I Married a Human Who Seemed so Weak Until our Spaceship Was Invaded

 

The crystalline corridors of the diplomatic vessel Meridian’s Grace were rarely this alive with tension. Usually, the hum that filled the air came from the ship’s elegant hyperdrive systems—a constant, rhythmic thrum that signaled steady travel through the void. But today, the energy had shifted. Whispers followed Commander Syra of the Catheran Imperial Guard as she moved through the hall, the bioluminescent panels casting soft waves of turquoise light across her emerald skin and polished ceremonial armor.

Every soldier and attendant she passed straightened instinctively. None dared meet her gaze directly, but she could feel their thoughts rippling through the air like static. The Princess-General, the undefeated blade of Catheris, bonded to a human. To them, she was the warrior who had shattered fleets, who had conquered planets in the Empire’s name—and who had now been reduced to a symbol of politics. She walked with the rigid grace of someone who understood that her reputation had been traded away for peace.

Her four-fingered hand rested on the hilt of the plasma blade at her hip, the ancient weapon that had belonged to her family for twelve generations. The metal gleamed faintly with the same blue-white glow that filled the corridors, alive with restrained power. It was the one thing that still felt hers in a world that was slowly being rewritten by diplomacy.

Lieutenant Keros appeared beside her, his bronze-scaled form blending with the corridor’s light. He stood at perfect attention, one of his three eyes remaining respectfully closed—a gesture among their kind meant to convey discomfort or discretion.

“Your husband is in the observation lounge, Commander,” he said, his tone painfully neutral. “He is… cataloging.”

Syra paused mid-stride, her jaw tightening. “Cataloging?”

The lieutenant inclined his head. “He brought several crates of… artifacts. Paper objects called books. And a small device he calls a coffee maker. He appears most interested in restoring them.”

“Books,” Syra repeated slowly, tasting the alien word. She could hear the disbelief in her own voice. Humans were known for many eccentricities, but she still found it difficult to understand their obsession with outdated relics of communication. Why bind knowledge into fragile sheets of processed plant matter when information could be stored infinitely in quantum arrays? It seemed almost primitive.

Her scales shifted to a deeper shade of green, a subtle flush of irritation. She imagined what the crew must think—how the great Syra of the Catheran Empire, victor of the Battle of Three Suns, had been tethered to a creature who treated war relics and inked paper with equal fascination.

Without another word, she strode toward the lounge. The sharp click of her boots echoed through the hall, rhythmic and deliberate. Her ceremonial armor shimmered with faint reflections of blue light as she moved, every step a reminder that her pride was armor, too.

The doors hissed open with a soft hydraulic sigh, and the scent that met her was unexpected—rich, bitter, earthy. It reminded her faintly of the deserts of Voth Prime after a storm, though warmer, gentler somehow.

Her husband, Michael, sat cross-legged on the floor amid organized towers of books. The sight was absurd: an entire diplomatic lounge transformed into something between a workshop and a shrine. A roll of adhesive tape hung from his wrist, and he was carefully repairing the spine of a worn brown volume, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The human looked up when she entered, and his entire expression brightened. His face softened with that strange human gesture—a smile, too wide, too toothy for her species’ sensibilities, yet somehow disarming.

“Syra,” he said, standing and brushing his hands on his shirt. “Perfect timing. I was just about to make coffee. You’ve got to try it.”

“I do not require stimulants,” she said, her voice clipped and formal.

He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not about caffeine. It’s about the ritual. The smell, the warmth, the quiet moment before the day starts. My grandmother used to say coffee was an excuse to stop moving for five minutes.”

“Your grandmother was a warrior?”

Michael laughed, a short, warm sound that made her scales tighten in confusion. “No, she was a librarian. Fiercest woman I ever knew, though. Broke up a street fight once with her walking stick. Three guys, all bigger than her. She didn’t even lose her bookmark.”

Syra blinked slowly. “A… librarian.”

He grinned again, pouring water into his strange glass contraption. “Yeah. My family’s full of them. Librarians, mechanics, teachers. People who fix things, not fight them.” He gestured toward the device as it hissed and steamed. “My dad used to say, ‘If it’s broken, a Harrison can make it work.’ That’s the family motto, I guess.”

Syra watched him work, silently noting the precision in his movements—the exactness of how he measured, poured, adjusted. There was discipline there, even if it was misapplied. It reminded her faintly of how soldiers cared for their blades. There was something ritualistic in the way he moved—reverence disguised as habit.

“You brought physical copies of your texts,” she said at last, her tone laced with incredulity. “The ship’s database contains the knowledge of thousands of civilizations. Why bring these… paper things?”

