Nucleus 1: The Dust of Moon [Mature Sci-fi Romance]

07:15, April 10, 2295

En Route to Olathe Starport, Kansas, Terra Alliance Territory

The StarWhale shuttle's interior hummed with barely suppressed tension. Xin pressed his palm against the cool metal wall, fighting the wave of nausea that had nothing to do with turbulence. His forehead beaded with sweat despite the climate control keeping the cabin at a steady twenty-one celsius. The newly issued SIMU puffer jacket—pristine white with black reinforced panels at the shoulders—felt too warm, too constricting. He'd been proud when they'd given it to him, the official insignia marking him as more than just a defector. Now it clung to him like a second skin, trapping the fever heat radiating from his core.

"Hey, you're burning up." Lorna leaned across from the adjacent seat, her cobalt blue turtleneck a familiar splash of color in the sterile cabin. Her voice carried that particular mix of concern and command she'd perfected over their months together—soft enough to comfort, firm enough to brook no argument. She reached across to touch his forehead, and he caught the familiar scent of her lavender perfume mixing with gun oil and ozone from her recent weapons check.

"It's…the altitude, I think?" Xin managed, though he suspected something else entirely. The Nucleus Virus in him, the Rakshasa variant Kathrin had gifted him on Shashan, had been relatively dormant for weeks. But something about the pressurized cabin, the recycled air, the proximity to so many beating hearts, was stirring it like sediment in disturbed water. "Maybe the pressure changes. I'll be fine."

Without warning, Lorna unbuckled and shifted closer, wrapping her arms around him in a gesture that surprised them both. Her warmth enveloped him—different from the fever, cleaner somehow. As she held him, Xin felt something shift. The nausea receded like a tide pulling back from shore.

"That's..." He blinked as she withdrew, studying his own hands as if they belonged to someone else. "The nausea just... lessened. How did you—?"

"I don't know." Lorna's brow furrowed, her fingers unconsciously finding the pendant beneath her turtleneck. "I just felt like you needed..." She trailed off, equally puzzled.

A delighted giggle drew their attention. Håkon perched on the armrest between their seats, his scales shifting through amused greens and golds. "Mama magic! Hug-heal Papa!"

"It's not magic, baby," Lorna said, though her expression suggested she wasn't entirely certain. "Sometimes people just...help each other feel better."

"Mama special. Papa special. Together extra special!" Håkon declared with the absolute certainty only a child could muster, before returning his attention to the clouds streaming past outside. Slowly, he left his perch, moving on his tiny but strong four legs towards a porthole.

From across the aisle, Thomas Mendoza in his silver white armor pointedly examined his Gauss Rifle's trigger, the mechanical clicks louder than necessary. Weeks since that mission in the Yosemite Valley, and he still wouldn't look directly at Lorna.

"Yo, Tom," Emmanuel called from his seat near the front, his voice deliberately light. "Remember that time in Cairo when you field-stripped your weapon so many times the firing pin fell out?"

"That was Budapest," Thomas replied nonchalantly.

"Nah, man. Budapest was when we visited the 8th district—paid the Leased Lilies a visit to investigate if any of them was an Imperial spy—"

"Not in a mood to chat, Manny. You mind?" Thomas's voice rose as he continued with his aggressive maintenance routine.

Emmanuel was silent for a moment before sighing and leaning back in his seat. "Suit yourself, Tom."

"Big sky fish fly," Håkon's voice cut through the adult tension like sunlight through storm clouds. The little Diabolisk now had his face pressed against the porthole, scales shifting through excited yellows and golds as Kansas farmland scrolled beneath them. "But no flap! Why?"

"It's not a fish, baby. It's a machine." Lorna shifted to give him a better view, her movement bringing her shoulder against Xin's. "The engines push air down so we go up."

"En-geenz poosh air, we go up." Håkon's tiny mandibles pronounced the words, as if tasting them. "Magic?"

"Science," Xin corrected gently, then winced as another wave of heat rolled through him. "Though they're hard to tell, right?"

Harald looked up from a holopad on his lap, where he'd been reviewing technical specifications for the past hour. "All science seems like magic until you understand the principles—" He paused, fingers dancing across the holographic display. "Hmm. These amateurs have completely misunderstood the thermal coefficient requirements…"

Diego's voice crackled through the intercom from the cockpit. "ETA ten minutes to Olathe. And before anyone asks, no, I haven't crashed anything. Recently."

