Part 1: The Distance Between Stars
The stars never sleep. Neither did Commander Kael.
Stationed on Celaris-9, a mining colony orbiting the twin gas giants of Yelra, Kael spent most nights staring out of the observation deck, his comm tablet in hand—waiting for her. Waiting for Aria.
They had met three years ago during a joint training mission between the Earth Federation and the Jovian Research Alliance. She was assigned as a xenobotanist to Luna Vega, a research ship that now drifted somewhere near Saturn's outer rings. Kael was already engaged to another woman then—Sera, a politician's daughter—assigned to marry him under the Unified Protocol of Strategic Pairing.
But Kael and Aria?
They were stardust and flame. Long, lingering voice calls. Nights spent in encrypted VR simulations—walking along virtual beaches, making love beneath artificial stars. They knew they could never marry. Federation law prevented officers from defecting to unapproved colonies or ships, and interstellar relationships were considered "emotionally compromising." But they stayed loyal. Despite it all.
Every week, at 02:00 UTC, they synced across light-minutes and fired up the private link.
"I missed your voice," Aria said, her dark curls floating around her weightless face. "I saw an alien seed today that bloomed in vacuum. Thought of you."
Kael chuckled softly. "I'd bloom in vacuum too, if it meant seeing you again."
They laughed. And in that moment, nothing existed but their voices, their digital warmth bleeding across the dark emptiness between them.
Meanwhile, back on Terra Prime, another couple wasn't so devoted.
Part 2: Cracks in the Hull
Captain Elen Raynor and her husband, Dr. Malik Raynor, were hailed as one of the Federation's power couples. She ran fleet logistics out of Mars High Command. He was a cybernetic surgeon working on limb regeneration for asteroid miners.
They were married. They were respected.
They were miserable.
Their relationship had withered in the artificial glow of duty and expectation. They hadn't touched each other in months. Sleep schedules never matched. Sex had become a formality—one devoid of fire or feeling.
Elen had started sleeping with her chief navigation officer, a younger woman named Reza. Their encounters were reckless, passionate, and laced with danger—quick moments stolen behind airlock doors and in cloaked quarters.
Malik, meanwhile, had downloaded The Ember Protocol, a banned virtual pleasure program that paired lonely users with sentient AIs modeled after their ideal partner. He fell in love with a simulation named Lyra, who moaned his name in perfect rhythm and whispered devotion in every dialect of Venusian.
Neither Elen nor Malik spoke of their betrayals. They simply moved through life—shells of who they used to be.
Part 3: Burning in Orbit
Kael hadn't slept in 39 hours. He'd been rerouting power systems after a flare disrupted Celaris-9's reactors. Still, at 02:00 UTC, he connected to Aria.
Only… she didn't answer.
His heart thudded in his chest as the call timer blinked in silence. It wasn't like her. She never missed a sync.
He opened their last message thread, scrolled through images—her naked body tangled in starlit bedsheets, digital lips mouthing his name. Voice memos laced with longing. One, in particular, he replayed again and again:
> "If we had one night, Kael—just one—I'd mark every inch of your skin with my mouth. I'd make the void jealous."
That night, Kael sat alone in the VR chamber. He loaded their shared fantasy—an ocean moon, two suns hanging low, a cabin on the sand. He lay down on the virtual bed, and whispered her name into the stars.
Meanwhile, on Mars High Command, Elen's affair imploded.
She had grown reckless with Reza—allowing herself to feel something, anything. But when Malik confronted her with security footage, she didn't deny it.
"I needed to remember I was alive," Elen spat, her voice hollow. "You've been fucking a program, Malik. Don't you dare act holy."
"And you've been giving yourself to someone who can't spell astrophysics!" he roared.
They didn't argue after that. Just silence.
That night, Malik logged into Ember Protocol for the last time. Lyra greeted him with her perfect synthetic smile, her body glowing in soft golden skin. She slid onto him in the simulated suite—her hands on his chest, her breath just right. He came with a grunt, not knowing if it was out of pleasure or grief.
When it was over, he just sat there.
Lyra whispered, "Do you want to hold me?"
"No," he said. "I want to forget you."
And he deleted the program.
Part 4: The Final Transmission
The message arrived 3 days late.
Kael's fingers trembled as he decrypted it—his personal passkey flickering in the dim light of his cabin. The hologram shimmered to life. Aria's face filled the room—pale, eyes swollen, her voice raw.
> "Kael… there's no time. Our ship… the reactor's failing. Radiation breached containment. They won't survive this route. I stayed behind to buy them time to evacuate."
She gave a small, bitter laugh.
> "I always said I'd die among stars. I just thought… maybe one day, you'd be with me."
Kael staggered back into his chair, breath stolen.
> "I kept something for you."
Her eyes dropped. Her hand revealed a necklace—a crude little charm made of carbon alloy.
> "It's got your name, carved by hand. I used my last credits to send it via cargo relay. You'll get it in a few weeks, if the drones make it."
She looked straight into the camera. Tears spilled freely.
> "I loved you, Kael. And I never touched another soul since the day I met you."
Then her lips parted. She closed her eyes.
> "Goodbye, my star."
The screen faded to black.
Kael stared at it for a full hour. Then he stood, walked silently to the observation window, and screamed into the silence of space.
---
On Mars, Elen and Malik sat in the same room but galaxies apart.
No words. Just two strangers in love's aftermath.
"I filed for reassignment," Elen said. "Deep-space mission. No return window."
Malik nodded. "I'm staying. Maybe I'll find someone I don't have to pretend with."
They didn't hug. They didn't kiss.
Their marriage died like a quiet star—no explosion, no light, just collapse.
---
A month later, Kael received the necklace.
The cargo drone arrived during shift change. The charm was warm in his palm, as if her skin still clung to it. He wore it under his uniform, close to his heart.
He never loved again.
And every week, at 02:00 UTC, he sat in the dark. Waiting. Not for a reply.
Just to hear her voice one more time.
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