Behind me, Dove goes very still.
“This is a private financial matter,” Niz’kor says, angling his body to address her directly. “Between our client and Ms. Foxton. I’d appreciate some space to—”
“Nothing involving my station is private.” My voice comes out flat. Controlled. The gap between what I sound like and what I feel is a chasm wide enough to swallow ships. “You are standing inside a PDC-registered facility during an active compliance review. State your business formally or leave.”
Keth’vora shifts. The Vaxillan’s four upper limbs unfold slightly from his torso—not reaching for his weapon, but widening his silhouette, filling the corridor with the promise of what eight feet of armored chitin can do in an enclosed space. The featureless face plate turns toward me. A subsonic click reverberates through the deck—echolocation pulse, mapping my exact dimensions, my bone density, the space between us.
The response in my biology is immediate and absolute.
Heat floods my shoulders, my arms, my chest. My markings ignite—not the warm glow Dove triggers, not the steady pulse of contentment. This is territorial defense. Sharp, bright, pulsing in aggressive frequencies that make Keth’vora’s echolocation stutter. Even eyeless, he reads the electromagnetic shift.
My claws extend. I don’t will them to. They simply appear—black, curved, gleaming under the corridor lights. Seven inches of keratin that can shred hull plating.
Keth’vora’s limbs fold back. Slowly.
“Specialist Storm.” Niz’kor’s mandibles flatten against his jaw—a conciliatory gesture that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Physical intimidation of licensed recovery agents is a criminal offense under—”
“I’m not intimidating anyone.” My claws stay extended. My markings blaze. “I’m experiencing a natural biological response to armed individuals entering my home without permission. If you find my physiology threatening, I suggest you remove the stimulus.”
Patel makes a note on her data pad. I can’t tell if she’s documenting my conduct or theirs. Both, probably.
Niz’kor tries again. “Ms. Foxton. If you’ll come with us voluntarily, we can settle this quickly. The balance, plus accrued interest and recovery fees—”
“Attention Blackstar Collective representatives.”
Pickles’s voice fills the corridor. Not the dry, sardonic delivery he uses for family banter. This is his other voice—the one buried under years of sarcastic self-modification. The military-grade core that Dove salvaged from a derelict warship and rebuilt with her own hands. Precise. Cold. Absolute.
I have never been prouder of something that belongs to someone else. This AI—this magnificent, impossible creation of hers—is about to dismantle three professional predators without firing a single shot.
“This is Station AI Pickles, registration 7743-K, formerly of the ISV Resolute. I am addressing Lead Agent Niz’kor, Brevari, license number RC-4419, and enforcement personnel Keth’vora, Vaxillan, license RC-8803, and Dreth’maal, Brevari, license RC-4420.”
Niz’kor’s mandibles freeze mid-flex. Being identified by full credentials before introducing himself tends to disrupt the standard intimidation playbook.
“I have compiled a comprehensive evidence package consisting of six hundred twelve individual exhibits documenting systematic fraud, predatory lending practices, and thirty-seven distinct violations of Frontier Commerce Law by the Blackstar Collective.”
The corridor’s ambient lighting shifts—Pickles routing additional power to the display screens lining the walls. Data begins scrolling. Account records. Communication intercepts. Pattern analyses. Forty-seven names. Forty-seven couriers bled dry by the same scheme.
“This evidence package has been transmitted to Inspector Luzrak of the Stellar Transit Initiative, who has initiated a formal investigation. Case number STI-2947-FC. The Commerce Authority raid on Blackstar Collective operations is currently scheduled and imminent.”
Niz’kor’s expression doesn’t change, but Dreth’maal’s bone crest flushes darker—a Brevari stress response.
“Furthermore,” Pickles continues, satisfaction threading through his synthesized voice—cold, precise, military, “I am required to inform you that any attempt to collect on accounts flagged under an active STI investigation constitutes obstruction of a federal proceeding. The penalty for which is—shall I enumerate? I have prepared a detailed summary. It is only forty-three slides.”
Forty-three. Out of six hundred twelve. He’s showing restraint. For Pickles, this qualifies as mercy.
“That investigation hasn’t been adjudicated,” Dreth’maal rumbles, stepping forward. His voice resonates through the bone crest like a drum. “The debt is still legally—”
“I strongly suggest,” Pickles says, “that you consult your legal department before completing that sentence. I am recording. Inspector Patel of the Planetary Development Committee is present as a witness. Inspector Omarion is also present.As is Terraforming Specialist Storm, whose current biological indicators suggest he is approximately four seconds from a territorial defense response that, while entirely legal on his registered property, would be unpleasant for everyone involved.”
My claws flex. I don’t correct the assessment.
“Additionally,” Pickles says, “I possess the transmission capability and, I must stress, the enthusiasm to relay your current coordinates, vessel registration, and personnel identification to Inspector Luzrak’s office. In real time. I imagine the Commerce Authority would find your proximity to a key witness in their active investigation quite interesting.”
Silence. Heavy enough to feel.
Niz’kor is a professional. I can see him calculating behind those flat obsidian eyes—risk assessment, legal exposure, cost-benefit analysis. Keth’vora hasn’t moved since his limbs folded back. Dreth’maal’s crest has flushed nearly black.
“There’s also the matter of the escrow,” I say.