Emmanuel laughed. "Define recently."

"Last fiscal quarter."

"Diego," Lorna warned.

"Kidding! I'm kidding. This bird's smoother than Dante's bourbon collection, si?"

The mention of the Corporate Chamber delegate made Thomas's jaw tighten further. Xin noticed but said nothing, instead closing his eyes and trying to center himself.

"You okay?" Lorna asked again as she held his arm.

"Yeah. I am." Xin managed as he met her gaze. "Strange. I thought…the Rakshasa "

"Farfar make notes?" Håkon had moved to Harald's seat, fascinated by the scrolling equations.

"I'm correcting their mistakes," Harald said, his tone softer than his words. "See this? They've tried to create a recursive Aether loop using parallel channels. It would work for maybe ten minutes before cascade failure."

"Bad?"

"Very bad. Like trying to fill a bucket that has no bottom."

"Damn right. This is as bad as bad can be." Thomas muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

The temperature in the cabin seemed to drop several degrees. Lorna's hand found Xin's, squeezing hard enough to ground him through his fever.

"Yo, got something to say, Tom?" Emmanuel's jovial tone had vanished.

"Yeah. I do." Thomas finally looked up, his expression carved from stone. "We're flying into the middle of Kansas with classified tech, a terrorist, his Nordling daughter carrying the Fenris strain, an ex-Imperium engineer who took the Rakshasa strain to get some super power, and a baby Radi-Mon. This whole thing stinks. Honestly, I'm not even sure who's the enemy."

"So what?" Lorna's voice could have frozen something. "Go ahead. Finish that thought."

"Hey. There's kid present," Xin said quietly, nodding toward Håkon, who had gone very still, his scales shifting to worried blue.

Thomas's bionic fingers tightened on his rifle, then relaxed. "I'll play along, but this isn't over."

"No," Lorna agreed. She reached into the overhead compartment and pulled down her beige trench coat, the ballistic weave rustling as she shrugged it on. "It's not."

The shuttle banked hard, pressing them into their seats. Through the porthole, Kansas sprawled flat and endless—until it didn't.

"Buddha's enlightened balls," Xin whispered, fever momentarily forgotten.

"Oh yeah, that's an Aegis battlecruiser." Emmanuel added from the side.

"We call it Ironsides VII." Thomas shifted in his seat, bionic arms making small whines. "Eleven missions beyond Earth. Never lost once."

As Xin looked out the window, the Ironsides VII squatted on the tarmac like some primordial beast. Its hammerhead bow jutted forward, casting a shadow that swallowed three entire hangars. The battlecruiser's hull was a landscape of overlapping armor plates, almost like a city block studded with weapon turrets and sensor pods that bristled like thorns. Even grounded, with boarding umbilicals extended like feeding tendrils, the ship seemed to strain against gravity itself.

"Been a while since we last boarded her." Emmanuel's reflection appeared in the porthole glass beside Xin's. "Still makes quite an impression, no?"

Where the shuttle they rode in was built for function, the Ironsides VII was built for war. Its blue-gray hull absorbed the morning light rather than reflecting it, and the Liberty Cannon's housing ran along the entire forward section like a spinal ridge. Heat shimmer rose from idling engines the size of apartment buildings.

"Beautiful," Harald admitted grudgingly. "Wasteful, typically Valoran in its excess, but beautiful."

"Super big boat!" Håkon pressed against the porthole hard enough to fog the glass with his breath. "Bigger than biggest big!"

"A crew of eight hundred, is what it carried on the last op." Emmanuel supplied. "Full marine complement, three fighter squadrons, enough firepower to crack a small moon. And that's before we talk about the Liberty Cannon."

"The what now?" Xin asked.

"Psionic artillery. Takes a Psi Lynx with serious Aether reserves to fire it, but when it does..." Emmanuel whistled. "There's a new crater on Europa from the last test firing."

Diego's voice cut through their bickering. "Alright, people, prepare for landing. And by prepare, I mean hold onto something."