Michael looked up, his eyes alive with the same spark she’d seen when he spoke of Earth. “Because a real book isn’t just data. It’s history. It has weight, texture, smell. This one—” He lifted the volume he’d been repairing. “—is a first edition of Dune. Printed in 1965. My great-great-grandfather bought it new. Every mark on these pages came from someone in my family. It’s not just a story. It’s a record of us.”

Syra stepped closer before she realized she was moving. The book’s cover was cracked and faded, but he handled it like a sacred artifact. There was something about the care in his hands that stilled her irritation. It reminded her, unsettlingly, of how her people treated ancestral weapons.

“This marriage,” she said quietly, breaking the silence, “you understand what it is.”

Michael’s movements slowed. “A political alliance,” he said softly. “Earth gains trade and protection. The Catheran Empire gets access to human technology and diplomatic footholds in our sector.”

“And you are… content with this?” she asked. “To be bonded to a stranger for strategy?”

He looked up at her, meeting her unblinking gaze without flinching. “My people have a saying: Love is a choice you make every day. We’re strangers now, Syra. That’s true. But we don’t have to stay that way.”

She wanted to tell him that Catherans did not love. They bonded, commanded, conquered. But his eyes were steady, and something about the calm in his voice tangled her thoughts.

“You should know,” she said finally, her tone hardening, “many on this ship view you as weak. They believe you are a liability.”

Michael nodded, unsurprised. “If there’s a fight, I probably am,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not a soldier. Never wanted to be. I just fix things and read books. That’s what I do.”

There was no shame in his voice, no defensiveness. Just simple fact. That quiet acceptance struck her harder than she expected. She’d met warriors who would die before admitting weakness. But here stood a man who acknowledged it openly and didn’t seem diminished by it.

The coffee maker hissed softly as he poured the liquid into two cups. He added a white substance from a small flask—cream, he called it—and handed one cup to her.

“Try it,” he said. “Consider it cultural exchange.”

She hesitated, then accepted. The warmth spread through the scales of her palm, unfamiliar and oddly soothing. The taste was bitter, sharp, and complex. Not pleasant, not unpleasant—alive.

“So,” Michael said, settling among his books, “tell me about your blade. Looks like it’s seen things.”

For three hours, Syra spoke. She told him about her family’s lineage, the duels she’d fought, the code of honor that defined her kind. He listened with quiet intensity, asking questions that revealed not curiosity for glory but for understanding. When she mentioned the Battle of Three Suns, he didn’t ask how many enemies she’d slain. He asked how many comrades she’d lost. No one had ever asked her that before.

Days turned into rhythm. Mornings, he’d be in the engineering bay, helping repair things that no one else had patience for. Afternoons, he’d sit surrounded by his books, reading aloud stories from ancient Earth. She’d begun to linger nearby, claiming it was for observation, though even she knew that was a lie she told herself.

“This is inefficient,” she remarked one day as he carefully repaired another worn novel. “You could replicate a flawless copy from the ship’s archives.”

Michael smiled faintly. “But where’s the soul in that? This one’s survived decades. It’s been handled, loved, scarred. Doesn’t that make it worth mending?”

She didn’t answer, but she thought of her family’s blade, polished a thousand times over the centuries. She wondered when maintenance had become reverence.

Lieutenant Keros noticed her new habit quickly. “You spend considerable time with the human,” he said during a briefing.

“I am ensuring the diplomatic asset remains functional,” she replied curtly.

“He is teaching you to brew coffee.”

“Cultural intelligence gathering.”

Keros’s third eye opened briefly in skeptical silence, but he said nothing more.

Two weeks into the voyage, she found Michael standing at the observation deck. The stars outside burned cold and sharp, stretching endlessly beyond the ship’s transparent hull. He didn’t turn as she approached.

“You are troubled,” she said simply.

“Just thinking about home,” he replied. “Funny thing, leaving Earth. You spend your life dreaming about the stars, and once you get here, all you can think about is what you left behind.”

“You could have refused the marriage.”

“Could I?” He turned to her, smiling faintly. “Earth’s fragile, Syra. We’re surrounded by civilizations older and stronger than ours. If marrying me keeps my people safe, that’s a small price.”

“You speak like a soldier,” she said, studying him.

He shook his head. “No. Soldiers sacrifice others for victory. Love is when you sacrifice yourself for others.”

She was still trying to form an answer when the ship’s alarms tore through the air.

Red emergency lights bathed the deck in a violent glow. The Meridian’s Grace shuddered as if struck by a giant’s hand. Somewhere in the distance, a hull breach alarm screamed.

Syra moved before thought. She grabbed Michael, shoving him behind the reinforced bulkhead. “Stay here,” she ordered.

“Syra—”

“You said it yourself. You are not a warrior. Stay hidden, stay safe. That is an order from your wife.”

Something unreadable flickered in his eyes, but he nodded. “Be careful.”

