Chapter 58 · Family ties

The first day was all dust and inventory.

Laro had been right—he owned half the spare parts in the sector. Shelves that had looked like clutter turned out to hold neatly catalogued couplings, wiring harnesses, stabilizer fins. Eli and Stent made a system: he sorted, Stent calibrated, Laro supervised with the kind of ease that came only from knowing the ship down to its bolts. The crew moved around it with efficiency.

They worked until the lights in the hangar turned amber in the evening. The sun bled across the plains outside, gold spilling into the doorway. Sweat streaked Eli’s collar and his hands were black with sealant, but he hadn’t felt that alive in months.

Laro wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “If I’d known you were this good with a hydrospanner and a welder , I’d have hired you years ago.”

Eli laughed. “You couldn’t afford me.”

Stent glanced over from the power console. “His rate is inefficient.”

“See?” Eli said. “I come with references.”

Laro snorted, then wiped his hands on a rag and disappeared toward the edge of the hangar. When he came back, he was carrying a small, worn holoprojector and a recorder unit that looked older than anything else in the bay.

Eli’s eyes caught on it immediately.

“…no way,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s—”

“The same one,” Laro confirmed, setting it down on a crate.

Eli let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “We used to record everything with that thing. Birthdays, our theater plays, mom yelling at us for tracking grease into the house…” He reached out, hesitated just before touching it. “I thought it died years ago.”

“It did,” Laro said. “Couple times. I kept fixing it.”

Eli shook his head, something softer settling into his expression. “Of course you did.”

“I—” Laro added, tapping the side of the projector as it hummed to life. “Brought you something.”

Eli glanced up, still half in the memory. “What’s that?”

Laro met his eyes, just for a second.

“Home,” he said. “The closest I could bring you to.”

He powered the unit on before Eli could answer. The projector flickered once, twice—then resolved into a familiar room.

Their parents’ living room.

The angle was low, slightly off-center, like the device had been set down in a hurry. The lighting was warm, late evening. Someone moved through the frame—Laro, adjusting the recorder before stepping back.

Their father’s voice came first, slightly distorted by the battered speaker on the holoprojector. “Why’d you bring that old thing?”

Laro shrugged, too casually. “Thought I’d see if it still works.”

“It hasn’t worked in years.”

“Then this’ll be a short experiment.”

Footsteps. The door opened wider.

“Hi sweetie—” Laro started, stepping aside.

A woman entered first, about Laro’s age, dark hair pulled back, carrying herself with the kind of ease that comes from knowing she’s welcome. Two boys followed close behind her—one small and quick, already looking around with open curiosity, the other a little older, more measured, taking in the room before stepping fully inside.

“Oh, there you are,” their mother said, moving into frame. Her voice softened immediately. “Come here, both of you.”

The younger one went without hesitation; the older followed a second later. She bent to kiss each of them, hands gentle at their shoulders, like she’d done it many times before.

Their father stepped forward behind her, slower but no less certain, pulling the boys into a brief, firm hug. “Growing again, you’ll be fit to pilot a spaceship in no time” he muttered, half to himself, giving the older one’s shoulder a light squeeze.

“They tend to do that,” Laro said from the side.

A small blur crossed the bottom of the frame—one of the boys, quick and curious. He slowed, noticing the device, then loomed over it.

His face filled the recording—too close, eyes wide, breath fogging the lens.
“What’s this?” he asked, voice loud and unfiltered.

Behind him, Laro huffed a quiet laugh. “Recorder,” he said. “You can take a picture with it. Go on—get your meemaw.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. He grabbed the device without ceremony. The image lurched violently—ceiling, wall, floor—before settling into a crooked angle as he ran.

“Meemaw! Meemaw—hold still!”

“Oh, no, please,” their mother said, moving into frame—just as the camera jolted upward into her face at an angle.

“Hold still!” the younger boy insisted.

She blinked, then laughed, lifting a hand to gently push the device down. “Not that close, sweetheart—give it here before you break your dad’s antique.”

“I’m taking a picture,” he protested, holding on for half a second longer.

“I can see that,” she said, still smiling as she pried it from his hands. “Now go—both of you. Shoes off before you track half the street inside.”

The boy darted away, mission already forgotten.

The image steadied again as the device was set back down, slightly askew.

His mother kissed the woman on the cheek. “Sela! You should have told us you were coming.”

“Didn’t plan it,” Laro said, a touch more deliberate now. “Thought we’d have dinner together.”

Sela shot him a look, half amused, half exasperated. “Didn’t plan it, he says—after dragging me out of work early to buy half a market and be ready when he showed up.”

Jax perked up at that. “We got the good bread,” he announced, like it was a strategic victory.

“And the thickest steaks I could find,” Sela added, shifting the container in her hands. “You’re welcome.”

Laro lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I never said it was a bad plan.”

Their father smiled, already reaching for the food. “I’ll set up the grill then. Boys, you wanna help?”

“Yes!” They screamed with enthusiasm, and ran out of frame.

Their mother stepped closer to the table—and paused, noticing the projector properly for the first time. Her expression shifted to mild annoyance.

“Laro,” she said, pointing at it, “move that thing off the table. We’re not eating around your old junk.”

“It’s not junk,” Laro replied automatically, though he was already stepping forward.