The descent was exactly as smooth as Diego had promised, which meant only moderate turbulence and a landing that rattled fillings rather than loosening them entirely. As they taxied toward the military sector, Xin pressed against the porthole, his programmer's eye cataloging the security infrastructure.

Vanguard marines stood at ten-meter intervals along the perimeter fence, their white composite armor gleaming despite the prairie dust. Each soldier's helmet completely enclosed their face, the characteristic breathing apparatus giving them an inhuman, uniform appearance. Their Gauss Rifles tracked with mechanical precision.

Beyond the fence, a column of Space Rovers sat in formation—at least a dozen of the angular, all-terrain vehicles, their white armor plating complimented by mounted Gauss Machine Guns. Ground crews swarmed around them, loading ammunition and supply crates and checking tire pressure on the massive wheels.

"They're taking this seriously," Xin observed.

"They'd better," Harald replied. "We're about to hand them capabilities they're not prepared for. The question is whether they'll use them wisely or typically."

The shuttle's engines wound down with a declining whine. Diego emerged from the cockpit, rolling his shoulders. "Órale, home sweet home. Everyone still got their tripas where they should be?"

"Mama, tummy feel weird," Håkon complained, pressing a clawed hand to his scaled belly.

"That's the pressure change, baby. It'll pass." Lorna smoothed down one of his head ridges, then paused. "Xin, can you—"

"I've got him." Despite the lingering fever, Xin scooped Håkon up, the little Diabolisk immediately curling against his chest, seeking comfort. "Come on, buddy. Let's go see your new big boat."

The ramp descended with a hydraulic hiss. Kansas air rushed in—thick with prairie dust and aviation fuel, undertones of grass and rain competing with industrial solvents. The April heat slapped them after the shuttle's climate control, immediate and oppressive.

"April in Kansas," Emmanuel said, already loosening his collar. "Better than July in Kansas, créeme."

More Vanguards waited at the ramp's base, forming a corridor of white armor and black weapons. Through gaps between them, Xin glimpsed more Alliance hardware—mobile ommunication arrays, a few medical tents large enough to treat a small army.

A figure waited at the bottom of the ramp, and Xin's virus-enhanced senses immediately tagged him as dangerous. Director Artak Otis stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his white robes immaculate despite the wind. How did he always manage to arrive before them?

"Welcome to Olathe," Otis said, his expression unreadable behind those wire-rimmed glasses. "I trust the flight was comfortable?"

"Peachy, sir." Thomas said flatly.

"Excellent." If Otis noticed the sarcasm, he didn't acknowledge it. "Security will want to process you all, given the unique biological signatures in our party, and our need to utilize the newly developed Nucleus Suits. Lorna, they'll need blood samples from you, Xin, and young Håkon."

"Invasive much?" Lorna's hand moved instinctively toward where her Psytum Sword would normally rest.

"Academic interest or dissection interest?" Harald asked.

"The former, I assure you. Doctor Chakraborty has prepared a pediatric suite specifically for his comfort."

The security checkpoint resembled a field hospital more than a typical screening area. White medical tents extended from the main building, and the smell of antiseptic overwhelmed even the aviation fuel. A line of examination stations waited, each staffed by technicians in full hazmat gear.

"First station, please." A woman's voice, muffled by her suit's respirator, directed them toward a biometric scanner that looked like it had been borrowed from a maximum-security prison.

Lorna stepped through first. The scanner erupted in a cascade of yellow warnings, its screen flashing "VIRAL SIGNATURE DETECTED" in letters large enough to read from across the tarmac.

"Fenris strain, contained but active," the technician announced, not bothering to lower her voice. Every Vanguard in earshot turned to stare. "Proceed to medical tent two for blood draw."

Xin followed, his own passage triggering purple alerts. "Rakshasa strain, novel variant. No match in current database." The technician actually stepped back, hand moving toward what might have been a panic button. "Sir, I need you to—"

"He's cleared," Otis interrupted smoothly. "My authorization."

But it was Håkon's scan that caused the real commotion. The machine cycled through every color in the spectrum before settling on a pulsing red that made the technician's hands shake as she read the results.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Unknown hybrid. Multiple viral markers. Fenris, possible Jokull, and..." She looked up at Otis. "Sir, this readings don't make sense. It's like he's—"

"Exactly what we expected," Otis cut her off. "Proceed with blood draws."

