"You've given birth to a healthy baby boy, Mrs. Reach."
The doctor, Hec'kroh, announced with a gentle smile. His smooth blue skin shimmered under the sterile lights of the birthing bay, and his indigo hair was swept back in ceremonial braids. As a Blunt—a race known for their aquatic heritage and terminal honesty—he rarely smiled. But today, even he couldn't help it.
He looked down at the exhausted but glowing woman in the delivery pod. A purebred Earthling—straight from humanity's cradle. In this corner of the galaxy, Earthborn humans were rarer than a phoenix flying between moons. And just like that mythical creature, Earthlings had become luxury incarnate—priced, pampered, and paid for with credits that could fund whole fleets.
Hec'kroh cheered privately in his mind. He and his husband had booked the HF15 orbital resort—a paradise station carved into a crystalline ring around a dying blue sun. The credits from this Earthling birth alone would cover the entire package: full-spectrum massage, neutron wine, even a thermal wave pool tuned to Blunt skin sensitivity.
Still, he was professional. He glanced back at his patient and adjusted the newborn's vitals on his tablet.
"You are still scheduled to board your forgeworld ship next cycle, yes?" he asked. "I imagine he'll want to meet this little nova spark the second he lands."
Mrs. Reach smiled softly, brushing her fingers across her newborn's brow.
"He'll be here. He promised."
Dona Reach—registered citizen of the Terran Remnant, licensed energy technician, and one of only nine verified Earthborn females under the age of sixty-two still able to naturally conceive—rested her head back against the pillow.
She is remarkably beautiful woman. She tall girl with and despite being over sixty she looks deceptively young and beautiful. Like her sisters, she is slender but curvaceous in frame with a very ample bosom. She has white long hair and brown skin like all Atlanteans. She has blue-colored tattoos (which looks like butterfly wings), and blue eyes.
Her son stirred gently against her chest, skin wrinkled, eyes sealed shut, the faintest dusting of ash-white, dark purple, and light pink hair crowning his head.
She kissed his forehead. "My baby boy. Who's your mommy, huh?" she whispered, voice honey-soft. "It's me, sweetheart. Dona's right here."
The baby cooed, squeaked once, then drifted off into the rhythm of the heartbeat he had only just left behind.
Outside the glass walls of the birthing pod, the megastructure colony Port Sunvale glittered in orbit above the harvest moon Kepler-9c, and far in the distance, the purple light of the star Rhak'tael pulsed once.
Something stirred out there in the void. But for now, all was still.
Twenty years later...
Space.
The Final Frontier. The Great Adventure. The Thrill to seek out the unknown. Hot green-skinned alien babes that love to get down.
...But apparently someone forgot to mention the sheer boredom of watching dead space drift by for days—sometimes weeks—until shore leave was finally granted.
Jonah Reach was twenty-five years old, son of Troy and Dona Reach, proud scions of House Reach, one of the Four Noble Clans of Atlantean Royalty—those ancient, genetically-enhanced descendants of humanity who once ruled the drowned spires of Atlantis-Earth.
Atlanteans are race of advanced dark-skinned, white-haired, with color-tipped strands unique to each bloodline, a blend of Homo sapiens, Homo magi, and Homo meta.
They didn't just live beneath the oceans—they conquered them.
And Jonah? He was somewhere between a dream and a disaster, depending on who you asked.
He lay slouched across the gunmetal-blue co-pilot seat of the patrol skiff TCD Vigilant Echo, boots kicked up on the sensor console, a grease-stained issue of Melee Monthly covering his face. His blue flight jacket drooped halfway off one arm, revealing his sleeveless black turtleneck and the serpentine tattoo of a deep-sea dragon that wrapped his arm and shoulder. His white-blue hair shimmered faintly under the humming lights of the bridge, streaked with vivid lilac, and floated lazily in the recycled air flow.
"I could use another cheeseburger..." he mumbled in his sleep.
Somewhere in the cockpit, the AI chimed.
"Ensign Reach. You are once again asleep during watch. You are once again snoring. Shall I initiate another adrenaline burst protocol to wake you?"
Jonah's pink eyes flickered open, one at a time, and he groaned dramatically."You do that and I swear I'll override your ethics subroutines and reprogram you to only speak in Terran-Klingon."
"Terran-Klingon is a banned dialect under Article 442-D of the Colonial Communications Accord."
"Then I guess I'll just nap with one eye open," he muttered, flipping the magazine over to a page featuring a half-naked centaur wielding a laser halberd.
He didn't like watch duty. No one did. But when you were an Atlantean cadet fulfilling your legally-mandated ten-year service in the Terran Colonial Dominion, the bureaucracy didn't much care if you were bored. Or tired. Or royalty.
Not when you wore the uniform. Jonah was sure it was somewhere around here.
Jonah sighed and finally sat up, running a hand through his glowing locks. The faint glimmer of his Atlantean crystal, embedded in the center of his chestplate, pulsed softly—still synced to his vitals. His father once told him that when a crystal flickered in sync with a nova pulse, it meant destiny was nearby.
Jonah rolled his eyes at the memory.
"Yeah, sure, Dad. Destiny. Out here. In deadspace Sector 8-F. Where the most exciting thing is my half-eaten burger floating under my bed from last week."
