Page 232 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

I read it aloud.

Another line appears.

You have slowed the blade, not removed it.

I type:

I know.

Rolaev replies:

Do you?

Anger flares before fear can drown it.

Yes. I know fragments become questions. Questions become schools, factions, doctrines, counter-doctrines, weapons, jokes, prayers, scams, research grants, and probably at least three terrible documentaries. I know.

Brakk would be proud of the documentaries part.

Rolaev ’s response takes nearly a minute.

Then do not pretend gradual revelation is harmless.

I do not.

Then why proceed?

My hand hovers over the screen.

Because burying it forever lets fear become the only civilization that survives.

Ghar’s hand settles on my shoulder.

The compad remains silent long enough that I think the channel has died.

Then Rolaev answers.

You sound like I did before Kelratha.

The name punches air from my lungs. The colony from her archive memory. The test disclosure. The collapse. The child clutching her robes beneath the red-gold sky.

I type more slowly.

Maybe. That terrifies me.

It should.

It does.

Good.

The word is cold, but not cruel. Not exactly.

Sira stands near the viewport, watching both of us. “Ask her what she wants.”

I type:

What do you want from me?