“Thirty-six hours,” I confirm. “Until PDC arrives. Until collectors arrive. Until we find out if this insane plan works.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we improvise.” I manage something close to a smile. “I’m good at improvising.”
“That’s not reassuring—”
“Captain,” Pickles interrupts gently. “The small person is requesting your presence. Something about teaching her Earth card games to pass the time until ‘the bad people arrive and Papa has to be all protective and scary.’”
Despite everything, Dove laughs. It sounds slightly hysterical.
“I should—” She gestures toward the residential pod.
“Yes. Go. Distract her. Keep her calm.” I catch her hand as she turns. “Dove?”
“Yeah?”
“After this is over. After we survive. We’re finishing this conversation.”
Her smile is shaky but real. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
She squeezes my hand once, then disappears down the corridor.
I stand alone in the communications bay, staring at the countdown Pickles has helpfully displayed across the main screen:
INSPECTION TEAM ARRIVAL: 36:14:23
COLLECTOR VESSEL ARRIVAL: 36:19:16
Five minutes. We’ll have approximately five minutes between the PDC team landing and the collectors arriving.
“Those are statistically unfortunate arrival intervals,” Pickles observes.
“Yes.”
“The margin for error is negligible.”
“I’m aware.”
“However, I calculate that your protective instincts combined with the Captain’s technical competence and my tactical brilliance create a sixty-seven percent probability of successful threat mitigation.”
“Only sixty-seven percent?”
“I’m being optimistic. The realistic calculation is closer to forty-three percent.”
I close my eyes. “Thank you for that reassurance.”
“You are welcome. Shall I continue monitoring both vessels’ approach vectors?”
“Yes. Alert me to any deviations immediately.”
“Acknowledged. And Specialist Storm?”
“Yes, Pickles?”
“For what it’s worth—I approve of your decision to fight for the Captain rather than accepting her martyrdom impulse. It demonstrates genuine attachment rather than transient attraction.”
