Crash kneels beside me, his large golden form somehow managing to project gentleness. “Jitters. You understand you’re part of this team, yes?”
The blob creature quivers, then produces a questioning chirp that roughly translates to “really?”
“Really,” I say firmly. “You bypassed a military-grade EMP, saved our communication systems, and literally burned parts ofyourself to keep us connected during the most critical moment of combat. You’re not just some blob who came along for the ride. You’re our logistics specialist.”
Jitters turns a brighter shade of pink, but there’s still uncertainty in the way he’s holding his form—like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for us to say “just kidding, you can leave now.”
I pull out my datapad and navigate to the Cross-Maxone Solutions formation documents we’ve been working on. “See this section? ‘Personnel Roster.’ It requires listing all team members essential to operations.”
I type carefully: “Jitters Maxone, Logistics Support Specialist.”
The blob’s color shifts from pink to brilliant gold as he reads the screen. He makes a sound like happy sobbing mixed with the hum of satisfied machinery.
“Maxone?” Crash asks, his voice going rough with emotion.
“You found him when he was terrified and alone on that derelict cargo hauler,” I say quietly, remembering the story he told me. “You gave him a home when no one else would. You’re his family, Crash. He should have your name.” I look at Jitters, who’s now vibrating with overwhelming joy. “Besides, Cross-Maxone Solutions needs a Maxone who can actually make decent coffee. I’m certainly not qualified.”
Jitters launches himself at me in what I’m pretty sure is a hug, wrapping his gelatinous form around my shoulders and turning such a bright gold that he’s practically glowing. Through the contact, I can feel his overwhelming happiness—not through the bond like with Crash, but through simple proximity to his empathic protein structure.
He’s family. Not because he has to be, but because we all chose it.
“Welcome to Cross-Maxone Solutions, Jitters Maxone,” Crash says formally, reaching out to gently pat the blob’s quiveringsurface. “We’re going to need you to filter approximately forty-seven more pots of coffee while we complete these partnership documents.”
Jitters makes a determined chirping sound and immediately flows toward the galley, his gold color shifting to purposeful blue. Within seconds, we hear the familiar sounds of coffee brewing—the one thing he’s absolutely mastered and takes obvious pride in.
Crash and I are left kneeling on the cargo bay floor, surrounded by seventeen different forms that need completion, a week until our first official contract, and a blob creature who just became our first employee.
“We really have no idea what we’re doing,” I say.
“Not even slightly,” Crash agrees.
And somehow, that makes it perfect.
That evening, the adrenaline from the past forty-eight hours finally catches up to me in The Precision’s refresher.
I strip off my flight suit—the one I wore while providing tactical support from the bridge, watching Crash fight for his life through sensor feeds and bond feedback. No tears or bloodstains on mine, just the lingering smell of fear-sweat and the ache in my muscles from sitting rigid with terror for an hour straight.
The claiming marks on my throat pulse as I catch my reflection in the mirror. Permanent golden crescents that mark me as Crash’s mate, visible proof of what happened in the cockpit during our desperate flight through the asteroid field.
I’m alive. We’re alive. Crash survived a zero-gravity duel with a seven-foot Exoscarab warrior and is currently healing in the sleeping quarters instead of floating dead in space.
I still can’t quite believe it.
The shower activates with a thought, water heating to just below scalding. Steam fills the compact space as I step under the spray, letting the heat work at the knots in my shoulders—tension I’ve been carrying since the moment the EMP cut our bond and I couldn’t feel him anymore.
The door hisses open behind me.
“Zola.” Crash’s voice, rough and low.
I don’t turn around, but I smile. “How are the ribs?”
“Dr. Yennix’s regenerative bandaging is working.” There’s a pause. “Mostly.”
“Mostly isn’t cleared for strenuous activity,” I point out, though my pulse is already quickening at his proximity.
“I have time left in my rest period,” he replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I think I can manage some moderately strenuous activity without medical complications.”
There’s a pause, then the rustle of fabric hitting the floor. The shower stall is designed for one person, but when Crash steps in behind me, his body blocks out the world. Heat radiates off his golden skin—hotter than the water, hotter than should be physically possible. The regenerative bandaging on his shoulder glints wetly in the steam, but the stress patterns in his scales have already started to fade.