She almost smiled at the absurdity—a fragile human warning her to be careful. Then her plasma blade hissed to life in her hand, the air vibrating with its song.

The warrior of Catheris sprinted toward the chaos. And behind her, hidden among books and coffee and the faint hum of alien engines, her human husband waited—calm, quiet, and far less helpless than anyone aboard that ship truly understood.

Continue below

 

 

The crystalline corridors of the diplomatic vessel Meridian’s Grace hummed with attention that had nothing to do with the hyperdrive engines. Commander Sir of the Catheran Imperial Guard stood at perfect attention. Her emerald skin catching the soft blue glow of the ship’s bioluminescent panels.

 Her four-fingered hand rested on the ceremonial plasma blade at her hip, more out of habit than necessity. The weapon had been in her family for 12 generations, passed down through a lineage of warriors who had never known defeat until today. Today she had been defeated by politics. Your husband is in the observation lounge, Lieutenant Keros informed her, his voice carefully neutral.

 The bronzecaled cathertherian warrior’s third eye remained closed, a sign of respect or perhaps embarrassment on her behalf. He is cataloging. Cyra’s jaw tightened, the small scales along her neck shifting to a darker shade of jade. Cataloging. The human brought several crates of items, books they are called, and something he refers to as a coffee maker. books.

 Her husband collected books, not weapons, not trophies of conquest, but bound sheets of processed plant matter with symbols printed on them. It was almost poetic in its absurdity. The mighty Sir, Victor of the Battle of Three Sons, bonded for life to a creature who found joy in antiquated information storage. She stroed through the ship’s corridors, her ceremonial armor clicking softly with each step.

 Crew members, a mix of Cathers and other allied species, stepped aside respectfully, though she caught the whispers that followed in her wake. They all knew. The princess, who could have had any warrior in the empire, had been married off to secure an alliance with Earth, that chaotic little world on the edge of civilized space. The observation lounge doors hissed open, revealing a scene that made her pause.

 Her husband, Michael, though she struggled with the strange human name, sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by neat stacks of books. He was carefully applying some kind of adhesive strip to the spine of one particularly worn volume, his attention completely absorbed in the task. His dark hair fell across his eyes, and he brushed it back with a gesture that seemed unconsciously graceful.

 He looked up at her entrance, and his face transformed with one of those human smiles that showed too many teeth. On a Catherion, such an expression would be a threat display. On him, it was something else. Syra, perfect timing. I was just about to make coffee.

 Would you like some? I know the synthesizers make a decent approximation, but trust me, nothing beats the real thing. He stood, unfolding his relatively small frame. He barely reached her shoulder, and moved toward a complex arrangement of glass and metal he had assembled on one of the tables. “I do not require stimulants,” she replied, her voice formal. “Cold. It’s not about the caffeine, Michael said, seemingly unbothered by her tone.

It’s about the ritual, the smell, the warmth, the time it takes to prepare. My grandmother used to say that coffee was just an excuse to slow down for 5 minutes. Your grandmother was a warrior? Michael laughed, a sound she was still learning to interpret. No, she was a librarian.

 Fiercest woman I ever knew, though. She once faced down three gang members who were harassing kids near her library. Beat them senseless with her walking stick. A librarian. Syra let the word roll around her mouth like something foreign and bitter. You come from a line of librarians and mechanics, Michael added cheerfully, grinding some dark beans that filled the lounge with an admittedly pleasant aroma. My father could fix anything. If it’s broke, a Harrison can make it work.

He used to say fixed everything from water pumps to orbital shuttles. Sir watched him work, noting the precision in his movements. There was something almost ritualistic about the way he measured the ground beams, the exact temperature of the water, the careful pour. It was methodical, practiced, not entirely unlike weapon maintenance. she supposed, though infinitely less practical.

 Your books, she said, gesturing to the stacks. Why bring physical copies? The ship’s database contains millions of texts. It’s not the same, Michael replied, his voice taking on a passionate edge. A real book has weight, texture, smell. This one, he picked up the volume he had been repairing.

 Is a first edition Dune printed in 1965. My great greatgrandfather bought it new. You can see where he made notes in the margins, where my great-grandmother spilled wine on page 203, where my father dogeared his favorite passages. It’s not just a story. It’s a history of my family’s hands. Despite herself, Syra found herself moving closer.

 The book did indeed show signs of age and use, but Michael handled it with a reverence she recognized. It was how warriors treated ancestral weapons. “This marriage,” she said abruptly. “You know what it is.” Michael’s hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their careful work.

 A political alliance to secure trade routes and military cooperation between Earth and the Caththeran Empire. You are acceptable with this, being bonded to someone who sees you as a diplomatic necessity. He looked up at her. her then, and there was something in his brown eyes she couldn’t quite read. My people have a saying, “Love is a choice you make every day.