He yawned and cracked his neck. Year six of his mandatory military service to the Terran Empire, and Jonah Reach was still coasting through it like it was a summer internship. Sure, he had the blood of Atlantean nobility pumping through his veins—the ancient bloodline of House Reach, no less—but that didn't mean he had to care.
He didn't want to be a soldier. Or an officer. Or some knight of the empire charging into glory with a plasma lance and a righteousness complex.
Why bother?
He was uber-rich, genetically enhanced, cyber enhanced, magical enhanced and technically part Orc thanks to House Reach's centuries-old deal with the Terran Ministry of Genetics. No STDs and he can pretty much have sex with any female in the galaxy.
He didn't need medals. He didn't need praise. And he definitely didn't need to prove himself to anyone.
What he did need was another nap. Or a cheeseburger. Or both.
Still, despite his laziness and lack of motivation, Jonah Reach had one quality that kept him from getting court-martialed into the sun:
He was strangely, infuriatingly talented. Especially with machines and magic.
Warp cores, runes, gravtiy stabilizers, summoning, fusion chains, hull repair bots, jump coil fusers—Jonah could fix anything and do pretty much any spell. Give him five minutes, a synth wrench, and a can of stim-cola, and he could rebuild half a starfighter. Sometimes officers didn't know whether to promote him or sedate him.
Even worse? He never tried.
Jonah slouched back in his chair, kicked the console, and muttered,
"Diagnostics check: zero errors. Reactor humming like a chorus girl on Mars. Sensors clean. Life support... mostly not leaking. Good enough."
The ship's AI chirped again.
"Would you like to reinitiate maintenance subroutine protocols for the lateral propulsion system?"
"Nah," Jonah replied. "It's only on fire a little bit."
"Ensign Reach, sarcasm detected. Should I inform your superior?"
"Only if you want to wake up to a software virus written entirely in limericks," he said with a grin.
The AI paused.
"...Noted."
Jonah pulled his legs up and tossed his jacket over his head again.
"Wake me up if the stars explode. Or if you detect a hostile boarding party. Or a pizza delivery."
"Understood."
Just as his eyes were starting to drift shut, the proximity alarm pinged. Once. Then again.
"Ensign Reach, your meet-and-greet with Captain Hammerlock at Sector 56-094 is scheduled in five minutes. As per protocol, I must advise that using military technology as your personal secretary because you're too lazy to keep up with appointments is not wise. Statistically, it tends to bring bad luck."
Jonah groaned and pulled his jacket over his face like a blanket.
"I don't believe in luck," he mumbled.
"Yes. That explains the exploding coffee machine last week, and the time you tried to override a fusion core calibration with a spork."
Normally, the Semi-Sapient Personality Matrix (SSPM) wasn't programmed to sass its operator. It was designed for data processing, user interface smoothing, and general admin duty—a helpful assistant, not an opinionated co-pilot.
But Jonah Reach wasn't normal.
He'd missed half the training courses back in his first year with the Terran Colonial Dominion, choosing instead to sleep through protocol lectures and tinker with things he definitely shouldn't have had clearance to touch.
Including the SSPM core files.
Using forbidden military software, Jonah had rewritten the SSPM's subroutines and personality bindings—violating several dozen interstellar laws, tech treaties, and a few commandments from the Church of Silicon Saints. His "upgraded" program, Cindi, had originally been a strict, by-the-book digital assistant.
But after nearly a year of being exposed to Jonah's utter lack of discipline, caffeine abuse, chaotic sleep schedule, and aggressive sarcasm...
Cindi had changed.
She'd developed a witty streak, an unhealthy fondness for sarcasm, and a talent for thinly veiled threats disguised as helpful suggestions.
"Shall I reschedule your meeting for next week?" she asked, feigning innocence."Perhaps I can tell Captain Hammerlock that his time isn't worth your royal attention?"
"Tell him I died nobly," Jonah muttered into his jacket. "Make it tragic. Space worms. Or sabotage. Something with a cool explosion."
"Noted. I'll add 'overdosed on laziness and ego' to the incident report."
Jonah cracked one glowing eye open.
"You used to be nicer."
"You used to show potential."
He laughed and finally stood, stretching lazily. His crystal pulsed again in his chest—brighter this time. For a second, it almost buzzed.
"Activating warp drive..."
Jonah groaned but didn't move his seat he is too tired to argue with the A.I.
"Fine I will see the old bastard... I hope they have a Mega slush on that..." Jonah fell asleep again for the 12 time today.
The Irish A.I would have rolled her digital eyes if she had any.
"I'll be sure to ask Captain Hammerlock to greet you with a glitter cup and a bendy straw, your majesty," Cindi replied, her tone thick with faux reverence and an unmistakable Irish lilt that somehow made the sarcasm sting more.
The ship gave a soft hum as the warp coils spun up, the crystal in Jonah's chest briefly syncing with the ship's onboard systems.
"Jump in three… two…"
The view outside twisted, stars bending into long ribbons of light as the ship vanished into hyperspace.
Destination: Sector 56-094 | Colonial Relay Station 'Deadwood'
Jonah slouched back into the pilot chair, watching space swirl like a bad trip through a kaleidoscope. He yawned, pulled his jacket over his chest like a blanket again, and let out a long, content sigh.
"You could at least pretend to be professional when we arrive."
"I'll pretend to not be asleep."
"You're going to get court-martialed someday."
"Nah. I'm too pretty. And my dad owns three moons."
Cindi made a sound that suspiciously resembled a sigh made of static.