“In accidental permanent bonding,” I finish, deciding it’s better to rip the bandage off. “We’re mated.”
The bond reveals Zola’s flash of appreciation for my directness even as her anxiety spikes higher.
I expect screaming. I expect termination protocols. I expect at minimum a lecture that could strip paint off hull plating.
Instead, Mother closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose with the kind of weary resignation that suggests she’s dealt with worse. Which, given OOPS’s history, she probably has.
“Of course you are,” she says, opening her eyes to fix us with a look sharp as steel. “Because why would one of my best couriers and my most pedantic inspector do anything halfway?” She leans back in her chair, her expression shifting from irritation to something that might be grudging acceptance. “Do you have any idea the amount of paperwork this generates? I have to file forms that haven’t even been invented yet. Interspecies bondingprotocols, liability waivers, next-of-kin notifications, revised insurance classifications...”
“We apologize for the administrative inconvenience,” Zola says, her voice small but professional.
“Administrative inconvenience?” Mother lets out a short, sharp laugh that holds no humor whatsoever. “You’ve dragged a warlord gladiator to my doorstep, blocked a trade route, engaged in unauthorized mating on company time, and forced me to activate emergency protocols that are costing OOPS approximately thirty thousand credits per minute.” She pauses, letting that sink in. “However...”
The word hangs in space between us like a lifeline.
“You also brought back my ship in one piece,” Mother continues, her tone shifting to something almost approving. “Which is why I ordered the blockade.”
Zola blinks, her confusion echoing through our connection. “You ordered it?”
“To keep him out,” Mother says, gesturing vaguely toward where Thek-Ka’s ship must be registering on her own tactical displays. “Thek-Ka. He’s been demanding docking rights for the past hour, making increasingly creative threats about what he’ll do if I don’t let him through. I locked the station down under Protocol Seven-Seven-Alpha—biosecurity threat, potential weapons contamination. It’s the only quarantine classification he can’t legally challenge without triggering a sector-wide incident.”
I sense Zola’s mind working, processing the implications with her usual precision. Mother isn’t just protecting the station—she’s protecting us. Buying us time in the only way she can without directly interfering in what Exoscarab culture would consider a legitimate honor challenge.
“That gives you about...” Mother checks something off-screen, her expression tightening. “Another forty-three minutes beforeFrontier Defense gets tired of my excuses and forces me to drop the cordon. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Director Morrison,” Zola begins, her voice thick with emotion, “thank you—”
Before she can finish, the audio feed screeches—a brutal, tearing sound of digital interference that makes both of us wince. Zola’s spike of alarm travels our connection as her engineer’s instincts recognize the signature of a powerful override cutting through supposedly secure channels.
Mother’s image flickers, distorting into static and broken pixels. For just a moment, I see her expression shift from bureaucratic irritation to genuine concern before the signal fractures completely.
“Warning,” KiKi announces, her cheerfulness gone, replaced by something approaching actual worry. “Priority override detected. Signal origin: Exoscarab warship. Authorization codes are... concerning. He’s using military-grade encryption protocols. Should I file a complaint with the Communications Authority? This seems quite rude.”
A new voice bleeds through the speakers, deep and chitinous, drowning out Mother’s attempts to maintain the connection. It carries the weight of absolute authority and three years of accumulated purpose.
“Golden Viper...”
The communication screen flickers again, Mother’s feed completely severed now, replaced by Thek-Ka in all his armored glory. The Exoscarab warrior fills the display, his chitinous plates scarred from recent combat and his compound eyes reflecting the internal lighting of his ship’s bridge. Even through the screen, I can read the signs—scraped armor plating, stress fractures along his primary hull visible in the background, the subtle tells of a warrior who’s pushed himself and his ship to the breaking point.
He shouldn’t have made it through that asteroid field. The fact that he did tells me everything I need to know about his dedication to this pursuit.
When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of three years of hunting, three years of honor left incomplete. “Three years have I hunted you across the galaxy. Three years have our unfinished business haunted my dreams and stained my honor with incompletion.”
His four arms move in ritual gestures as he speaks, the formal combat protocols I remember from the Nexus fighting circuits. Each movement is precise, ceremonial, carrying meaning that goes back thousands of years in Exoscarab culture—the dance of challenge, the ritual of honorable combat, the ancient ways that bind warriors to their fate.
“I come to offer terms,” he continues, his voice carrying across space with mechanical precision that somehow manages to convey both respect and implacable determination.
Zola tenses in my arms, and I feel her analyzing the situation with the same precision she uses for safety inspections. Her mind catalogs everything—Thek-Ka’s condition, the military cordon around Kallos Station, our own tactical position, the variables and possibilities spinning through space like a complex equation waiting to be solved.
“Terms?” she asks, though she knows as well as I do what he’s going to offer.
“You will face me in single combat,” Thek-Ka continues, his compound eyes seeming to focus directly on the camera with the intensity of someone who has thought about this moment for three years. “If you defeat me, our honor is satisfied and I will trouble you no more. My clan will record that the Golden Viper proved his superiority in fair combat, and your name will be spoken with respect in our memory halls for generations to come.”
He pauses, his alien features somehow managing to convey solemn respect despite their inhuman structure. “If I defeat you...” His gaze shifts, and I know he’s looking at Zola. “Your mate goes free. My quarrel is with you alone, Golden Viper, not with the innocent you have chosen to protect. She may continue her life without interference from me or mine.”
The formal challenge hangs in space between us like a blade waiting to fall. Zola’s immediate and visceral rejection of the idea is clear via the connection thrumming between us, her fierce determination to stand beside me rather than accept his protection.
“Absolutely not,” she says, turning in my arms to face me directly, her green eyes blazing with fury that echoes through our joining like wildfire. “We’re partners, remember? I don’t need his permission to stay with you, and I sure as hell don’t need his protection.”
