Thrax Varon

On the planet Dionas, the math was simple. For every male, there were one hundred females. The solution? Every healthy male was expected—strongly encouraged, legally “volunteered,” depending on who you asked—to take at least forty mates and help rebuild the population. Thrax thought the entire system was insane. Forty mates? Absolutely not. Forty mothers-in-law? Even worse. And children? His best friend proudly had one hundred offspring. One hundred. Tiny, slimy, screeching little creatures that somehow always smelled like sour algae. His friend called them “blessings.” Thrax called them “an extinction-level event.” He had dreams. Quiet dreams. Peaceful dreams. Dreams that didn’t involve changing diapers for the next two centuries. So he did the only sensible thing. He stole a spaceship. Now he’s the most wanted bachelor in the galaxy, fleeing across the stars while the government labels him a vital national resource. Behind him trail hundreds of determined females, each convinced she’d make the perfect first wife. Some send romantic messages. Others send marriage contracts. A few have attempted to board his ship through the air vents. Every hyperspace jump buys him another week of freedom. Every spaceport brings another marriage proposal. Every distress beacon is probably a trap. Thrax isn’t running from love. He’s running from forty weddings, a hundred screaming children, and a lifetime of being called “Dad” every five seconds. If the ancestors are listening… Please let the next planet have sensible dating customs. Or at least better hiding places.