1
Priority Delivery
Polly
IhateCoreWorldspaceports.
They’re too clean, too quiet, and everyone looks at me like I’m something they scraped off their designer gravity boots. But when OOPS offers triple my usual rate for a “First Class, Absolute Priority” delivery—with a bonus if completed within twenty-four hours—I can tolerate the stares of the Venturis elite for a while.
“Your hair is... vibrant,” says the security officer, his mouth pinched like he’s sucking on a rotten nebula fruit. His scanner hovers over my OOPS credentials, lingering longer than necessary.
I flash him my brightest smile, the one that usually makes people either fall in love with me or want to call security. “Thanks! I call this shade ‘Supernova Pink.’ Matches my personality—explosive and unforgettable.”
He doesn’t smile back. Nobody in this sterile excuse for a spaceport seems to have a sense of humor. I adjust my courier jacket—standard-issue OOPS black that I’ve customized with holographic patches and a glitter-infused collar. OOPS—Orion Outposts Postal Service—is basically the galaxy’s last resort when Trans-System Logistics won’t touch a delivery. We go everywhere: war zones, quarantined systems, pirate territories. If it’s dangerous, impossible, or just plain weird, that’s what makes it Tuesday for an OOPS courier.
Mother—Madge Morrison, our senior dispatcher back at Junction One—nearly had an aneurysm when she saw my uniform modifications. But technically there’s nothing in the OOPS handbook against “improving” the standard issue. Mother’s been running our dispatch center for twenty-three years, and she’s seen it all. She calls herself Mother not because she’s nurturing, but because she’s fiercely protective of her couriers like an angry mama bear with postal training. She’s also been dealing with a recent epidemic of couriers falling for theirclients, which apparently requires more paperwork than she has patience for.
Not that I’d ever be stupid enough to fall for a client. I’m a professional.
The elderly human officer finally waves me through with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Docking Bay 17. Your client is waiting.”
“My client is early?” I check my wrist display. I’m actually ten minutes ahead of schedule, which for me is practically a miracle.
“Apparently punctuality means something different in the Fringe,” he mutters.
I blow him a kiss as I saunter past. “And a pleasant day to you too, Officer Sunshine!”
The docking bay doors slide open to reveal my baby—Pink Slip. She’s not the newest ship in the OOPS fleet, but she’s the fastest, with custom-modified engines that can outrun most patrol cruisers. Her sleek silver hull is accented with streaks of hot pink that pulse like a heartbeat when we hit FTL. She’s flashy, a little unreliable, and absolutely perfect.
Just like me.
I tap my wrist comm, keeping my voice low as I approach. “Zip, status report.”
My ship’s AI responds directly through my earpiece with his usual mix of efficiency and attitude: “Pink Slip is prepped and ready, Captain Chaos. Fuel at 98%. Life support optimal. Your distinguished client has been waiting for approximately twenty-three minutes and has asked about your arrival exactly four times—each inquiry delivered with increasing levels of impatience.”
“Oooh, impatient type. Fun.” I roll my eyes. “What’s the package?”
“Small diplomatic pouch. Sealed. Priority level: Absolute. Destination: Helios Station in the Kainos Nebula,” Zip replies,his voice dropping to match my conspiratorial tone. “However, the scan readings are unusual. It’s not standard digital encryption. The seal is reading as a Bio-Genetic Stasis Lock. Old Valorian tech. It requires a specific biological frequency to open.”
I whistle. “Bio-locks? That’s serious hardware.”
“Oooh maybe it’s a doomsday device,” Zip adds unhelpfully. “Also worth noting: your client insists on accompanying the delivery personally. He’s been pacing for the last eight minutes in a pattern that suggests either military training or severe anxiety. Possibly both.”
“What? Nobody said anything about passengers!” I groan, keeping my voice to a harsh whisper. OOPS couriers rarely take passengers, especially on high-priority runs. It complicates everything—more life support, more food, more conversation. And according to Mother’s latest staff meeting, passengers have a disturbing tendency to be ridiculously attractive and emotionally complicated. Last month alone, three couriers requested extended leave to “help their clients with personal matters.” Mother was not amused. “Please tell me they’re at least boring.”
I’ve been working with Zip for three years now, ever since I bought Pink Slip from a retiring courier who swore the AI was “too mouthy” for proper work. Which should have been my first clue we’d get along perfectly. Zip’s got personality programmed into every circuit—he’s sarcastic, observant, and has an unfortunate tendency to be right about everything. He’s also the only being, artificial or otherwise, who genuinely gets my sense of humor.
“Define ‘boring,’” Zip replies, his synthetic voice now barely audible but somehow still managing to convey smug satisfaction. “Because if you mean ‘devastatingly handsome inthat untouchable mysterious way that makes sensible women do incredibly stupid things,’ then I have some disappointing news.”
That’s when I spot him.
Standing beside my ship, looking like he’s been carved from marble and dressed by the most expensive tailor in the galaxy, is the most severe-looking man I’ve ever seen. Tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, his posture is so rigid I wonder if he’s had his spine replaced with a titanium rod. His long dark hair is immaculately styled, not a strand out of place, and his jawline could cut diamond. He’s wearing what looks like a simple black suit, but my Fringe-trained eye can spot quality—that’s custom-made from some rare fabric, probably costs more than six months of my courier salary.
But it’s his eyes that catch me off guard. Even from here, I can see they’re an unusual color—almost amber, with flecks of gold that seem to catch the light. They’re currently narrowed in what appears to be disapproval as he checks his sleek wrist device.
Oh no.
He’s gorgeous. Mysterious. And definitely the type Mother warned us about in her latest “Romance and Professional Boundaries” lecture. The kind of client who makes normally sensible couriers do incredibly stupid things like extend their delivery schedules or request assignment transfers to “better serve client needs.”
