Voss’s expression doesn’t change. “We can discuss evidence protocols on the shuttle. First, we need to secure all persons present for medical evaluation and transport.”
Translation: they want to separate us. Process Horgox as a potential threat. Standard operating procedure for an unknown alien in proximity to an OOPS courier.
Horgox braces beside me. I don’t need the bond to read it; it’s in the set of his shoulders, the way his weight shifts to the balls of his feet, the compliance posture that his body defaults to when someone in uniform approaches. The posture of a male preparing to be handled by people who make decisions about his body.
“Horgox Ka’reen stays with me,” I say. Not aggressive. Not confrontational. Factual, the way I report equipment status. “He’s a key witness to systematic violations of the Sentient Rights Accords. He surrendered to me voluntarily, has provided essential survival partnership for nine days, and I’m not comfortable with any processing arrangement that separates us before proper STI legal oversight is in place.”
“Courier, I understand you’ve been through significant—”
“Bebo,” I say. “Data summary.”
Bebo’s voice projects from the core unit on my belt with the crisp authority of an AI that has been waiting for this moment. “I have recorded and catalogued the following evidence during the course of this survival period: four hundred seventy-two hours of environmental monitoring data, including one hundred fourteen instances of ApexCorp drone surveillance activity in violation of planetary exclusion zones. Thirty-seven discrete collar and harness hardware scans confirming neural compliance technology prohibited under Article Seventeen of the Sentient Rights Accords. Complete biometric records for six specimens demonstrating sentient cognitive function, tool use, structured communication, and voluntary cooperativebehaviour. And a data implant carried by the witness that contains ApexCorp facility records, financial documents, and evidence of systematic illegal modification programs.”
The silence that follows is deeply satisfying.
Voss stares at the belt unit. Then at me. “Your AI compiled all of that?”
“Bebo is very thorough.”
“I am programmed for comprehensive documentation,” Bebo confirms. “I also have detailed records of the facility’s drone deployment patterns, which may be relevant given that three ApexCorp drones are currently maintaining observation altitude above this canyon.”
Everyone looks up. The drones, which pulled back during the Stompy fight, are still circling. Recording. Transmitting.
“Those drones drove a six-metre apex predator into our position thirty minutes ago,” I say. “Using the planet’s wildlife as a weapon against us. That’s also in Bebo’s logs.”
Voss touches his comm. “Command, this is Voss. Situation is more complex than briefed. Requesting extended jurisdiction authority and evidence chain protocols.” He glances at me. “And get me a legal officer. I think we’re going to need one.”
Something shifts in Horgox’s chest. I feel it arrive in my own: not hope, quite. The cautious, bruised predecessor to hope that comes from watching someone fight for you with tools that don’t draw blood.
At the shuttle’s flank, Noomi catches my eye. No smile. No nod. A look, steady and specific, that sayswell played, courier. From a woman who once talked her way out of a pirate fleet with nothing but nerve and a forged manifest, the look lands heavier than any compliment.
Beside her, Ober’s tail has gone still. His vertical pupils are fixed on the ApexCorp drones with the patient attention of a predator deciding whether something qualifies as prey.
Then new engine sounds cut through the canyon.
Louder. Heavier. Transport-class with military-grade thrust, coming in hot, the kind of approach that’s designed to intimidate rather than land safely.
“Shit.” Voss’s hand goes to his weapon. “That’s not one of ours.”
The ApexCorp security transport drops through the clouds like a hammer. Black hull, no markings except the corporate logo. Weapons ports visible along the flanks. It lands hard enough to make the ground shake, which after a morning spent running from Stompy is a sensation I’m thoroughly tired of.
Horgox’s heartbeat goes flat and rapid against my own. Combat mode. His body knows this ship, these markings, the specific sound of corporate retrieval craft. The sound of being moved between facilities in transports that looked exactly like this one.
My hand finds his. Holds. The claiming color flares where we touch.
Six armed figures pour from the transport’s cargo bay. Corporate security armour, heavy weapons, the aggressive efficiency of people who are used to taking what they came for. Behind them, a male in corporate grey, face sharp with the particular expression of someone who considers sentient beings a line item on a budget.
He sees Horgox. His expression hardens.
“Horgox Ka’reen. Escaped asset from Facility Theta. You’re in violation of containment protocols and subject to immediate reclamation under ApexCorp corporate security authority.”
The wordassetlands like a punch. His markings dim. The opalescent claiming color flickers, fought down by older reflexes, and I feel the echo of it in my own chest: the old conditioning dragging him back toward compliance.
My hand tightens on his. I pour certainty through the connection as hard and specific as I can:you are not a product. You are not an asset. You are mine and I am not letting go.
His markings steady. The claiming color holds.
“This individual is under STI oversight pending investigation,” Voss says, stepping forward. “You don’t have jurisdiction here.”
