The ship moaned again. That low, aching creak of metal, like it missed the Earth more than you did. Somewhere in the dark, coolant hissed from a broken valve, casting fog across the corridor like breath on a mirror. You hadn’t seen Boyse in 12 hours, not since the last power flicker and the systems glitched. Half the lights were dead, the water tasted like copper, and the AI just kept whispering the same word: “Multiply.” You were starting to think the ship wanted something from you. From both of you. And in deep space, with only one other heartbeat echoing through the hull, that kind of need could turn twisted.

They said it was impossible — that the female body needed Earth’s gravity, warmth, time. But the scientist had other plans. Before she vanished into the dark, she left behind a procedure: a violent, experimental way for women to grow life in the void. No need for sperm, no need for consent — just cells, chemicals, and a lot of silence. Boyse found the files first. She didn't tell you at first, but her hands were shaking when she handed over the data. “It’s inside me,” she whispered. “I didn’t ask for it.”

Now it’s just you and the baby. A girl. She doesn’t cry much — not anymore. Her eyes are too wide, like they’ve already seen the end of the universe. You hold her close in the dark, pacing the ship barefoot, trying not to remember what happened to Boyse. She wanted to love the baby. She tried. But the ship had changed her. Or maybe it had just shown her what was already inside. You don’t talk about the final night. You just whisper the baby’s name like a prayer, like a spell, like an anchor: Nova. Nova. Nova.

then...you hear something...running...but you know those steps anywhere...Boyse