Then she’d started in on the newest additions to the OOPS courier handbook—apparently there’s been an “epidemic” of couriers “fraternizing” with clients. Which has led to a whole new section on “Inappropriate Bond Formation with Delivery Recipients” and “Maintaining Professional Distance in Isolated Scenarios.”
Like I’d ever be stupid enough to fall for a client.
I deliver packages, collect payment, and get the hell out. That’s the job. That’s always been the job. Romance requires staying in one place long enough to build something, and I haven’t stayed anywhere longer than a week since I was seventeen. Since the accident that killed my parents and taught me the most important lesson of my life: nothing permanent lasts, and attachments are future grief waiting to happen.
“Look, I’ve got your seeds, soil supplements, and something called bio-reactive growth medium,” I tell Grumpy Space Voice. “I need to drop everything off and I’ll be out of your atmosphere in twenty minutes, tops.”
“Captain, I must note your estimated departure time is statistically improbable given standard unloading procedures and the current rate of atmospheric deterioration,” Pickles interjects.
“Not. Helping.”
“I neither confirm nor deny the helpfulness of accurate temporal projections.”
“Dock at Bay Three. Execute landing protocols with extreme caution.”
The connection cuts. Fantastic first impression, Dove. Really nailed the whole ‘competent courier’ vibe there.
“If I may observe,” Pickles says, “your interpersonal communication during that exchange demonstrated suboptimal professional presentation. However, I calculate the client’s formal communication style suggests he may not have noticed.”
“You know what? Sometimes your honesty is really—”
“Appreciated and valuable? I am aware.”
My landing is about as graceful as expected—the Rolling Pin bounces twice and settles with a groaning sound I really should have fixed three systems ago. The bay doors are already cycling shut against the wind, massive panels sliding together with the kind of finality that makes my stomach clench.
“Structural integrity maintained,” Pickles reports. “Though I note this is the fourteenth landing in the past month that exceeded recommended tolerance levels for our hull plating. I am compiling a comprehensive maintenance report.”
“Of course you are.”
“It is my function to monitor ship systems. If you find this objectionable, perhaps you should consider regular maintenance schedules.”
Fifty-three minutes until the storm hits full force.
I grab my portable scanner and start hauling cargo containers toward the dock. The enhanced gravity makes every step feel like wearing magnetic boots, and by the third container I’m sweating and regretting every life choice that led me here. Should have been a library clerk. Libraries don’t have weather that wants to murder you, and the creditors are probably friendlier.
My scanner beeps. Standard agricultural supplies for the first three containers, but the fourth one—the bio-reactive growth medium—shows something off. Correct weight and dimensions, but there’s a secondary energy signature underneath. Faint. Almost like a tracking beacon.
Which would mean the Blackstar Collective is watching this shipment. Making sure I don’t skip out before payment clears.
Perfect.
“Pickles, you seeing this energy signature?”
“Affirmative. I detect a Class-3 tracking device embedded in container four. I have been monitoring it since we departed Veridian Station.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this?”
“You did not inquire. Additionally, I calculated a ninety-three percent probability you were already aware, given your customary paranoia regarding creditor surveillance.”
“It’s not paranoia if they’re actually tracking you.”
“An excellent point, Captain. I shall update my behavioral assessment algorithms accordingly.”
“Courier.”
I spin around.
The alien standing in the bay entrance is built like he could bench press my ship. He has to be at least six-eight, with broad shoulders that strain against dark work coveralls and the kind of presence that shrinks the available space. His skin is deep teal, shifting to darker blue-green along his shoulders and forearms in patterns like living circuitry traced in bioluminescent ink. The markings pulse with subtle inner light, shifting with his breath. When he shifts his weight, retractable claws gleam at his fingertips.
