Emma’s head throbs as consciousness claws its way back. The metallic tang on her tongue mingles with the sterile tang of the air, something between antiseptic and ozone. Her eyes flutter open to a ceiling she doesn’t recognize. Panels of bioluminescent material pulse with soft amber light. Voice OS. You’re awake.
The voice is deep, resonant, and unmistakably not human. Emma bolts upright, heart hammering. Near a curved viewport stands a figure that freezes her breath. Not from fear, but from awe. He’s tall, nearly 7 ft, humanoid, but unmistakably alien. His skin shimmers like oil on water. Deep blues and purples shifting in slow waves. Four eyes arranged in a diamond pattern study her with what might almost be concern.
Emma horse. What? Where am I? Zark aboard the Catharis flagship of the Valora fleet. He moves closer. Each motion deliberate and fluid. Zark cont. I am General Zark and you, Emma Chen, are my wife. The words hang in the air like a sentence. Emma stunned. I’m your what? One of Zark’s upper eyes twitches, a gesture she can’t yet decipher.

Zark, 3 days ago, your planet’s leaders signed the Treaty of Proxima, Article 7, Subsection 12, to ensure peace, a binding union between both species representatives. You were chosen from Earth. I was chosen from Velcar Prime. Emma’s mind reels. She remembers the broadcasts, the desperate negotiations. The Valkera Armada had hovered above Earth like a blade for months, demanding surrender or annihilation.
Humanity fought and bled and lost until suddenly a ceasefire, a treaty, a hope, Emma, I didn’t agree to this, Zark. Neither did I. That admission startles her. He gestures and a holographic document unfurs. Half in English, half in the elegant geometry of Velcara script. Zark K. Both sides needed guarantees the other wouldn’t break the peace.
The solution was archaic, a political marriage. You are a decorated pilot, a hero of the battle of Io. I am the general who nearly destroyed your world. Together, we symbolize peace, Emma, snarling. So, I’m a propaganda piece. Zark. We both are. She studies him more closely now. Beneath his alien features, she recognizes weariness.
The kind that only soldiers carry. Emma, how long does this last? Zark. Until both governments deem the peace stable. Five Earth years minimum. Her fists clench. She thinks of Harry, her brother. Reckless genius, always chasing impossible dreams. She’d promised she’d come home after the treaty signing. She’d promised.
Emma, I want to contact my family. Zark permitted, but monitored for security. He nods toward a console. Zark conte. Your brother has attempted communication 17 times in the past standard day. Despite everything, a small smile breaks through. That’s Harry Zark, cunted. For clarity, our arrangement is political only. You’ll have your own quarters.

I expect nothing beyond public appearances and diplomatic duties. Your autonomy will be respected. Emma, how generous. And if I refuse, all four of his eyes focus on her at once. Zark. Then the treaty collapses. Both sides return to war. Millions will die. He pauses. Zark conte. I’ve seen enough death, Emma Chen. I suspect you have, too. She has.
Io still haunts her. Faces, names, ghosts. Emma, this is insane. We’re from different worlds, different species. We probably can’t even eat the same food. Zark, on the contrary, our biologies are surprisingly compatible. Though, I must say, your coffee is truly vile. A flicker of humor.
Against her will, she almost smiles. Emma, you’ve actually tried it. Zark once. Never again. Something shifts between them. A fragile thread of shared exhaustion. Emma, I want to talk to my brother now. Zark inclines his head, activating the communications array. Moments later, Harry’s face flickers into view, pale with worry. Harry, Emma, thank God.

Are you What the hell is going on? They’re saying you’re married to some alien general. Emma, it’s technically true. But listen, I’m okay. Don’t do anything stupid. Keep working on your projects. This piece, it’s fragile but real. I’ve got this under control. She doesn’t, but he needs to believe she does. The transmission fades. Silence lingers.
Emma. So, husband, what happens now? Zark’s mandibles shift, almost a smile. Zark. Now, we show both our worlds that peace is possible. We attend the functions, endure the ceremonies, and perhaps if we’re fortunate, we learn that our differences aren’t as vast as they seem. Emma turns to the viewport.
The stars stretch endlessly beyond. Earth, Velcar Prime, and a thousand other worlds, watching, waiting. Emma, 5 years minimum, right? Zark, 5 years minimum. She straightens. Pilot steady, Emma. Then we’d better make it work.