“But you’ve been gone forever!” She’s maybe eight, with his bright yellow eyes and delicate markings tracing her temples and hands. “Did the courier arrive? Did they bring my modules?”
“Affirmative.” He sets her down carefully, then gestures to me. “This is Courier Foxton. She requires temporary accommodation due to atmospheric conditions.”
Tavia’s eyes go wide. She bounces forward with fearless enthusiasm. “You’re staying? For how long?”
“A week,” Cetus says. “Possibly longer, depending on storm duration.”
“A week!” Her markings pulse with delight. “Papa, that’s wonderful! We’ve only had two other visitors since we’ve been here—the one with the furry tail and whiskers who made me laugh, and Noomi, she was so nice! But they both left so fast.”
OOPS couriers. The Felixian former pirate who works the Outer Rim routes with Noomi, who’s practically a legend at Junction One. Both reformed pirates who found something worth staying for. The fact that they left quickly from here doesn’t surprise me—remote stations make people uncomfortable when you’re used to running from attachments.
Which makes me exactly like them.
“However, Courier Foxton’s stay is temporary and work-related,” Cetus says gently. “She is not a visitor in the social context.”
But Tavia is already circling me with scientific interest. “You’re so small! And soft-looking. Do all humans feel that soft? Your hair is so straight—mine never stays where I put it. Are you really going to stay here? In our pod? That’s so exciting!”
“Tavia.” Cetus’s voice is gentle but firm. “Courier Foxton requires accommodation. Your interrogation can be postponed.”
“It’s fine,” I hear myself say, because there’s something charming about this kid’s unfiltered enthusiasm even as it makes me want to bolt. “I don’t mind questions.”
Tavia beams. “Do you like educational games? Papa says I should limit recreational screen time, but educational content doesn’t count because it’s enriching, and technically entertainment can be educational if you approach it with the right analytical framework—”
“Which means you should show Courier Foxton to the guest quarters,” Cetus interrupts, warmth in his voice. “And perhaps allow her to respond to your observations.”
“Right! Follow me!” She grabs my hand—small fingers warm and careful, those barely-there claw tips pressed consciously against her palm—and starts dragging me toward a doorway. “We’ve never had anyone use the guest room before. Papa makes sure it stays clean because he says preparedness is essential for optimal facility management. I think he likes having everything organized.”
I glance back at Cetus, who’s watching his daughter with exasperation and helpless affection. His markings have settled into a steady, warm glow, and when his eyes meet mine, there’s something apologetic in them.
And something else that sends electricity down my spine.
“Captain,” Pickles murmurs in my ear. “I am observing highly favorable family dynamics. The small person demonstrates exceptional emotional intelligence for her developmental stage. This is a well-adjusted domestic environment.”
The guest room is small but well-maintained. Clean bed, storage compartments, viewport showing the gathering storm. Lightning flickers in the distance—great arcing bolts that make the hair on my arms stand up even through the station’s shielding.
“It’s perfect,” I tell Tavia honestly. “Thank you.”
She lights up, markings pulsing with pleasure. “I’m going to help Papa make dinner now. He’s really good at cooking—everything precise and measured. Do you like spicy food? Because Lividian cuisine tends toward thermal intensity, but Papa can adjust the heat levels for human taste receptors.”
“I’ll eat anything.”
“Excellent!” She pauses at the doorway, suddenly serious. “I’m really glad the storm trapped you here. I mean, not glad you’re trapped—that’s probably inconvenient. But glad you’re here. Papa works too much, and I think he gets lonely even though he won’t say so. Maybe having another person around will be good for him. For both of us. Even if it’s for a week.”
Then she’s gone, leaving me with the uncomfortable realization that this kid has immediately clocked her father’s loneliness and is probably about to spend the next week matchmaking.
Famous last words, Dove.
I set my scanner down, and it’s still displaying that anomalous energy signature. The tracking beacon I’m almost certain the Blackstar Collective planted. They’re watching, waiting, making sure I complete the route before payment clears.
“Captain, if I may,” Pickles says quietly. “I have been monitoring your biometric data for the past 847 days. I have never recorded this particular combination of elevated heart rate, decreased cortisol, and increased oxytocin production. Statistical analysis suggests you are experiencing... comfort. This is unusual for you.”
“Pickles—”
“I neither confirm nor deny this observation pleases me. I am merely noting the data for my records.”
Through the viewport, I watch the storm rolling closer. One week. Seven days trapped on a remote station with a devastatingly attractive alien scientist who moves like a predatorand talks like a technical manual, and his adorable daughter who’s already plotting behind those bright yellow eyes. Plus my sarcastic AI companion who’s apparently decided to start cataloging my emotional responses.
Tavia’s voice echoes from the corridor. “Papa, can Courier Foxton sit with us for dinner? Please? We never have anyone to eat with, and it would be so nice to have family mealtime with more than two people!”
