“That is exactly what I’m telling you.”
She taps something on her data pad. Something official and important.
“Omarion, flag this for our report.” She looks at Papa. “Specialist Storm, deny docking permission. If they insist, they’ll be interfering with an active PDC inspection. That carries significant penalties.”
Dove’s hand finds Papa’s. A squeeze, quick and fierce, before she lets go and picks up her clipboard.
Papa burns steady-gold. Certain. Protective.
I sit very still in my chair, watching all of it—the inspectors mobilizing, Dove organizing documentation, Papa standing like a wall between our family and whatever’s coming.
“Pickles?” I whisper.
“Yes, small person?”
“Are they going to fight? The collectors?”
Pause. When Pickles answers, his voice is different. Softer. The way he sounds when he’s not being sarcastic or educational but just... honest.
“I calculate a low probability of physical confrontation given the PDC presence. However, verbal conflict is likely. Your Papa and the Captain are well-prepared. And I am monitoring all channels for any escalation.”
“But what if—”
“Small person. Tavia.” He almost never uses my real name. “I have been operational for eight hundred fifty-three days. In that time, your Captain has survived seventeen dangerous situations. Your Papa has maintained this station through nine Category Five storms. Together, they are—”
He stops. The little pause that means something real.
“Together, they are formidable. And they have me. And they have you. The family unit is functioning at optimal capacity.”
My markings glow warm. Steady. The settling pattern, like Papa’s.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. What do I do?”
“You do what you have done all day, small person. You be brave. You be brilliant. You be exactly yourself.”
I straighten in my chair. Hands folded. Best behavior.
Through the viewport, a dark ship grows against the stars. Its hull gleams predatory-black.
12
Territorial Defense
Cetus
TheBlackstarvesselrequestsdocking clearance for the third time.
I deny it for the third time.
“Terraforming Station KS-7B, this is recovery vessel Debt Collector Nine. We have lawful business with one of your current occupants. Docking clearance is mandated under Frontier Commerce Statute 7-19 subsection—”
“Denied.” I cut the transmission. Turn to Patel. “Inspector, for your records: this station’s docking authority rests solely with the registered operator during an active PDC compliance review. Statute 7-19 contains no override provision for debt recovery operations.”
Patel’s stylus taps her data pad. “Noted. I’m flagging this interaction for our report.”
Beside me, Dove stands rigid. The clipboard she wielded all morning like a weapon hangs at her side. Her knuckles are white around its edge, and the courier mask—the blank, calculating expression she wore when she first landed on my station—has dropped over her features like blast shielding.
I know that face. I despise that face. It means some part of her is still calculating how fast she can reach the Rolling Pin.