The medical tent felt more like a veterinary clinic than anything designed for humans. They'd clearly scrambled to create a child-friendly space—cartoon animals painted hastily on sterile white walls, a box of toys that looked borrowed from someone's garage sale.

"No!" Håkon squirmed as the phlebotomist approached with a needle. His scales shifted to angry red, tiny claws extending. "No poke! No hurt!"

"Hey, buddy, look at this." Xin activated his Quantum Watch, projecting a small holographic butterfly that danced above his wrist. "See how it flies? Can you make it change colors?"

Håkon's attention immediately fixed on the projection, his scales shifting to match the butterfly's wings. The phlebotomist seized the moment, sliding the needle in with practiced efficiency.

"Ow!" Håkon's head whipped around, but Xin quickly made the butterfly do a loop-de-loop.

"You're so brave! The butterfly thinks you're amazing. Want to make two butterflies?"

By the time they'd filled a vial—more than seemed necessary for a creature Håkon's size—the tent's walls were alive with a swarm of holographic insects, and Håkon was giggling rather than crying.

Meanwhile, Lorna submitted to her own blood draw with the resigned patience of someone who'd done this before. The technician handling her sample triple-bagged it, applying biohazard stickers with shaking hands.

"Feel like lepers yet?" Thomas muttered, watching from the tent entrance.

"Hey, I feel like we're pioneers," Emmanuel countered, though his usual cheer sounded forced. "First of a new breed."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Thomas's hand hadn't left his rifle since they'd entered the checkpoint.

The waiver station came last—a folding table manned by a harried legal officer who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Agent Weiss. Standard biological hazard release," he droned, sliding papers across. "You acknowledge the Terra Alliance isn't responsible for any viral transmission, mutation, or unexpected biological events. Sign here, initial here, and here, and—" He paused, looking at Håkon. "Does this, uh, entity have a legal guardian?"

"His name is Håkon," Lorna's voice could have frozen helium. "And yes. I'm his mother."

"Right. Of course. Sign here for him as well."

They cleared security, emerging into a transport bay where a military hauler waited. Otis gestured them aboard. "I thought we'd tour the completed sections first. Give you a sense of what we're working with."

The ride through the facility was a study in contrasts. The surface structures were all military efficiency—clean lines, reinforced everything, color-coded pipes carrying Buddha knew what to Buddha knew where. But underneath the prairie pragmatism was money. Serious money.

"The Corporate Chamber approved expanded funding last month," Otis explained as they passed a squadron of brand-new fighters. "Dante Pompeo may be many things, but he's effective at wringing budgets from member corporations."

Harald observed. "I suppose that's appropriate."

They arrived at the Ironsides VII's main boarding ramp, a piece of architecture that could have accommodated a small building. The ship's hull loomed above them, its surface a complex geography of armor plating, sensor blisters, and weapon hardpoints.

"Big boat big," Håkon whispered, awed.

"Just wait until you see inside," Emmanuel said.

The interior hit like a statement of intent. Where the shuttle had been functional, this was aspirational. The main corridor they entered was wide enough for a Scarab mech, its walls adorned with Alliance iconography and subtle lighting that probably cost more than most people's salaries.

"Officers' quarters are this way," Otis led them through passages that smelled of fresh paint and new electronics. "We've maintained certain... amenities."

He wasn't kidding. The officers' lounge looked like it had been transplanted from a pre-war gentleman's club. Real leather furniture—not synthetic—grouped around actual wooden tables. The bar backed by bottles that had to be worth a fortune at current exchange rates. Art on the walls that belonged in museums.

Emmanuel let out a low whistle. "This is nicer than most Corporate Chamber offices."

"The Liberty Cannon requires its operators to be in peak mental condition," Otis explained. "Comfort aids performance."

"Shiny!" Håkon had discovered his reflection in a polished brass fixture and was making faces at himself.

Lorna said nothing, though she too was taking in the opulence with cautious eyes. Trained habits, perhaps?

"All the toys," Emmanuel said appreciatively.

"All the bells and whistles while people in Chicago go hungry," Lorna added.

"The bridge is even more impressive—" Otis began, but caught her muttering. "Lorna?"

