The word ‘family’ punches me in the chest.
Family. The thing I lost nine years ago and haven’t let myself want since. The thing that means staying in one place, building something permanent, risking the kind of grief that nearly destroyed me when Mom and Dad died.
The thing I’ve spent nine years running from because it’s easier to keep moving than to stay and lose everything again.
There’s a pause, then Cetus’s careful response. “If she wishes. Though I should clarify she is not family, small one. She is a client.”
“For now,” Tavia says with confidence that suggests she has plans.
“Captain,” Pickles says softly. “I calculate a high probability the small person is engaging in matchmaking behavior. I find this... endearing. For the record.”
Something flutters in my chest at that ‘for now,’ and I realize with dawning horror this storm might be the least dangerous thing I’m facing.
Behind me, the bay doors seal shut with a final, ominous clang.
I have a feeling those doors won’t be opening again anytime soon.
And neither will my options for escape—from the storm, from this station, or from the terrifying possibility that maybe I’m tired of running.
“Shall I compile a statistical analysis of your romantic prospects with the client?” Pickles asks, tone absolutely deadpan. “I have extensive data on successful OOPS courier relationships with remote station personnel.”
“Pickles, I swear—”
“I neither confirm nor deny the existence of such analysis. However, should you require it, I have prepared a comprehensive presentation. With 612 slides.”
Despite everything—the storm, the debt, the overwhelming situation—I find myself laughing.
“Of course you have.”
“I am nothing if not thorough, Captain.”
2
Earning Her Keep
Cetus
DoveFoxtondoesnotstay in her assigned quarters like a sensible guest.
I discover this approximately forty-seven minutes after showing her to the guest room, when I find her in the main control center studying my atmospheric monitoring displays with the focused intensity of someone who actually understands what they’re reading.
“You have a pressure differential building in sector seven,” she says without looking up. “See this fluctuation pattern? I’ve seen this before on Jepler-442. Usually indicates a coupling failure in the sensor array.”
I move to her side, examining the data. She’s correct. The pattern is subtle—I would have caught it during routine diagnostics, but she identified it within minutes.
“You have atmospheric monitoring experience.”
“I deliver to remote stations. You learn to read weather systems or you die.” She glances at me, and display light catches in her dark eyes. “Also, I’m not great at sitting still when there’s a storm outside trying to kill me. Reviewing station data is soothing.”
“Soothing.”
“Comparatively.” She pulls up another display with the ease of someone familiar with station architecture. “Your infrastructure is impressive for a single-operator facility. Most terraforming stations I’ve seen are held together with optimism and expired hull sealant.”
“I prefer systematic maintenance over optimism.”
“I noticed.” She gestures to the meticulously organized monitoring schedule. “Everything color-coded and cross-referenced. It’s very... you.”
“You’ve known me for six hours.”
