“Zip,” I murmur, “quick background scan on Mr. Tall, Dark and Brooding over there.”
“Scanning... Oh, this is interesting,” Zip purrs with the satisfaction of an AI who loves a good puzzle. “His biometric signature triggers multiple security flags. Most data is heavily restricted—we’re talking classified-beyond-classified levels here. Name registered for this transport: Rynn Valorian. Listed position: Diplomatic Attaché. That’s all I can access withouttriggering security protocols that would probably send both STI and Core World Intelligence after us.”
“Restricted data, huh?” I feel a little tingle of excitement despite myself. In my experience, restricted data means one of three things: criminal, spy, or nobility incognito. “This just got more interesting.”
And more dangerous. Mother’s voice echoes in my head: “Kid, I’m not running a dating service here. I’m running a postal operation.”
I saunter toward him, adding an extra swing to my hips. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in years of courier work, it’s that the stuffier they look, the more fun it is to ruffle their feathers. Plus, I’m a professional. I can handle one gorgeous, mysterious client without turning into a lovesick stereotype.
Famous last words, as Mother would say.
“You must be my priority package,” I call out cheerfully. “Rynn Valorian, right? I’m Polly West, your pilot and personal delivery service for the evening.”
His eyes flick over me, taking in my pink hair, the glitter on my collar, the worn but well-maintained boots, and the small star tattoo visible just below my left ear. His expression doesn’t change, but something in those golden eyes sharpens.
“You’re late, Courier West.” His voice is deep, cultured, with an accent I can’t quite place. It sounds expensive.
I check my display again. “Actually, I’m seven minutes early. Which means you were just... super early.” I extend my hand. “Welcome to the Pink Slip. She’s not much to look at for someone of your... caliber, but she’s the fastest ship in the Fringe.”
He ignores my hand, instead reaching into his jacket to produce a small, metallic case about the size of my palm. It pulses faintly with a rhythm that doesn’t look electronic.
“This must reach Helios Station within forty-eight standard hours. It is of the utmost importance.” He finally meets my eyes directly. “And I will be accompanying it.”
I drop my hand and cock my head. “Yeah, about that. OOPS didn’t mention a passenger. I don’t usually do chaperoned deliveries.”
“Your organization has been compensated accordingly.” There’s no room for argument in his tone. “The package cannot leave my sight. The bio-lock is... volatile. It requires specific containment protocols that only I can monitor until we reach the processing facility at Helios.”
“Volatile?” I eye the tiny case. “What’s in it? The secret to eternal youth? Unstable antimatter?”
His expression doesn’t flicker. “Data. But data secured by biology can be temperamental.”
“Of course it is.” I sigh dramatically. “Fine, Lord Serious-Pants. You can come along, but there are rules on my ship.”
One perfect eyebrow arches slightly. “Lord... Serious-Pants?”
“Rule one: My ship, my music. Rule two: No complaining about my flying style. Rule three: No mysterious comm calls while we’re in hyperspace—it messes with the navigation. And rule four: Try to smile at least once during the trip. It’s good for your health.”
For a moment, I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile, but perhaps the ghost of one. Then it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“I will abide by your first three conditions,” he says stiffly.
I grin. “Close enough. Come aboard, then. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”
As I turn to lead him up the boarding ramp, I catch him taking a deep breath, as if steeling himself for an ordeal. It makes me want to laugh. One night with me on Pink Slip isn’t an ordeal—it’s an experience.
And something tells me Mr. Rynn Valorian could use a little experience outside his carefully controlled world.
“This is... compact,” Rynn observes as I give him the world’s shortest ship tour. Pink Slip isn’t large—just a cockpit, a small common area that doubles as a galley, a cargo hold, and my private quarters.
“She’s built for speed, not luxury,” I reply, running my hand affectionately along the worn control panel. “She’s got it where it counts.”
Rynn stands awkwardly in the center of the common area, looking like a sculpture that’s been placed in the wrong exhibit. Everything about him screams “I don’t belong here”—from his perfect posture to the way he keeps his hands slightly away from any surface, as if afraid of contamination.
“You can sit, you know,” I tell him, gesturing to the padded bench along the wall. “The journey to Kainos usually takes about twelve to fifteen hours. That’s a long time to stand.”
He perches on the edge of the bench like he’s afraid it might bite him. The small case containing his precious cargo remains clutched in one hand.
“Secure harness for departure,” Zip announces with characteristic drama. “Preparing for launch sequence. Pink Slip is ready to show this Core World port what real speed looks like.”
