Not today. Not ever again.
“They’re requesting external platform access,” Pickles says. “Apparently they intend to disembark regardless of docking authorization.”
“On what grounds?”
“They cite personal property recovery provisions. I calculate the legal validity of this claim at approximately four percent. However, they appear unconcerned with legal validity.”
Through the main viewport, the Blackstar vessel swings toward our external platform—the exposed staging area where cargo gets offloaded during calm weather. Not technically a docking berth. A loophole.
Omarion leans toward Patel. “That’s a gray area in the regs.”
“I’m aware,” Patel says. Her expression has shifted from inspector to something closer to witness. She doesn’t tell me to let them land. She doesn’t tell me to stop them.
She watches.
“Pickles,” I say quietly. “Tavia’s location.”
“The small person is in the hydroponics bay with her data pad. I have engaged the internal security locks on that section. She cannot exit, and no one without my authorization can enter.”
“Good.”
“I have also taken the liberty of activating the station’s external recording systems. All interactions on the platform will be documented in full audio-visual detail. For posterity. And evidence.”
The vessel touches down with a whine of repulsors. Three figures emerge before the engines fully cycle.
Lead Agent Niz’kor is Brevari—tall, lean, with skin the mottled grey-black of volcanic glass and a jaw that hinges wider than any humanoid species should allow. When he speaks, the mandible plates flex to reveal a secondary row of teeth behind the first. His eyes sit deep in reinforced orbital ridges, flat and reflective as polished obsidian. A predator’s eyes. The kind that tracked heat signatures across lightless cave systems long before his species learned to speak.
His enforcers are worse.
The first—Keth’vora, according to the credentials Pickles is already scrolling across my data pad—is Vaxillan. Eight feet of armored chitin plating, shoulders broad enough to fill the airlock corridor, with four upper limbs that fold against his torso like a mantis at rest. His face is a smooth, featureless plate of bone-white exoskeleton, broken only by a horizontal slit that serves as both mouth and primary sensory organ. No eyes that I can identify. Vaxillans navigate by echolocation andelectromagnetic field detection. He knows where every living body on this station stands without needing to look.
The second—Dreth’maal, also Brevari, but larger than Niz’kor and clearly hired for mass rather than management. A ridge of calcified bone crests from his skull down the back of his neck—natural armor, evolved to deflect killing blows from above. Both Brevari carry sidearms on their hips, legal under frontier commerce provisions for licensed recovery agents. Visible on purpose. Part of the theater.
Three professionals who do this often. Who enjoy it.
Behind me, Dove’s breathing changes. Faster. Shallow. Her hand twitches toward her comm—instinct, reaching for the ship that could carry her away from all of this.
I’m already moving.
“Cetus—” she starts.
“Stay behind me.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“Behind me. Please.”
The harmonics stop her. My vocal registers have dropped into frequencies that humans process as warning even when they don’t understand why—the ones I use for storm alerts and perimeter breaches, not conversations.
I reach the airlock junction before the collectors. The inner door cycles open.
Niz’kor enters first. His mandible plates flex as he takes in the corridor—cataloging exits, assessing threats, noting the two PDC officials standing twelve meters back with data pads raised. A flicker of recalculation crosses those flat, dark eyes. He wasn’t expecting an audience.
“Specialist Storm.” He knows my name. Of course he does. “We’re here on lawful recovery business. No need for this to be unpleasant.”
“Then state your business and leave.”
His mandibles click—the Brevari equivalent of professional amusement. “Ms. Foxton. We’re here regarding account 7743-K. Outstanding balance of seventy-three thousand credits, now past final notice. We hold a seizure authorization covering the debt, the registered vessel, and—” he pauses, letting the weight land— “a personnel detention clause.”