 We’re strangers now, Sir, but we don’t have to stay that way.” She wanted to tell him he was naive, that Catherians didn’t love. They conquered, they possessed, they dominated, but something in his steady gaze made the words stick in her throat.

 You should know,” she said instead, her voice dropping to what humans might call a warning tone, “that many on this ship see you as weak, a liability. If there were an emergency, I’d probably be in the way,” Michael finished, returning to his coffee preparation. “I know. I’m not a soldier. Never wanted to be. I’m just a guy who fixes things and reads books.

” The resignation in his voice sparked something unexpected in her, not pity exactly, but something adjacent to it. He knew what others thought of him, and he had made peace with it. There was a strange strength in that acceptance. The coffee maker gurgled and hissed, producing a dark liquid that Michael poured into two cups, despite her earlier refusal. He added a splash of something from a small metal flask.

 real cream, she realized, probably worth a fortune this far from Earth, and offered her one. “Try it,” he said. “Considerate cultural exchange.” She took the cup, the warmth seeping through her scaled fingers. The liquid was bitter, rich, with an underlying sweetness from the cream. It was not unpleasant. “So,” Michael said, settling back among his books with his own cup.

 Tell me about that blade you carry. It looks like it has a story. For the next 3 hours, she found herself talking about the blade, about her training, about the battles she had fought and the honor she had earned. Michael listened with an attention that seemed genuine, asking questions that showed he was actually processing what she said.

 When she mentioned the battle of three sons, he didn’t ask about the glory or the victory. He asked about the friends she had lost. No one had ever asked her that before. The days fell into a pattern. Michael would spend his mornings in the engineering bay, helping with minor repairs.

 He truly did seem to have a gift for fixing things. Afternoons found him in the lounge with his books and coffee. Syrath would join him, initially out of duty, then out of habit, she told herself. He would read to her sometimes stories of distant worlds and impossible things. Fiction, he called it, lies that told truths.

 “This is inefficient,” she told him one day, watching him painstakingly repair another old book. You could simply print a new copy. Where’s the soul in that? He asked. This book has been loved. It’s been through things. It’s survived. Doesn’t that earn it some care? She thought of her blade meticulously maintained through centuries. Perhaps Lieutenant Keros found these sessions baffling.

 You spend considerable time with the human, he observed during a security briefing. I am ensuring the diplomatic asset remains functional. Syri replied curtly. He is teaching you to make coffee. Cultural intelligence gathering. Keris’s third eye opened. A sign of skepticism, but he said nothing more. Two weeks into their journey, Sirrath found Michael in the observation deck, staring out at the stars.

 His usual cheerful demeanor was subdued. “You are troubled,” she observed. “Just thinking about Earth,” he said. “It’s funny. You leave home to see the universe, but the universe just makes you miss home more. You could have refused the marriage contract. Could I? He turned to her with a sad smile. Earth needs this alliance.

 We’re the new kids on the galactic block, surrounded by civilizations that could wipe us out without breaking a sweat. If my marriage helps keep my world safe. Isn’t that worth it? You speak like a warrior, she said, surprised. No, Michael corrected. I speak like someone who loves something enough to sacrifice for it. There’s a difference. She considered this.

 What is the difference? Oh, warriors sacrifice others for victory. Love means sacrificing yourself for others. Before she could respond, the ship’s alarms erupted in a cascade of warnings. The emergency lighting bathed everything in harsh red, and the deck lurched violently enough to send Michael stumbling.

 Sarra caught him automatically, her superior strength keeping them both upright. Battle stations. Well, Captain Vorth’s voice boomed through the ship’s communication system. We are under attack. Repeat, we are under attack. All security teams to defensive positions. Sir’s training took over. She pushed Michael toward the corner of the observation deck behind a reinforced bulkhead. Stay here. Do not move.

 Sir, you said it yourself. You are not a warrior. Stay hidden. Stay safe. That is an order from your wife. Something flickered across his face. An emotion she couldn’t identify, but he nodded. Be careful. She almost laughed. A human telling a Ctheran warrior to be careful, but there was no time. She drew her plasma blade, its energy field humming to life with a sound like singing crystal, and ran toward the sound of combat.

 The attackers were ravagers, cybernetic pirates who grafted weapons and armor directly into their flesh. They were streaming through a breach in the cargo bay, their modified bodies allowing them to survive the brief exposure to vacuum. Sir arrived to find Keros and three other guards already engaged, their plasma weapons lighting up the bay in a deadly light show. A ravager with a cannon grafted where his left arm should be swung toward her.

 Sir rolled under the blast, came up inside his reach, and drove her blade through his chest. The cybernetic augmentation sparked and failed as the plasma destroyed the delicate electronics. She kicked the body away and moved to the next target. The battle was everything she had been trained for. This was where she belonged, where she excelled.

