I sense Crash’s concern matching my own. We’ve seen this before—couriers taking dangerous jobs because they need the credits, ignoring the warning signs because the pay is too good to pass up.
“Just...” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Be careful, okay? If that window closes while you’re on the surface, you could be stranded for a week or more. Make sure you have emergency supplies. And the commander running that station—Cetus Levo—he’s supposed to be extremely particular about safety protocols.”
“Particular,” Dove echoes, her grin turning slightly wicked. “Is that code for ‘insufferable’?”
“It’s code for ‘take him seriously,’” I reply. “Storm seasons on Kepler Station are no joke.”
“Got it. Serious storms, particular commander, don’t get stranded.” She hefts her cargo again. “Thanks for the warning, Cross. See you when I get back!”
She disappears into the crowd, and I can’t shake the feeling that we just watched someone walk into a situation that’s going to change her life.
“She’s going to get stranded,” Crash observes.
“Completely stranded,” I agree.
“With a territorial terraforming commander.”
“Who has a daughter, according to the station files.”
Through our bond, I feel his amusement. “Should we warn her about the bonding risks?”
“She wouldn’t believe us,” I reply, watching Dove’s figure disappear around a corner. “Besides, some things you just have to discover for yourself.”
“Like accidentally bonding with your safety inspector during a firefight?”
“Exactly like that.”
We continue toward Mother Morrison’s office, and I send a silent wish into the universe that Dove Foxton has better luck with her “simple agricultural run” than we did with our “routine safety inspection.”
Somehow, I doubt it.
Mother Morrison’s office looks exactly the same as it did a year ago—organized chaos held together by sheer force of will and approximately forty-seven different monitoring screens. The woman herself sits behind her desk like a commander reviewing troops, and her expression when we enter is the perfect blend of exasperation and fondness that we’ve come to recognize as approval.
“Well,” she says, gesturing to the chairs across from her. “Sit. Let’s get this over with.”
We sit. Jitters flows up onto the desk, turning a professional blue that means he’s ready for official business. Over the past year, he’s become our unofficial mascot—and Mother’s surprisingly effective assistant when we’re docked at Junction One. Right now he’s wearing his communications headset with obvious pride.
Mother pulls up a holographic display, and I see our faces alongside metrics, charts, and what appears to be a truly staggering amount of documentation.
“Cross-Maxone Solutions,” she begins, her tone carrying the weight of formal review. “Annual Performance Assessment, YearOne of Operations.” She taps the screen. “Let’s start with the numbers.”
“Delivery Success Rate: Ninety-nine point seven percent.” Her eyebrow rises. “Which would be impressive if not for the fact that the point-three percent represents two separate incidents where cargo was lost due to—” she squints at the screen, “—’romantically motivated navigational decisions.’”
Crash and I exchange glances. “In our defense,” I say carefully, “one of those was when Crash flew through a debris field to get us to an anniversary dinner reservation on time.”
“And the other was when you diverted mid-route to retrieve Crash’s ceremonial armor from a black market dealer,” Mother continues dryly. “Which, according to the report, involved a high-speed chase through three sectors.”
“The armor was important,” Crash says with dignity.
“Clearly.” She swipes to the next screen. “Cargo Bay Damage Incidents: Forty-seven.”
I wince. “That seems... high.”
“Itishigh, Cross. The previous record was twelve, held by Gorax, who transported volatile chemicals for fifteen years.” Mother’s lips twitch. “Your incidents include: unauthorized plant cultivation resulting in botanical overgrowth, industrial solvent spills—multiple, I see—holographic projection system failures, and my personal favorite, ‘environmental controls modified for romantic purposes causing temporary atmospheric instability.’”
“That was today,” I admit.
“Iknowit was today. Your ship is currently venting smoke that smells like burnt sugar and screaming ferns.” She leans back in her chair. “Do you know what I had to tell Station Control when they asked about the unusual emissions?”