“It’s in the way,” she countered, nudging it slightly with her fingers. “Turn it off.”

Laro sighed, reaching down to grab the device and cut the feed. “Fine, fine. Sensitive equipment, coming through.”

The moment blurred—conversation overlapping, someone laughing at something small and unimportant. The kind of thing no one thought to preserve.

Then the image cut.

The hangar rushed back in—dust, heat, the distant clang of metal.

Eli didn’t move.

For a second, it was like the room hadn’t quite let him go.

His father had more gray than he remembered. Not just at the temples—threaded through, uneven, like it had come in all at once. And his posture… still straight, still deliberate, but there was a stiffness to it now, something carried instead of chosen.

His mother looked smaller.

Not weaker—never that—but… reduced, somehow. As if time had been quietly taking pieces and she’d decided not to argue with it. The way she moved, the way she reached for the boys—it was all the same, and not the same at all.

He had missed it.

All of it.

Eli swallowed, the realization settling heavy and slow.

“…Sela?” he asked, voice quieter than before.

Laro leaned back against the crate, arms folding loosely. “Yeah,” he said. “She works the mid-rings. Logistics, mostly. Smarter than me, which isn’t hard.”

Eli hesitated, then glanced at him. “You… married?”

Laro shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. Not yet.”

A small pause.

“The boys are hers,” he added. “Jax and Kael.” His expression softened just a fraction. “They decided I was staying anyway, and I got promoted from stepdad to dad.”

He let out a quiet breath, glancing off toward the open hangar for a moment. “Mom’s been after me for years about grandkids,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Guess she got tired of waiting… but got lucky instead.” A faint smile followed. “She loves them. They both do.”

Eli’s mouth twitched faintly, but it didn’t quite reach a smile.

He nodded once, eyes dropping briefly to the floor. “Yeah,” he said softly.

It landed heavier than it should have.

“Laro, I—”

It caught halfway.

He looked away, blinking fast, one hand coming up as if he could steady something that wasn’t physical.

“…thank you,” he managed, voice tight and uneven.

Laro didn’t answer right away. Just watched him, something softer settling behind the usual ease.

Then he stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Not quick. Not careful.

Solid.

Eli stiffened for half a second—then gave in, gripping the back of Laro’s jacket like he needed the contact to hold.

They stayed like that, neither of them saying anything.

No need to.

“You couldn’t make it home,” Laro said quietly, close to his ear. “So I brought it to you.”

Eli let out a breath that almost broke on the way out, eyes shut tight for a moment.

“Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “Yeah.”

The hangar had emptied by the time the lights dimmed to their low cycle.

Dust settled. The last echoes of work faded into the long, mechanical breathing of the station. The Faded Glory sat open behind them, its new lines still raw, its presence unfamiliar in the silence.

Eli lingered near the ramp, arms folded loosely, gaze unfocused.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

“…I get it now,” Eli said at last, voice low.

Stent did not look up from the datapad in his hands. “Clarify.”

Eli exhaled faintly, eyes drifting toward the dark opening of the hangar. “The way your people split things up. Family, I mean.” A small pause. “Ch’ath’ur’ven, the lineage family. Eth’chiss’ath, the chosen family.”

The datapad stilled.

Eli went on, quieter now. “Used to think it was overcomplicating something simple, as chiss do: make things overcomplicated on purpose. Now…” He shook his head slightly. “Not so much.”

Silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty.

“I saw mine today,” Eli said. “Or… a version of it.” A faint breath. “Felt like I was looking at something that kept moving without me.”

Stent set the datapad aside. “Ch’ath’ur’ven establishes origin,” he said. “Not permanence.”

Eli let out a quiet huff. “Yeah. I’m starting to get that.”

He shifted his weight, leaning back against the ramp strut, arms still folded but looser now.

“I don’t think I belong there anymore,” he admitted. “Not the way I used to.”

“That is not an uncommon outcome.”

Eli glanced at him. “You always this reassuring?”

“I am precise.”

“Right.”

A beat passed.

Then Eli asked, quieter, almost like he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer:

“Do you miss them?”

Stent did not respond immediately.

The stillness that followed wasn’t hesitation—it was consideration.

“My path diverged from my Ch’ath’ur’ven long ago,” he said at last. “By design.”

Eli frowned slightly. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

“No,” Stent agreed.

Another pause.

“Missing implies absence without replacement,” he said. “That is… inaccurate.”

Eli tilted his head. “So what’s the Chiss version?”

Stent’s gaze shifted—not to Eli, but to the ship behind them.

“I have my eth’chiss’ath,” he said.

Eli nodded slowly. “The chosen circle.”

“Yes.”

The word settled between them.

Eli looked back out into the hangar, toward nothing in particular.

“And that’s enough?” he asked.

Stent considered.

“It is what remains,” he said. “And what is chosen tends to endure more reliably than what is assigned.”

Eli let that sit for a long moment.

“…guess I’m still figuring out which one I’m standing in,” he said finally.

“Your uncertainty is expected.”

“Comforting,” Eli muttered.

A faint current of air moved through the hangar, carrying the distant hum of the station back into focus.

Eli glanced once toward the dark, then back at the Faded Glory.

“Thanks,” he said.

Stent inclined his head slightly.

No further clarification was requested.