 Her blade was an extension of her will, cutting through enemies with practiced efficiency. Together with her guards, they pushed the ravagers back toward the brereech. Then everything went wrong. A second breach team had infiltrated the ship from the opposite side. She heard Keros cry out a warning just before an explosion knocked her off her feet. Her blade went spinning away into the smoke and chaos.

 When her vision cleared, she saw them, a full squad of ravagers, heavily modified and armed, advancing through the ruined bulkhead. Her guards were down. Keros was struggling to rise. green blood seeping through his armor, and she was weaponless. Her ceremonial armor never designed for this kind of sustained assault.

 The lead ravager was a monster of metal and flesh, half his skull replaced with sensor equipment, his body a patchwork of stolen militarygrade augmentations. He looked at her with one organic eye and one mechanical sensor, and his voice came out through a speaker grafted into his throat. The mighty Syra, he buzzed, the Empire’s princess. You’ll bring a fine ransom. Or perhaps we’ll sell you to the flesh markets of Torven Prime.

 They pay extra for warriors. She snarled, dropping into a combat stance despite having no weapon. She would die before she let them take her, but there were too many, and they all had guns now trained on her. “Surrender,” the leader said, or we start shooting pieces off you. nonvital pieces first. You can survive without feet. Yes.

 The mechanical sound of weapons charging filled the air. Sir calculated distances, angles, possibilities. There were none. She had failed. Then she heard it. A sound so inongruous in the moment that her mind almost rejected it. Whistling, a human tune, cheerful and light, echoing from the smoke-filled corridor behind the ravagers.

 They turned, weapons swinging toward the sound. Michael walked out of the smoke, but it wasn’t the Michael she knew. Gone was the slightly slouched posture, the easy smile, the gentle demeanor. This Michael moved with a different kind of purpose, each step deliberate, measured. He was carrying something, one of the emergency fire suppressant canisters from the corridor wall.

 His whistling continued, the tune never wavering even as dozens of weapons focused on him. Who? The ravager leader began. Michael didn’t let him finish. He threw the canister in a flat, hard trajectory that caught the nearest pirate in the head with a wet crunch of breaking bone and circuitry. Before the body hit the ground, Michael was moving.

He didn’t move like a soldier. Soldiers moved with trained precision, following patterns drilled into them through years of repetition. Michael moved like someone who had learned to fight in places where there were no rules, no honor, no second chances. He grabbed the falling ravagers’s weapon, a brutal kinetic rifle, and fired from the hip.

Three shots, three pirates down before they could process what was happening. A ravager with blade attachments for hands rushed him. Michael dropped the rifle, stepped inside the ark of the blades, and did something with his hands that Cyrus couldn’t follow.

 There was a crack, like breaking ceramics, and the ravager dropped his neck at an impossible angle. “Kill him!” the leader roared. The remaining ravagers opened fire. Michael rolled behind a cargo container, came up with a fallen guard’s plasma pistol, and returned fire with an accuracy that spoke of long practice. But it was more than accuracy. It was tactical brilliance.

 Each shot drove the ravagers into positions where they blocked each other’s line of fire. He was hering them like animals. One ravager tried to flank him. Michael heard him coming somehow, despite the chaos. and swung around with a piece of debris, a broken support strut. He wielded it like a club, but with an economy of motion that turned it into something more deadly than any crafted weapon.

 The ravagers’s augmented arm came up to block. Michael adjusted mid swing, bringing the strut down on the pirate’s knee instead. The joint shattered, flesh, bone, and machinery all breaking under the brutal impact. As the ravager fell, Michael relieved him of a grenade, pulled the pin with his teeth, and lobbed it into the cluster of pirates trying to regroup.

 The explosion scattered them, and Michael was among them before the smoke cleared. What happened next would stay with Cyrus for the rest of her life. It wasn’t a battle. It was a systematic dismantling. Michael moved through the ravages like a force of nature, using everything as a weapon. A dropped helmet became a projectile that shattered a pirate sensor array.

 A piece of torn deck plating became a shield, then a battering ram, then a throne blade that opened a ravager’s throat in a spray of oil and blood. He fought without honor or grace, without the formal techniques that had been drilled into Syra since childhood.

 He fought like someone who had learned that the only rule was to be the one still breathing at the end. The ravager leader, the monster of metal and flesh, finally faced him alone. The pirate was larger, stronger, more heavily armed and armored. By any reasonable measure, Michael should have been destroyed in seconds. Instead, Michael smiled. It wasn’t the warm expression she had come to know.

 This smile was something from humanity’s darker past. From the time when they were just clever apes trying to survive on a world that wanted them dead. “You want to know something funny?” Michael said, his voice conversational as he circled the ravager. “Everyone thinks Earth is weak because we only just developed FTL.

