill beneath her innocent words.
---
The summons came at mid-shift.
Renara's voice crackled over the comm: "Commander Lawrence, Lieutenant Thalia, report to my office. Doctor Prell, with them."
Anthony exchanged a look with Thalia. Her filaments flickered blue and violet together — embarrassment threaded with unease. Aelira was with her sitter in the nursery, blissfully unaware.
Prell joined them outside Renara's door, antennae angled forward. "Orders came down," he murmured, low enough the corridor mics wouldn't pick it up. "I suspect this meeting is not voluntary disclosure."
The door hissed open before Anthony could reply.
---
Renara stood behind her desk, posture rigid, hands clasped behind her back. The glow of the viewport painted the edges of her face in cold light.
"Sit," she ordered.
They obeyed.
Renara's voice was clipped, almost too controlled. "The Coalition has reviewed my memorandum."
Anthony's stomach sank.
Thalia's filaments curled tight. "And?"
Renara keyed a control. A holo bloomed above the desk: a packet stamped with layers of clearance seals. Its heading blazed in stark white: Directive: Oversight Protocol — Asteria Case File.
Prell leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "That's fast."
Renara didn't look at him. "They debated less than a day."
Anthony swallowed. "What do they want?"
Renara's gaze swept across them, cool and steady. "Direct oversight of your child's condition. Effective immediately."
The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.
Thalia's voice came first, barely above a whisper. "Oversight… meaning what?"
Renara's lips pressed thin. "Meaning weekly scans. Harmonization reports. Controlled exposure monitoring. Event-triggered uploads. A clinician assigned as supervising authority."
Anthony clenched his fists. "They want to turn her into a lab case."
Renara's eyes softened by a fraction. "Not entirely. I pushed for guardrails. Consent clauses. No relocation. She stays aboard, with you. They agreed."
Prell tilted his head. "Who's the clinician?"
Renara hesitated — and that hesitation said more than words.
She keyed the holo again. The directive expanded, revealing the line:
Supervising Clinician: Doctor Prell, Andorian Medical Corps.
The room froze.
Anthony turned sharply to Prell. "You?"
Prell's antennae flicked once, stunned. "I didn't petition. I wasn't consulted."
Thalia's filaments flared pale blue. "Then who—?"
Renara's jaw set. "I don't know. The name came stamped into the directive. No attribution. No explanation."
Anthony frowned. "So someone up there — someone high enough to force this through — decided it would be you."
Prell exhaled through his nose. "Convenient. The one already trusted. Already inside."
Renara nodded slightly. "And already under my authority. Which means they've handed me leverage they may not realize they gave."
Anthony leaned forward. "Captain, what if this is a trap? What if they're setting him up to feed them more than we want?"
Prell shook his head firmly. "No. They don't understand me. They see a clinician with clearance and access. They don't understand that my chain of loyalty begins and ends with this ship."
Renara's lips twitched, almost a smile. "I told you once, Doctor, that I expected you to tell me no if needed. I trust that still applies."
Prell inclined his head. "Always."
Thalia let out a shaky breath, her filaments pulsing violet and blue. "So… they will watch us, but through you."
Anthony's jaw clenched. Relief and unease warred in his chest. "Which keeps us safe… but why? Why would someone give us that shield?"
Renara's gaze sharpened. "That's the question. And I don't like unanswered questions."
---
For a long moment, no one spoke. The hum of the ship filled the silence.
Finally, Renara leaned forward, her tone low. "I'll play their game. We'll file what they expect — controlled data, managed transparency. But make no mistake. Someone is moving pieces outside our view. Until we know who, we assume every move is deliberate."
Prell's antennae dipped. "And until then, I watch the child."
Anthony's throat tightened. He hated the phrasing. "She's not just 'the child.' She's our daughter."
Prell's voice softened. "I know. And I will guard her as such."
Renara dismissed the holo with a flick of her hand. "Go. Take the night. Tell her nothing. Keep her world small while we deal with the larger one."
They stood together. Thalia gave a respectful nod. "Thank you, Captain."
Renara's eyes softened once more, just for a heartbeat. "Go."
---
They walked in silence back to their quarters.
When the door sealed behind them, Anthony finally spoke. "I don't know if this is good or bad."
Thalia sank onto the couch, pulling her knees close, filaments curling around her like a cocoon. "It's both."
Prell remained standing, hands clasped behind him. "For now, it means protection. Long term… it means someone out there is invested in your family. Deeply enough to bend process."
Anthony looked toward Aelira's sleeping form in the next room. "And that terrifies me more than anything."
Thalia whispered, "Whoever it is, they know what she is."
Prell's antennae angled low, his tone grim. "Or worse. They think they do."
The three of them sat in silence, the weight of unseen eyes pressing through the walls.