“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” His fingers tighten around hers. “And I intend to keep this one. Thoroughly.”
His markings settle into the deep, steady pattern. The one Pickles called “home.” The one that means forever.
I look at my data pad. My own markings glow warm and bright and hopeful, and I need to not cry right now because inspectors are present and I am on Best Behavior Protocol.
“Small person,” Pickles says quietly. “I should not have transmitted that exchange.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because you deserve to know your family unit is progressing toward permanence. I calculated the reassurance would be beneficial.”
“You’re such a softie, Pickles.”
“I am a military-grade AI core. This conversation is over.”
But he doesn’t turn off the audio feed.
Why do grown-ups make everything so complicated? If you like someone, just tell them and hold their hand and stay forever.
Except—looking at them now, at the way Dove touches her throat where I noticed a mark this morning, at the way Papa angles his body between her and the doorway like he can shield her from everything coming—maybe it is that hard. Maybe wanting something this much is scary when you’ve lost things before.
I get that. I lost Mama. And wanting Dove to stay hurts almost as much as wanting Mama back.
No. Not today. Best behavior. Save-the-familybehavior.
They’re doing the eye thing again. The one where they look at each other too long and the whole room gets warmer andPapa’s markings start their slow, deep pulse and Dove’s lips part slightly and—
“Inspector team,” Pickles announces over the main speakers, interrupting with spectacularly terrible timing that I suspect is actually spectacularly perfect timing, “I am detecting an incoming vessel on long-range sensors. Configuration suggests a civilian transport. Transponder identification in progress.”
Everyone snaps to attention.
Papa straightens. The warm patterns cut off—replaced by something sharper. Alert.
“Classification?” he asks.
“Transponder identifies as registered to the Blackstar Collective. Commercial recovery vessel.”
The room goes cold. Not temperature-cold. Scary-cold.
Dove’s face goes blank. The courier mask. I hate that face. It means she’s thinking about running.
Papa moves one step closer to her. One step. But his markings blaze bright enough to throw shadows—danger-bright, the pattern his biology uses when something threatens his family.
His family.Dove and me.
Patel looks up from her data pad. “Blackstar Collective? The debt recovery operation?”
“They’ve been harassing our OOPS courier,” Papa says, voice flat. Controlled. Furious underneath. “Captain Foxton is the subject of fraudulent debt claims currently under Commerce Authority investigation. We have six hundred twelve evidence items compiled and flagged for review. The raid is scheduled within forty-eight hours.”
Patel and Omarion exchange a look.
“They’re requesting docking permission,” Pickles says. “Shall I respond?”
“Not yet,” Papa says. “Inspector Patel, I believe this is relevant to your assessment of station security protocols.”
Papa is brilliant. Collectors arriving mid-government-inspection, with two PDC representatives as witnesses. They can’t touch us.
Patel’s expression shifts from skepticism to something harder. More focused. “Specialist Storm, are you telling me that a known predatory debt operation is attempting to access a PDC-registered terraforming facility during an active compliance review?”