 They see our small colony ships, our basic weapons, and they think we’re prey.” The Ravager fired his arm cannon. Michael had already moved. The blast destroying the bulkhead where he had been standing. But here’s what they don’t tell you in the xenobiology texts. Michael continued, picking up Sirra’s fallen plasma blade.

 The weapon keyed to Catheran biometrics shouldn’t have activated for him. It did anyway, humming to life with a sound of recognition. Humans didn’t evolve as apex predators. We evolved as persistence hunters. We’re not the strongest or the fastest, but we just don’t stop. The ravager charged, his bulk enhanced by hydraulic augmentations.

 Michael waited until the last possible second, then dropped to his knees, sliding under the charge. The plasma blade came up, cutting through hydraulic lines and artificial tendons. The ravager’s leg collapsed, sending him crashing to the deck. Michael stood over him, the blade humming in his hand. You made a mistake. You threatened my wife.

The blade came down. In the sudden silence that followed, Sir could hear nothing but her own breathing and the distant hum of the ship’s engines. Michael stood among the bodies of 17 ravagers covered in blood and hydraulic fluid, her ancestral blade still glowing in his hand. His chest rose and fell steadily, controlled.

 His eyes swept the carnage with professional assessment, checking for any signs of movement. Then he saw her watching, and something shifted. The predator faded, replaced by something almost like shame. He deactivated the blade and walked to her, holding it out handle first. “I believe this is yours,” he said quietly.

 She took it automatically, her mind still trying to process what she had witnessed. You You are not a librarian’s son. I am, Michael said. But I was other things first. He looked down at his bloodstained hands. Things I thought I’d left behind. What things? He was quiet for a long moment. Earth isn’t the paradise the diplomatic core wants everyone to believe.

 Before we achieved FTL, we were alone and we fought each other constantly. I was young and angry and very good at violence. Special operations, they called it. Black Ops, the kind of missions that don’t officially exist. You were a warrior. No, he said firmly. Warriors have honor. I was a weapon. Point me at a problem and I would solve it no matter the cost.

His voice carried a weight of old pain. One day I realized I was becoming something I didn’t want to be. So I left. Spent years trying to remember how to be human again. Books helped. Coffee helped. The rituals of normal life. And then Earth made first contact.

 And suddenly we needed diplomats more than soldiers, people who could build bridges instead of burning them. He laughed bitterly. When they told me about the marriage proposal, I thought it was a chance to do something good, to be something more than what I was. Sir looked at the carnage around them, then back at him. You saved us. You saved me. I became the thing I swore I’d never be again. The pain in his voice was raw.

 I told myself I was different now, better. But the moment you were in danger, I didn’t hesitate. The violence was still there, waiting. She thought of her earlier contempt for his books, his coffee, his gentle manner. Now she understood. They weren’t signs of weakness. They were chains he had forged to contain something dangerous.

 “You are not a weapon,” she said finally. “No, a weapon has no choice. You chose to save us. You chose to protect.” She paused, searching for words. You chose to protect me. Lieutenant Keros limped over, supported by another guard. His three eyes were all open, staring at Michael in shock and something that might have been awe. The human.

 How? The human has a name, Sir firmly. His name is Michael Harrison. He is my husband and he is under my protection. She looked at Michael. from everyone, including himself. Michael’s eyes widened slightly. It was the first time she had claimed him as anything more than a political necessity.

 Syrath, you said love is a choice made every day,” she interrupted. “Today I choose to see you. Not the diplomat, not the weapon, not the human. You, the man who reads stories to me, who makes coffee with ridiculous precision, who mourns for books like they were fallen comrades?” She stepped closer.

 The man who became something he hated to save someone he barely knows. We should. We should help the wounded, Michael said. But his voice was thick with emotion. Yes, she agreed. We should. They worked side by side through the night, treating injuries, repairing damage, securing the ship. Michael’s hands, the same hands that had dealt death with terrible efficiency, now worked with gentle precision to bind wounds and comfort the frightened.

 Sir watched him carefully reset a young engineer’s broken arm, talking the whole time about a story from one of his books to distract from the pain. This was him, she realized, not the killer, not the victim, but this, someone who could be both terrible and tender, who could destroy and heal, who chose every day to be better than his worst impulses.

 When the immediate crisis was over, they found themselves back in the observation lounge. Michael’s books had been scattered in the attack, and he was carefully gathering them, checking each for damage. Your great greatgrandfather’s book, Sira said, noting he held the old Dune edition. Is it intact? A little blood on the cover, he said, but it’s survived worse.

 Books are tougher than they look, like people sometimes. She helped him stack the volumes, treating them with the same care she would show to honored weapons. When they were done, she didn’t leave. Tell me about Earth, she said. not the official version, the real one. So he did. He told her about blue skies that could turn violent with storms, about cities that never slept, about forests that could swallow you whole, and deserts that could kill with beauty.

