1
A Problem with a Bow on It
Krilly
"Baxter,you'renotseriouslyconsidering this run."
Mother Morrison's voice cuts through the chaos of Junction One's dispatch center with the kind of authority that makes seasoned couriers stand up straighter. Not me. Mostly because I'm already on my tiptoes trying to see the manifest on her screen.
"It's triple rate," I point out, bouncing slightly. "Triple, Mother. Do you know what I could do with triple rate?"
"Die in a murder jungle, apparently." Steel-gray hair pulled back in its no-nonsense bun, coffee mug welded to her hand, piercing blue eyes that have seen two decades of courier catastrophes—Mother Morrison could stare down a supernova. "Sector Nine is flagged for a reason, Krilly. Uncharted systems, no STI presence, and black box deliveries have a habit of going wrong."
"Kaylee. I know." Everyone at Junction One knows. Kaylee went dark six months ago, and the rumors range from pirate ambush to running off with some alien she was hauling cargo for. "But I've got Bebo, and my ship's maintenance is—"
"Obsessive to the point of concerning?" The corner of Mother's mouth twitches, which on her counts as a full smile. "Kid, when a manifest comes through flagged for biological hazard, triple rate, and specifically requests a solo courier with no questions asked…" She taps the screen. "That's not an opportunity. That's a problem with a bow on it."
Around us, Jinny calls out trajectory adjustments across seven systems while Venrog's meditation crystals glow steady blue, his four arms coordinating emergency reroutes with a calm that borders on smug. Junction One, the beating heart of OOPS operations in the Outer Rim. Where impossible deliveries get sorted and desperate couriers get assigned to them.
Usually, being here feels like home. Right now, my name at the bottom of the completed runs board is a splinter I can't stop pressing on.
"Mother." My hands land flat on her desk. "This is my first solo run. My chance to prove I'm not the rookie who talks to her tools and names her spare parts. I can do this."
"And the client is ApexCorp."
My stomach lurches. ApexCorp, the bioengineering megacorporation with enough ethical violations and out-of-court settlements to fill a cargo hold. The kind of company that chooses research locations based on how few questions the local wildlife will ask.
Mother pulls up additional files. "They're moving classified cargo from a research facility in Sector Nine to a black site in the Threshold Territories. Contents listed as 'biological specimens' with temperature regulation requirements and 'do not open under any circumstances' plastered all over the manifest."
"So… definitely not puppies."
"Definitely not puppies." Mother's voice drops. "Pickup point is Ursuris Prime. Jungle world on the edge of charted space. ApexCorp runs their facility there because the planet is hostile enough to discourage visitors. Category Five atmosphere, aggressive fauna, terrain that makes survival training look like a vacation." She pauses, and the pause is worse than the briefing. "Three months ago, we got a priority alert that a Varkaani gladiator escaped from that same facility. Maximum-security containment breach. They're still hunting him."
The back of my neck prickles. Varkaani are bio-engineered for the fighting pits, built to be the most dangerous beings in known space. And one is loose on the exact planet where I'd be landing.
"You think he's still out there?"
"I think ApexCorp doesn't advertise their failures." Mother's jaw tightens. "Either they recaptured him quietly, or he's running somewhere in that jungle. Either way, you'd be landing on a hostile world with compromised security, shady cargo, anda bio-engineered warrior between you and the facility's safe zone."
She's right. Every instinct I have that isn't desperate and broke agrees with her. But I grew up on a mining station where making do with failing equipment was the difference between life and death. Where my parents kept ancient comm systems running through sheer stubbornness because corporate wouldn't fund proper maintenance. Where the emergency beacon failed during the disaster that killed them both, because someone decided quarterly profits mattered more than replacement parts.
That's why I became a courier. Someone has to deliver the critical supplies, the emergency medicine, the messages that matter when the galaxy's regular infrastructure won't reach. And I can't do that from the bottom of the assignment board.
"I'll be careful," I say quietly. "In and out. Land at the facility's approved coordinates, load the cargo, lift off. No wandering in the murder jungle."
Mother studies me for a long moment. Around us, Venrog's crystals pulse as another crisis resolves itself. This is what OOPS does. We deliver to the places no one else will touch, because sometimes the difference between life and death fits in a cargo hold.
Finally, she sighs. "You've got your father's stubborn streak and your mother's inability to walk away from a bad idea." Her console chirps as the manifest transfers to my datapad. "Buttercup's maintenance is current?"
"Passed inspection yesterday. Bebo's running optimal, full emergency supplies."
"Which you'll need if one thing goes wrong." Mother pins me with a look. "The facility has automated landing protocols. You follow them exactly. You do not deviate from the approved flight path, you do not explore, and you absolutely do not go looking for escaped gladiators. First sign of trouble, and I mean first, not'oh this is probably fine' first, you dump the cargo and run. No delivery is worth your life."
"Yes, Mother."
"I mean it, Baxter. ApexCorp doesn't get to add another disappeared courier to my tally." Her voice roughens. "You check in every six hours, or I'm sending Luzrak to extract you, and trust me, you don't want to explain your choices to a territorial Kytherian."
A grin sneaks through despite my nerves. "I'll check in. Promise."