"Sorry, sir. Just making small jokes." Lorna straightened her back.

"Very know. Know that these have come at considerable expense," Otis relented. "We spared no expense where it mattered."

But the medical bay was a different story entirely as the SIMU Director led them through it.

Xin immediately noticed the contrast. Half-assembled diagnostic beds lined one wall, their cables spilling onto the floor like electronic intestines. Crates stamped with "FRAGILE - MEDICAL EQUIPMENT" were stacked haphazardly in corners. The smell of fresh sealant couldn't quite mask the underlying odor of industrial cleaner.

"Doctor Nikki?" Otis called out.

"Over here!" Nikki Chakraborty's voice came from behind a partially assembled surgical unit. She emerged with a scanner in one hand and frustration written across her face. "Director. Lorna. Everyone." Her expression softened when she saw Håkon. "Hello, little one."

"Hi!" Håkon waved enthusiastically from Xin's arms. "You fix people?"

"I try to." Nikki's gaze swept the medical bay. "When I have equipment that actually works. Half of these units are Digital Era surplus. The other half are still in crates because apparently, installing them wasn't in the budget."

"The primary systems are functional," Otis said.

"Sir. The primary systems." Nikki's tone could have etched glass. "I can do basic trauma and simple surgeries. But if someone needs actual intensive care? Advanced viral analysis? I'm working with equipment older than some of my degrees."

Xin noticed Lorna's jaw tighten. She moved closer to one of the diagnostic beds, running her hand along its edge. The metal was cold under her fingers—he could tell by the way she pulled back slightly.

"This is how much our lives are worth, then?" she asked quietly.

"The medical facilities will be fully operational after departure," Otis assured her.

"If you believe that, I've got some beachfront property in Kansas to sell you," Diego said from the doorway. He'd been quiet during the tour, but now his dark eyes sparked with irritation. "No offense, jefe, but I've been hauling supplies all week. We got enough champagne in storage to float a yacht, but the backup life support systems? Still sitting in a warehouse in Topeka?"

Thomas actually snorted in agreement. "Priorities."

"Indeed." Harald had wandered to one of the functional terminals, already poking at the interface. "This software is three versions out of date. The viral analysis protocols don't even include the Rakshasa or Jokull variants."

"We can update those," Nikki said. "If someone gives me admin access, which they haven't."

"I'll see what I can do," Otis said, which Xin translated as 'probably nothing.'

They moved on to the crew quarters. The hallways here smelled of fresh paint trying to cover bare metal. Some doors led to finished rooms—spartan but functional. Others opened onto empty spaces with exposed conduits.

"Cozy," Emmanuel observed, peering into one of the completed quarters. "Reminds me of my first apartment. Except that had windows."

The armory, at least, was well-stocked. Racks of Gauss Rifles gleamed under bright lights. Ammunition crates were stacked with military precision. But the empty spaces were telling.

"The Psytum Sword storage?" Lorna asked, noting the vacant racks clearly designed for energy weapons.

"On order," Otis replied.

"From where? The Imperium?" Harald's voice dripped sarcasm. "They're the only ones who manufacture them at scale."

"Alternative suppliers are being sourced."

"Right. Of course." Xin shifted Håkon's weight as the little Diabolisk started to squirm.

"Papa okay?" Håkon whispered.

"Just tired, buddy." Xin forced a smile. "Big boat tour is long."

"We make nest? Rest?"

"Oh yeah, soon. Maybe?"

08:30, April 10, 2295

Aboard Ironsides VII, a Terra Alliance Aegis battlecruiser docked in Olathe Starport, Kansas

The bridge hummed with pre-launch activity. Technicians ran final checks while officers settled into stations. Xin stood near the tactical display, Håkon perched on his shoulders for a better view. The little Diabolisk's weight was comforting, grounding him through the lingering fever.

Lorna worked at one of the secondary stations, Harald beside her. They made an odd pair—the legendary terrorist and his daughter, heads bent over holographic displays like any technical team.

"Tthirty minutes to launch," Director Otis announced as he paced around the space.

"¿Todo bien, güey?" Diego asked, appearing at Xin's elbow with a cup of something that smelled like coffee but probably wasn't.