 He told her about humanity’s bloody history, their wars, their failures, their moments of transcendence. He told her about fear and hope, and the desperate need to be better than what nature had made them. We’re not naturally good, he said. We have to choose it every time and sometimes we fail, but we keep trying. Is that why you brought the books to remember to keep trying? Stories remind us who we could be, he said. Both the best and worst versions of ourselves. Their warnings and promises all at once.

Sir considered this. We have no fiction on Catheria, only histories. Then you’re missing half the truth, Michael said. Facts tell you what happened. Stories tell you what it meant. Read to me, she said impulsively. He looked surprised but pleased. He selected a book seemingly at random and began to read.

 It was a story about unlikely love between people from different worlds. She suspected the choice was not as random as it seemed. His voice was steady, warm, painting pictures with words in the dim light of the observation lounge. When Captain Vor’s voice came over the communication system, announcing their successful arrival at the Catherion border, neither of them had slept.

 They had spent the night with stories and coffee, with careful words that danced around deeper truths. “We dark in 3 hours,” Sir said. I know my family will want to meet you. They will test you. I know they will not see what I see. Michael looked up from his book. What do you see? She thought carefully. I see someone who makes me curious about tomorrow.

 It was by Catherion standards practically a declaration of passionate love. His smile, the real one, not the mask he wore for others, was worth the admission. I see someone who makes me want to be worth knowing. You are already worth knowing. Then I want to be worth keeping. The next weeks would bring new challenges.

 The Catherion court was a labyrinth of political intrigue and tests of strength, but they faced them together. an unlikely pair who had found something unexpected in an arranged marriage. Michael taught Sir’s younger siblings about Earth literature, winning them over with tales of adventure and heroism.

 Syrath taught Michael the finer points of Catheran bladework, though she suspected he was holding back his true skill to spare her pride. One evening in their shared quarters. And when had they started thinking of them as shared, Sir found Michael writing in a journal. “What are you documenting?” she asked. “Our story,” he said. “Someone should write it down.

 Not the official version, but the real one.” “What will you call it?” he thought for a moment. the warrior and the librarian. She laughed, a sound that had become more common recently. Too simple. We are more complex than that. Then what? She considered two weapons learning to be people. Depressing. Two people choosing to be more. Better, he agreed, writing it down. Though it needs work.

 We have time, she said, surprising herself with the certainty of it. Yes, Michael agreed, reaching for her hand, a gesture that would have seemed impossible weeks ago. We have time. Their story was far from over. There would be more challenges, more tests, more moments when their past selves would clash with who they were trying to become.

 But in that moment, in the quiet of their quarters, with books scattered around them and the stars streaming past outside, they had found something neither had expected from a political marriage. They had found the beginning of a choice they would make every day, to see each other not as what they were supposed to be, but as who they truly were.

 It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was the foundation. love could be built on respect, understanding, and the mutual recognition that they were both more than the sum of their scars. In the margin of his journal, Michael wrote a note, “She makes me want to be better than I was.

” Reading over his shoulder, Sir added in her own careful script, “He reminds me there is more than one kind of strength. The journal would never be part of the official record, but years later their children would find it and understand that their parents’ bond was not born from passion or destiny, but from something rarer and more precious.

 The deliberate decision to build something beautiful from an arranged beginning. The ship sailed on through the void, carrying two souls who had learned that sometimes the greatest adventure was not in fighting monsters, but in the quiet courage of allowing someone else to truly see you and choosing to stay anyway. 5 months had passed since the Ravager attack.

 The diplomatic vessel had long since been replaced with a newer, more heavily armed cruiser. The Catherion Empire took the protection of its princess seriously. Now that they understood what humans were capable of. Michael had been offered a position in the Imperial Guard, which he had politely declined. “I fix things,” he had said simply. “I don’t break them. Not anymore.” Instead, he had become something unprecedented.

The Imperial Librarian, tasked with establishing the first Catheran collection of fiction from across the galaxy. It was a position created specifically for him and one that many traditionalists viewed with skepticism. But Sir’s father, the emperor, had been intrigued by Michael’s argument that understanding a species stories was as important as understanding their military capabilities.

 Stories are how cultures teach their young what matters, Michael had explained. If you want to predict what a civilization will do, read what they tell their children. The emperor, a pragmatist above all else, had seen the strategic value in this. Now, Zerath found her husband in what had become his sanctuary, a vast chamber in the Imperial Palace that was slowly filling with books, data tablets, and holographic story projectors from a 100 different worlds.

