“That we’re... enthusiastic?” Crash offers.
“I told them Cross-Maxone Solutions was conducting ‘routine maintenance,’” Mother says. “Which technically isn’t a lie, since apparently maintaining your relationship requires regularly destroying cargo bays.”
I feel Crash fighting laughter along our bond. I maintain a professional expression through sheer willpower.
“Safety Violations,” Mother continues, clearly enjoying herself now. “Too numerous to list comprehensively, but highlights include: operating vessel while biochemically compromised, unauthorized weapons modifications, exceeding recommended thrust parameters during atmospheric flight, and—this one’s my favorite—’utilizing shipboard AI for relationship advice in violation of equipment usage protocols.’”
“KiKi volunteered,” I protest.
“KiKi is a navigation and communication system, not a couples therapist,” Mother replies. “Though I understand she’s been running a betting pool on when you two would finally sign the partnership papers. She netted quite a profit.”
“Shewhat?”
“Moving on.” Mother swipes again. “Mission Completion Time: Consistently below projected timelines, which would be commendable except your methods involve regular violations of speed limits, safety margins, and in one memorable case, local gravitation laws.”
“That was technically Crash’s piloting—”
“With you in the co-pilot seat calculating impossible trajectories,” Mother interrupts. “You’re equally responsible for the chaos, Cross. Don’t try to pin it all on your mate.”
She taps another screen. “Client Satisfaction Rating: Ninety-eight percent. The remaining two percent are deceased due to unrelated causes, so technically a perfect score.”
“See?” Crash says. “Perfect.”
“Except for the fifteen formal complaints filed by competing courier services claiming you’re ‘making them look bad,’” Mother adds. “And the six commendations from sector authorities for ‘extraordinary service under impossible circumstances,’ and the three marriage proposals from clients who were apparently very impressed by your dedication.”
I blink. “Marriage proposals?”
Crash growls. Actuallygrowls.
“Declined on your behalf,” Mother says. “You’re welcome.” She closes the holographic display and regards us both with an expression I can’t quite read. “Here’s what I’m seeing, people. Cross-Maxone Solutions is, objectively speaking, a bureaucratic nightmare. You generate more paperwork than any three standard couriers combined. You violate protocols with alarming regularity. You’ve turned your ship into what the safety inspectors describe as ‘a relationship laboratory with thrusters.’”
She pauses, letting that sink in.
“However,” she continues, and I feel hope kindle in my chest, “you’re also the most disgustingly competent operation I’ve seen in thirty years of dispatching. You complete jobs that other couriers won’t touch. You’ve never lost a client to injury or dissatisfaction. You operate as a seamless unit that somehow makes the impossible look routine.”
Mother leans forward, her expression softening into something that might be pride. “You’ve also created something only my best couriers achieve in this line of work—a genuine partnership built on mutual respect, complementary skills, and the kind of trust that turns impossible odds into successful missions.”
Crash’s overwhelming emotion mirroring my own along the thread connecting us.
“So here’s my assessment,” Mother says, pulling up a final document. “Cross-Maxone Solutions: Approved for continuedoperations. Hazard rating upgraded to reflect your specialty in high-risk deliveries. Pay grade increased accordingly.” She slides a datapad across the desk. “And you’re both hereby offered priority selection for the most dangerous, complicated, absolutely-guaranteed-to-be-a-disaster runs in the OOPS network.”
I stare at the contract. “You’re... promoting us?”
“I’m acknowledging reality,” Mother replies. “You’re going to cause chaos regardless of what I assign you. Might as well point you at the jobs where chaos is an asset rather than a liability.”
Crash picks up the datapad, scanning the terms. Through our bond, I feel his satisfaction—this is exactly what we wanted. The jobs that challenge us. The runs that require both of us working together. The kind of work that makes us grateful to have each other at the end of the day.
“One more thing,” Mother adds. “Jitters Maxone.” She nods at the blob on her desk, who immediately turns an anxious yellow. “I’m formally recognizing him as an official OOPS contractor under your business license. Communications Specialist classification, with full benefits and hazard pay.”
Jitters goes from anxious yellow to brilliant gold in an instant, vibrating with joy so intense he nearly falls off the desk. I catch him reflexively, and he wraps himself around my arm in what I’ve learned to interpret as a hug.
“He’s earned it,” Mother says, her tone gentling. “Best communications relay I’ve had in a decade, and he’s saved your hides more times than I can count.” She meets my eyes. “Take care of him. All of you take care of each other.”
“We will,” Crash says, reaching over to gently pat Jitters’ surface. “We’re family.”
“Good.” Mother stands, signaling the end of the formal review. “Now get that disaster of a ship cleaned up before Station Control files a formal complaint. And for the love of all that’sholy, stop having sex in cargo bays. That’s what your quarters are for.”
“But the cargo bay has better—” I start, then catch her expression. “Right. Quarters. Got it.”
