“Corporate reclamation rights supersede local law enforcement protocols.” The rep pulls a datapad, flashes authorisation codes. “We have legal authority to retrieve escaped corporate assets under—”
“Under nothing.” My voice cuts through, and I feel Horgox’s surprise. Not because I’m speaking up; because of how steady I sound when his whole body is screaming at him to run. “You can’t reclaim what was never legally yours.”
The rep’s eyes narrow. “Who the hell are you?”
“Courier Krilly Baxter, OOPS Junction One.” My heart is hammering. Horgox can feel it, knows I’m not as calm as I sound. But his alertness is feeding into my focus, his tactical awareness sharpening my arguments. The bond making us both better than we are alone. “And I’m submitting formal complaint to STI regarding systematic violations of the Sentient Rights Accords by ApexCorp Facility Theta.”
“A courier.” The contempt is audible. “You’re a mail carrier. You don’t have authority to—”
“Bebo,” I say. “Open channel. STI emergency frequency.”
“Channel open,” Bebo confirms. “Broadcasting on STI emergency band. All transmissions from this location are now being recorded and relayed to STI Central Command in real time.”
The corporate rep’s face shifts. Subtle, but I catch it. The realisation that everything he says from this point forward is being documented, broadcast, and preserved for legal proceedings.
“You want to reclaim him?” I step forward. One step. My heart is a drum, but my voice holds. “Go ahead. Take him by force in front of an STI officer while broadcasting on an open emergency channel. Explain to a tribunal why your corporation’s idea of ‘reclamation’ requires six armed guards and a transport with weapons ports. Explain why your facility put neural compliance technology in sentient beings, ran forced combat programmes, and maintained termination queues for assets that developed the inconvenient defect of having a conscience.”
My voice is harder now, and Horgox’s fierce, stunned pride reaches me through the bond and makes the next words come easier.
“Or you can stand down, let STI process this through proper channels, and pray that the evidence on the data implant he’s carrying doesn’t contain everything I think it does. Your choice.”
The standoff stretches. Six armed guards, weapons angled toward us. Voss and his crew, weapons drawn, creating a thin line of STI authority between corporate firepower and a bonded pair standing in a ruined canyon.
The rep’s jaw works. He’s calculating. The open broadcast changes everything; a forced extraction caught on STI emergency channels would be a corporate catastrophe regardless of what legal authority he claims.
Then his expression shifts. Not retreat. Recalculation. The cold efficiency of a male who has decided that if force won’t work, leverage might.
“Courier Baxter.” His voice goes smooth. “I hope you understand that harbouring a fugitive corporate asset creates significant personal liability. Your courier licence, your OOPS registration, your standing with the STI—all of it becomes conditional once you’ve been formally identified as obstructing a lawful reclamation.”
The threat lands. Not because it’s empty; because it isn’t. He’s right. If ApexCorp’s legal team can frame Horgox as property and me as the person who stole him, my career doesn’t just stall. It ends.
My stomach drops, and I feel Horgox react to the spike of fear before I can suppress it. His hand tightens on mine. His guilt, immediate and fierce, the certainty that his presence is costing me everything.
“Don’t,” I tell him, quiet enough that only the bond carries it. “Don’t you dare feel guilty for being alive.”
“Furthermore,” the rep continues, “any evidence obtained by a courier with a compromised chain of custody becomes inadmissible. Your AI’s recordings, your testimony, Mr. Ka’reen’s data implant—all of it contaminated by the personal relationship you’ve documented so visibly.” His gaze drops to the claiming mark on my throat. “A relationship that any competent legal team will characterise as evidence of bias at best, and biological coercion at worst.”
Cold. Calculated. And smart enough to make Voss hesitate.
I open my mouth to respond, but new engine sounds cut through the canyon. Smaller, faster, cutting through the standoff with the precision of a ship that knows exactly where it’s going.
Blue and silver hull markings. STI command transport.
The corporate rep’s face goes pale.
The transport lands with a precision that puts every other ship in this canyon to shame. Engines cut. Bay opens.
And Mother Morrison steps out.
Not Luzrak. Not the Kytherian mate she told me she’d send. Not the by-the-book STI coordinator who handles extractions from a safe distance.
Mother.
Steel-grey hair pulled back in its no-nonsense bun. Coffee mug in hand, because of course she brought a coffee mug to aplanetary extraction. OOPS Director insignia on her collar, and beside it, a temporary STI Field Authority badge that means she’s commandeered jurisdiction for this operation personally.
She came herself. For me. For us.
My throat tightens, and Horgox’s thumb strokes across my knuckles once.