 He was teaching a class to a group of young Cathertherian cadetses using a human story to illustrate tactical thinking. The key, he was saying, is that Adysius knew he couldn’t match the Cyclops in strength, so he used cunning instead. He told the creature his name was nobody, so when it called for help, the other Cyclops thought it was alone. One cadet finished, her green scales flushing with excitement.

 Psychological warfare through linguistic manipulation. Exactly. Michael beamed. Sometimes the greatest weapon is understanding how your enemy thinks. Sir watched from the doorway unnoticed. The cadetses who would have sneered at taking lessons from a human months ago now hung on his every word.

 He had won them over not with displays of strength but with stories that taught them to think differently. After the class dispersed, she approached him. You are corrupting our youth with fiction, she said, but her tone was warm. Expanding their minds, he corrected, shelving a book with careful precision. There’s a difference.

 Is there? Lieutenant Keros’s daughter told me she wants to be a writer now. Her parents are scandalized. Good. Every culture needs storytellers. He paused, studying her. Something’s bothering you. She was still surprised by how well he had learned to read her. The council is pressuring us about an heir. Ah, Michael’s expression grew careful.

 And how do you feel about that? Catherian reproduction is different from human norms. We can control when we conceive. The question is not of biology but of choice. And do you want children with me? The directness of the question would have offended her once. Now, she appreciated it. I did not expect to want many things that I now want, she said carefully. But I need to know something first. Ask the violence inside you.

 If we had children, would they inherit it? Michael finished. He was quiet for a moment. Maybe humans pass down all sorts of things, trauma, tendencies, talents, but we also pass down choices. The choice to be better, to be kind, to build instead of destroy. And if they inherited your capacity for violence, then we would teach them what my grandmother taught me.

 That strength without compassion is just brutality. That real courage is knowing you can hurt someone and choosing not to. He met her eyes. Besides, they would also inherit your sense of honor, your dedication to protecting others. Between us, I think we could raise someone remarkable.

 Someone who could be both warrior and scholar. Someone who could be whatever they chose to be. Cyrus moved closer, studying his face. The months had changed him, or perhaps revealed him. The gentle librarian and the deadly soldier were not two different people, she had realized.

 They were both him, integrated parts of a whole person who had learned to choose which aspect to express. The council wants a traditional Caththerian ceremony for the conception announcement, she said. And what do you want? Something that honors both our traditions, warriors and storytellers. Michael smiled. I have an idea. There’s an old earth custom called a baby shower, but it happens after conception.

What if we combined it with the Catherian ritual of the promise blade? You would forge a blade for our child. Better. We forged it together. Your strength, my precision, a weapon and a tool. Something that could protect or create depending on need. It was perfect. It was them. You continue to surprise me, Michael Harrison. Good.

Life would be boring if we were predictable. He pulled her closer and she allowed it, still marveling at how natural it felt now. Besides, I have to keep up. You surprised me first. How? You saw me at my worst and chose to stay. You were protecting us. That was not your worst. No, he agreed.

 But you saw what I could become and didn’t fear it. I saw what you chose not to become, she corrected. That is far more impressive. They stood together in the library, surrounded by stories of a thousand worlds, two unlikely souls who had found something real in an arranged marriage. Outside, the empire continued its ancient dance of politics and power.

 But here, in this quiet space, they had carved out something different. A partnership built on mutual respect, growing affection, and the radical idea that people could change. “Read to me,” Sarra said, as she often did now. “What would you like to hear?” “Something new, something about impossible things becoming possible.

” Michael selected a book from Earth, one with worn pages that suggested many readings. This one is about two people from feuding families who fall in love despite everything against them. Does it end well? No, he admitted. But there’s another version where it does. That’s the thing about stories. They teach us that endings can be rewritten. Then read me the better version.

 We’re living the better version, he said, but opened the book anyway. As he read, Sir thought about the blade they would forge together, about the child who might one day wield it, about the stories the child would tell. The future was uncertain, but it was theirs to shape. The warrior and the librarian, the weapon and the healer, the human and the catherion. They were all of these things and none of them. Something new entirely.

 proof that sometimes the best stories were the ones that surprised even their authors. Years from now their son would stand in this same library holding that promised blade, reading the journal his parents had kept. He would understand that strength came in many forms, that the greatest battles were often internal, and that love was indeed a choice made every day.

 He would be neither fully human nor fully Catherion, but something unique, a bridge between worlds, raised on both histories and stories, understanding that truth lived somewhere between fact and fiction. But that was a story for another day. For now, there was just this.

 Two souls choosing each other word by word, page by page, building something beautiful from an arrangement that had begun as defeat, but had become their greatest victory. The stars continued their ancient dance outside, indifferent to the small miracles happening within the ships and stations that drifted between them.

 But in this room, in this moment, Michael and Sir were writing their own constellation. A story of choice, change, and the courage to be vulnerable with another soul. It was enough, more than enough. It was everything.