I slide into the pilot’s seat, my fingers dancing across the controls with practiced ease. This is where I belong—in the cockpit, surrounded by blinking lights and the soft hum of engines powering up. Out here, among the stars, nobody cares about my background or my unconventional appearance. I’m just another pilot, free to go wherever the next job takes me.
“You might want to hold on,” I call back to Rynn. “Initial thrust can be a bit—”
Pink Slip surges forward, the acceleration pressing us back into our seats. I hear a muffled curse from the common area andgrin. Maybe that was a little harder than necessary, but hey—he needs to loosen up.
Once we clear Venturis’s atmosphere and hit the departure vector, I engage the autopilot and swivel my chair around. Rynn has managed to maintain his dignity despite the rough takeoff, though his knuckles are white where he grips the edge of the bench.
“So,” I say, propping my boots up on the console, “what brings a fancy diplomatic attaché like yourself to a backwater place like Helios Station? Last I heard, it was just a ramshackle trading post with more smugglers than actual traders.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You seem well-informed for a courier.”
I shrug. “OOPS goes everywhere the big companies won’t. You pick things up.”
“The nature of my business is confidential.”
“Everything about you seems confidential,” I observe. “But we’ve got hours to kill, and I’m a curious person by nature. So either you give me something to work with, or I’ll start making up stories about you. And trust me, my imagination is vivid.”
He sighs, a small, controlled exhale that somehow conveys an entire universe of resignation. “I am delivering sensitive diplomatic correspondence that cannot be transmitted electronically. The bio-lock requires... specialized amplification to disengage. Equipment that only Helios possesses.”
“Specialized amplification?” I grin at him. “Sounds like you locked your keys in the car and need a locksmith.”
“It is significantly more complex than that.”
“See? Was that so hard?” I wink. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Next question: why Helios? It’s practically in the middle of nowhere.”
“Because discretion is paramount. And the signal noise of the Kainos Nebula provides cover.”
“Cover from what?”
A small line appears between his brows. “This isn’t a game, Courier West.”
“Everything’s a game if you look at it right,” I counter. “And please, call me Polly. ‘Courier West’ makes me sound like I’m in trouble with Mother—our Chief and dispatcher,” I clarify when he looks confused.
“I prefer to maintain professional boundaries,” he says stiffly.
I roll my eyes. “Suit yourself, Mr. Valorian.” I emphasize his name with exaggerated formality. “I’m going to set our course direct to Helios Station. Pink Slip’s got plenty of fuel for this run, and the sooner we reach the Kainos Nebula, the better.”
He nods once, sharply. “That is acceptable, provided we maintain schedule.”
“We will,” I assure him, turning back to the controls. “Like I said, Pink Slip is fast. And I’m the best pilot OOPS has.”
“Your confidence is... notable.”
I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment, so I choose to take it as the latter. “Thanks! I earned it the hard way—outrunning pirates in the Zater Reach, navigating the Karris Nebula without frying my nav systems, and once, delivering medical supplies during an active planetary war. So yeah, I’m confident.”
As I plot our course, I catch his reflection in the viewscreen. He’s studying me with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but instead sends a little shiver down my spine. There’s something about the way he looks at me—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“Coordinates set,” I announce. “We’ll hit hyperspace in three... two... one...”
The stars stretch into brilliant streaks of light as Pink Slip leaps into hyperspace. The familiar rush of acceleration washes over me, that perfect moment of transition when reality blursand anything seems possible. It’s my favorite part of any journey—that split second of pure potential.
When I glance back, I catch something unexpected on Rynn’s face—a flash of wonder, quickly masked by his usual stoic expression. But I saw it. Beneath all that control and formality, there’s someone who can still be awed by the beauty of hyperspace.
Interesting.
“Hyperspace entry successful,” Zip announces with obvious pride. “Pink Slip continues to exceed all reasonable expectations for a ship held together by determination and creative engineering.”
“Perfect.” I stretch and stand up. “Hungry?” I ask, pushing away from the pilot’s console and spinning my chair with unnecessary flair. “Because I’m starving, and Zip makes a mean rehydrated protein pack. Well, ‘mean’ is generous. More like ‘barely edible but won’t kill you.’”