"Getting there." Xin accepted the cup gratefully. "Thanks."

"De nada. Though fair warning—la cocina here makes battery acid look appetizing."

A sudden alarm cut through the bridge chatter. Not emergency—communication. But the tone was wrong, the frequency impossible.

"What is that?" The comms officer frowned at her display. "I'm getting... this doesn't make sense. The quantum signature is all wrong. It's like it's coming from everywhere and nowhere at once."

"On screen," Otis ordered from his position near the captain's chair.

The main display flickered. Static resolved into a face that made Xin's breath catch.

Kathrin Gwynn filled the screen, but something was different. Her alabaster skin seemed to glow with an inner luminescence, her dark hair flowing as if underwater despite the dry Martian environment visible behind her. Where her nipples should have been, those disturbing eye-like organs tracked the camera with independent movement. Her serpentine lower body coiled in and out of frame. Xin had never thought they would see her ever again.

"I greet you, travelers on the path of becoming." Her voice resonated through the bridge speakers with harmonics that made several technicians wince. "The Rakshasa honor their debts. We have prepared Olympus Mons for those who would stand against the coming darkness."

The image shifted, showing Mars from orbit. But not the Mars from any recent survey. This Mars pulsed with life—purple-red veins of organic matter spreading from Olympus Mons like a neural network, each pulse synchronized with some vast heartbeat.

"Dios mío," Diego breathed.

"Skarn has achieved what we feared," Kathrin continued. "The Fenris and Jokull Hordes now march as one, united in their hatred of your kind. My sources speak of something called the Final Conjunction—when all shards of the Moondust Crystal will sing their true song."

As the camera angle shifted, Xin noticed it—a jagged scar across Kathrin's pale throat, still angry red against her white skin. The wound from her stand against Skarn, when she'd bought them time to escape through the wormhole. It hadn't healed properly, even with her Sūkṛmuc regeneration. Some wounds, Xin realized, went deeper than flesh.

"Kathrin," he whispered, and her eyes—all of them—seemed to focus on him through the screen.

"Young Xin." A sad smile played at her lips. "The gift I gave you grows strong. Use it wisely in the trials ahead."

"How is she broadcasting this?" Harald had abandoned his station to stare at the screen.

"Peace, Archmage. Some mysteries are meant to be." Kathrin's eyes seemed to find his through the screen. "Your daughter carries hope at her breast. Guard it well."

Lorna's hand went to her pendant.

"For those who would accept our aid, know this—the southern approach to Olympus Mons remains untouched by Horde taint. Coordinates follow. Land there, and you will find sanctuary among those who chose change over conquest."

Numbers scrolled across the screen—navigation data in a format that hurt to parse.

"One last gift." Kathrin's expression softened. "Young Håkon grows swift. His nature pulls him toward his father's rage. But he has tasted another path." Her gaze seemed to find Xin. "Continue to show him that love conquers hunger. That family is chosen, not forced."

The transmission cut as her form became wisps of violet light. And then, nothing.

Silence on the bridge. Then everyone talking at once.

"—impossible broadcast method—"

"—Mars is compromised then—?"

"—largest Radi-Mon force ever—"

"Launch in ten minutes," Otis's voice cut through the chaos. "Whatever's happening on Mars, whatever this Radi-Mon woman just told us, we will be ready."

"Sir," the navigation officer called. "Those coordinates she sent? They're real. Southern slope of Olympus Mons, but... there's nothing there on any of our surveys."

"Then our surveys need updating." Otis turned to address the bridge. "All stations, prepare for emergency departure. We launch as soon as fuel lines are clear."

The organized chaos of launch prep resumed, but with new urgency. Xin felt Håkon shift on his shoulders.

"Papa? White lady know me?"

"She helped when you were born," Xin said carefully.

"Nice lady. Looks like flowers." Håkon mused out loud. "We go meet?"

"Maybe."

"Good. Want to show drawing." He reached down toward Xin's chest, small claws patting at the SIMU jacket.

Lorna looked over from her station, golden brow furrowing. "What drawing, baby?"

"My dragon picture!" Håkon insisted, still patting at Xin's jacket.

Understanding dawned on Xin. "Oh—this morning when you were coloring while I was sick. You asked me to keep it safe, remember?" He unzipped his jacket pocket and carefully extracted the folded paper, passing it up to Håkon.

