I laugh.
It comes out broken and wet and borderline hysterical, but it’s still a laugh. “Mother. You came.”
“Of course I came.” Her voice softens, just for a moment, before hardening back into command efficiency. “You think I let my people get cornered by corporate thugs without backup? What kind of dispatcher do you think I am?”
A pause.
“Also, Suki owes me fifty credits. I called it in the betting pool.”
“There’s abetting pool?”
“Polly, there’salwaysa betting pool.”
Through the bond, Rynn’s confusion mixes with my overwhelming relief. He doesn’t know Mother—not really, not beyond what I’ve told him—but he can feel what she means to me. How her voice reaches into my chest and loosens something that’s been tight since this whole nightmare started.
Family. Found family. The kind worth fighting for.
Fifty-five seconds.
“Mother, we’ve got a situation.” I pull myself together, courier training kicking in. “Commander Voros is running a kamikaze trajectory. Every Meridian ship is targeting the fortress at ramming speed. Less than a minute until impact, and your fleet—”
“I can see the tactical display, kid. I may be old, but I’m not blind.” Mother’s voice is crisp now, all business. “All right, people, listen up. Standard protocol—we’re couriers, not a battle fleet. We can’t stop those rams.”
My heart sinks.
“What wecando is what we do best: be extremely annoying and hard to hit.” The comm crackles with multiple courier acknowledging. “Keswick Blockade pattern. Buzz them, make them dodge, buy time. And for the love of—someone remind me why I left my desk at Junction One.”
Forty-five seconds. The fleet is buying us time, but not enough.
“Polly, please tell me you have one of your terrifyingly creative plans.”
“Actually—”
Another voice joins the channel, calm and reasonable and somehow more intimidating than Mother’s aggression: “Coordinator Luzrak to all vessels. I am reading biosignatures consistent with elevated stress, combat pheromones, and—” A pause. “—at least one newly-formed mating bond.”
Stars and silence.
“Madge,” Luzrak continues, tone dry as cosmic dust, “you won the pool.”
“Ialwayswin the pool. Now focus on not dying.”
I watch through the fortress’s external sensors as OOPS ships swarm the Meridian fleet like angry wasps. They’re not engaging directly—couriers know better than to dogfight with military vessels—but they’redisrupting. Close passes forcing evasivemaneuvers. One ship actually scratches a destroyer’s hull paint on a hairpin turn.
“THAT’S MY SHIP!” A voice I recognize as Tanaka howls over the comm. “THOSE BASTARDS MADE ME REPAINT LAST MONTH!”
Courier ships. Fastest in the galaxy. Built for impossible deliveries, not combat. But speed is its own weapon when you use it right.
I watch three ships thread through the formation, forcing Meridian vessels to break trajectory or risk collision. Watch another pair execute a synchronized roll that puts them directly in front of a cruiser’s sensors, blinding it for precious seconds.
We’re good. We’resogood.
But the Eclipse isn’t breaking formation.
“That one’s not taking the bait.” Mother’s voice goes tight. “He’s past rational decision-making.”
Luzrak: “Pheromone analysis from the transmission suggests psychological break. He will not disengage voluntarily.”
“Great. Corporate commanders and their ego problems.” Mother sighs heavily. “This is why I drink.”
