“Captain, his cardiovascular rhythm increased by thirty-two percent,” Pickles announces helpfully. “This is statistically significant. Fascinating.”
“PICKLES.”
“I am merely documenting observable phenomena. The small person is also observing with great interest. She appears pleased.”
I glance at Tavia, who’s trying and failing to suppress a massive grin.
“Your solution is brilliant,” Cetus says, and the way he says brilliant sounds like he’s tasting the word. Testing it. Finding it insufficient. “Unorthodox, technically questionable, and absolutely brilliant.”
“So we’re doing it?”
“We’re doing it.” He’s already pulling up access codes. “But we’ll need to work quickly. The secondary array is showing stress markers—we have perhaps forty minutes before it fails.”
“Then let’s move.”
Working with Cetus is like dancing with a partner who anticipates your every step.
I call out the communication array I need accessed, and his hands are already pulling up the protocols. He identifies a potential signal conflict, and I’m already routing around it before he finishes the sentence. The workspace is small enough that we keep brushing against each other—his arm against mine, his heat seeping through our clothes, the careful way he moves to avoid his claws touching me accidentally.
“Reroute the gamma frequency through the tertiary buffer,” I say, focused on the signal patterns.
“Done. Signal clarity improving to seventy-three percent.”
“Not good enough. We need at least eighty-five for reliable readings.” I lean closer to his display, pressed against his side now. He smells like something clean and metallic and warm, and it’s extremely distracting. “What if we—”
My comm unit crackles with an incoming transmission.
Not station communications. My personal frequency.
Ice floods my veins.
“Dove Foxton.” The voice is smooth, professional, absolutely terrifying. “Collection Agent Niz’kor, Blackstar Collective Asset Recovery Division. We note your delivery schedule has been… disrupted.”
The pause before disrupted carries threat.
I step away from Cetus. Nearly trip. My hands reach for the comm.
“This is a recorded message,” the voice continues. “Please be aware that your current location has been flagged for tracking purposes. We expect contact within the next seventy-two hoursto discuss your account status. Failure to comply will result in asset seizure protocols.”
The connection cuts.
Silence.
“Captain, incoming transmission has terminated,” Pickles says quietly. “However, I have detected embedded location tracking protocols in the signal. They now have precise coordinates for this station.”
The monitoring station feels too small. Need to move, need to think, need to—
“Dove.” Cetus’s voice is careful, controlled. “Who was that?”
“Nobody. Delivery company check-in.” The lie tastes bitter. “I should go check on my ship. Make sure the storm hasn’t damaged anything.”
“The storm is intensifying. Exposure to exterior docking areas would be extremely dangerous.”
“I’m a courier. Danger is part of the job description.”
“Dove—”
“I’m fine!” Too sharp. I hear it the moment the words leave my mouth.