The little Diabolisk unfolded it with exaggerated care, though his claws still caught on the edges. A dragon filled the page, colored in odd but adorable combinations—purple wings, golden scales, eyes that were somehow both colors at once.

"See, Mama? Is like me! But bigger." Håkon held it out proudly. "When I bigger, I fly to white lady. Bring her flowers."

Lorna's expression softened as she studied the drawing. "It's beautiful, sweetheart."

Håkon beamed, then carefully refolded the paper—tongue poking out in concentration—and handed it back to Xin. "Papa pocket safe. Keep for white lady."

Xin tucked it back into his jacket, zipping the pocket securely. "I'll guard it with my life, buddy."

"Good." Håkon settled back on Xin's shoulders, satisfied. "Im-por-tant dragon."

Lorna stood closer to them now, her sapphire eyes focused on Xin. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Xin met her gaze. "You?"

"Just glad to have my pa staying with us, I guess." She looked up at Håkon on Xin's shoulder. "Hey boy, want to see our launch positions?"

"Yes!" The Diabolisk chirped, his tiny hands clapping.

Lorna led them to the observation area, with a bitter smile she began. "We're really doing this. Flying into the biggest Radi-Mon force ever assembled with experimental tech and a ship held together by hope and taxpayer dollars."

"Could be worse."

"How?"

Xin considered. "Could be doing it alone, or with less pleasant company."

"All hands, this is Artak Otis, Director of SIMU, speaking from the bridge." Otis's voice echoed through the ship's intercom. "Initiate launch sequence. Main engines to standby. We are go for vertical ascent in T-minus sixty seconds."

"We fly NOW?" Håkon practically vibrated with excitement on Xin's shoulders, his scales cycling through colors. "Big boat fly UP?"

"That's right, buddy." Xin reached up to steady him. "Hold on tight."

Lorna squeezed Xin's hand, then let go. "Come on. Let's watch our new home try to fly."

The observation deck's windows offered a panoramic view. Below, Kansas sprawled like a patchwork quilt—fields of green wheat alternating with brown earth, roads cutting straight lines to distant horizons. Ground crews scattered from the launch zone like ants fleeing rain.

"T-minus thirty seconds. All personnel to launch positions."

The deck vibrated as massive engines deep in the ship's belly came to life. Through the floor, Xin felt the power building—fusion reactors spinning up, magnetic fields aligning, barely contained energy seeking release.

"Twenty seconds."

Lorna's hand found his again. Not desperate, just... there. Solid. Real. On his shoulders, Håkon wrapped his tail around Xin's neck for stability, small claws gripping but careful not to pierce the jacket.

"Ten seconds. Nine. Eight..."

The vibration became a roar. Outside, dust devils danced across the tarmac as downdraft from the engines scoured the earth clean.

"Three. Two. One. Ignition!"

The world dropped away.

Xin's stomach lurched as the kilometers-long battlecruiser defied physics and rose. The observation windows showed Kansas falling away—first the starport shrinking to toy size, then Olathe becoming a grid of streets and buildings, then the whole state spreading out like a tiny map beneath them.

"WHOOOOO!" Håkon shrieked in pure joy, tiny hands spreading instinctively. "WE FLY! PAPA, MAMA, WE FLY!"

Despite everything—the receding mild fever, the fear, the uncertainty ahead—Xin found himself laughing. Lorna too, her professional mask cracking to show the wonder beneath.

The sky darkened from prairie blue to deep indigo to black. Stars emerged, no longer twinkling but steady and cold. The curve of Earth's horizon appeared, that thin line of atmosphere all that separated life from void.

"Finally," Lorna breathed.

"Home," Håkon said, then paused. "No. Was home. Now this home." He patted the wall with one small claw as Xin leaned against it. "Family home."

Xin's throat tightened. He looked at Lorna, found her eyes suspiciously bright. Their hands tightened together as Ironsides VII broke free of Earth's embrace.

Across the cold dark space, the red planet waited. Somewhere there, Skarn gathered his forces. The Moondust Crystal sang its siren song.

But here, now, in this moment—a makeshift family stood together, hands linked, watching the stars.

They were going to war. Together.