The way he says it—so matter-of-fact—makes it worse. Not ‘you might die’ but ‘you will definitely die, and here’s exactly how.’
“Look, Mr...?”
“Cetus Storm.”
Of course his last name is Storm. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.
“Mr. Storm, I appreciate the concern, but I’ve flown through atmospheric disturbances before—”
He stops so suddenly I almost walk into his back. When he turns, his expression is flat serious. “I have maintained atmospheric monitoring protocols on this planetary system for three years, two months, and sixteen days. Electromagnetic discharge during Class Five storm events generates sufficientenergy to liquify organic neural pathways. Your vessel’s protective systems are insufficient.”
The lights flicker again. Metal groans somewhere in the distance.
“How long has it been since you’ve had another person on this station?”
His markings dim. “One hundred and forty-seven days.”
Five months. Five months alone with his daughter for company. No wonder he sounds like he’s reading from a technical manual—he’s probably forgotten how to have actual conversations.
“I understand you’re trying to keep me safe,” I try, softer. “But I have real consequences if I don’t make my next delivery. Life-ruining, possibly limb-losing consequences.”
“I will compensate you for the delay.” He’s already walking, containers balanced with impossible ease. “OOPS courier services typically invoice at standard daily rates for weather-related delays. I will process payment authorization immediately upon communication systems restoration.”
I blink. “You’ll pay me to stay here?”
“Affirmative. Additionally, the residential pod maintains adequate provisions for extended occupancy. You will be provided quarters, sustenance, and access to station facilities.”
It’s the most practical proposal I’ve ever received. Also the only one, but who’s counting?
“Captain,” Pickles says in my ear. “The client’s proposal is financially advantageous and significantly safer than any alternative course of action. I recommend acceptance.”
“The residential pod maintains independent life support and reinforced environmental barriers.” Cetus gestures toward a corridor. “You will be adequately protected there.”
The way he says ‘adequately protected’ makes me think he’s not talking about the weather.
We pass through security checkpoints deeper into the station, and I notice the personal touches that transform industrial space into home. A child’s drawing of Cetus in crayon, all teal and yellow with carefully rendered claws. Height measurements marked with dates and Tavia’s name.
“You’ve been here three years?” I ask.
“Three years, two months, sixteen days. Tavia was five rotations when we arrived.”
“That’s young to be on such a remote station.”
His markings pulse with discomfort. “Circumstances necessitated relocation. Terraforming positions on isolated facilities are more... accommodating to single-parent family structures.”
There’s grief in that careful neutrality. I recognize it because I use the same tone when talking about my parents—professionalism as armor against the ache.
“Captain, I am detecting elevated emotional resonance in both your and the client’s biosignatures,” Pickles observes quietly. “I calculate you are experiencing what humans refer to as ‘mutual understanding.’ This is... pleasant to observe.”
Sometimes Pickles’s blunt honesty hits exactly right.
The residential pod is nothing like I expected. Instead of sterile industrial design, it’s warm. Actually warm, adjusted for Lividian comfort. Soft lighting mimics natural daylight. Real plants grow near windows. A food prep area faces comfortable seating, and educational materials scatter across a low table in organized chaos.
“Papa!”
A small teal blur launches from a doorway, and I watch Cetus transform. His markings brighten to painful intensity, his formal posture softens, and when he catches his daughter, he’s gentle in a way that wraps around my chest and squeezes.
“Tavia. Appropriate greeting protocol involves walking, not launching.”
