"That's approval," Crash translates. "Jitters can read emotional resonance. Yours is apparently worth getting excited about."
"Rare in new partnerships," Zola adds, glancing at Jitters' readings with the interest of someone who respects data. "Jitters doesn't approve of many people."
Horgox's reaction to hearing this from an empath who can see what others can't. Not just me saying he's wanted. A being whose biology is designed to sense truth, confirming that what we have is real and visible.
The claiming color shimmers at the edges of his markings, and he doesn't try to hide it.
Not everyone at the table is warm. Venrog, the four-armed operations coordinator, sits at the far end with his meditation crystals pulsing a cautious blue-violet. He watches Horgox with the measured assessment of someone who's coordinatedemergency operations for a decade and has learned to reserve judgment until the data is complete. He doesn't introduce himself. Doesn't extend a hand. Just watches.
Horgox can read professional scepticism. The caution doesn't trigger his defences the way the cafeteria crowd did; this is a male waiting to be convinced. Horgox can respect that. He's spent decades around beings who assessed him constantly, and the ones who took their time judging were always more trustworthy than the ones who decided instantly.
"Venrog takes time," Zola says, catching my glance. "Took him three months to stop calling Crash 'the Velogian.' Now they play strategy games on route downtime." She looks at Horgox. "You're not the first bonded alien partner on this station, Ka'reen. Mother married one. Crash was an arena fighter before he was a courier. OOPS has a type, and the type is 'people who survived things that would break everyone else.'"
Mother Morrison's office smells like coffee and organised chaos.
She reviews Bebo's evidence log, the hearing transcript, Voss's field report. The tracker stays until the investigation concludes. I'm still on probationary status — fourteen successful runs before full certification. Buttercup the Second is approved. The partnership question gets the answer we came for.
"I'll authorise a provisional partnership pending three conditions. One: Ka'reen passes a full combat assessment and earns security certification. Two: you both complete the standard courier training protocols. Three: your first three assignments are low-risk routes. Medical supply runs, diplomatic pouches, nothing above Category Two."
"Done," Horgox says to the first. "Already planned," I say to the second. And to the third: "What about Category Three?"
"Don't push it, Baxter." But Mother's expression carries something warmer than exasperation. "I'm giving you what you want. Don't make me regret it before you've started."
Horgox's relief is so acute it makes his markings flare. Not just the partnership. The structure. The framework. Someone in authority telling himhere's what you need to do, in a system that isn't designed to hurt him.
The next two days blur into purpose.
Training in Buttercup the Second's hangar bay — navigation, cargo protocols, hazard detection. His arena instincts translate: threat tracking becomes hazard detection, tactical assessment becomes route optimisation, combat reflexes become piloting instincts. His hands on the simulator controls are precise and confident, the same hands that trembled at the clothing terminal. This is what grounds him. Not the choices and the open corridors.Purpose.His skills redirected toward protecting instead of destroying.
In the cargo bay, he lifts a container one-handed that took me and Bebo's assistance to move, and I stand there watching a seven-foot-two male in dark green clothing casually hoist three hundred pounds with the same energy I use to pick up a datapad.
"This says 'fragile,'" he observes, reading the manifest label.
"Yes, so handle it with—"
"I have never been trusted with fragile things."
The words land quietly. Not self-pity. Observation. A male cataloguing another first in a life that's suddenly full of them.
"Well, you're trusted now." I take his hand, the one that just lifted three hundred pounds without effort. "And you'll be good at it because you're careful when it matters."
"Show me the loading sequence," he says, and his voice is steadier than it's been all day.
Evening falls. We've eaten station food that isn't great but doesn't matter. We've showered together again because the bond protests separation with a low hum of discomfort that neither of us wants to tolerate. We're on the couch in Room 314, my legs across his lap, his hand on my ankle, the comfortable silence of two people who don't need to talk to communicate.
"Combat assessment in two days," I say, scrolling through the training logs Bebo compiled. "You're already past the proficiency thresholds. Soral's going to be impressed."
"I am more concerned about the cargo protocols than the combat." His thumb traces my ankle bone. "Protecting a being is instinct. Protecting a crate of fragile medical supplies while navigating atmospheric turbulence is a skill I have not developed."
"That's what the training is for. And Bebo. And the fact that I'm going to be right beside you for every run."
His quiet gratitude reaches me. Not for the training or the partnership. For thebeside. For the specific, ongoing presence of someone who chose to stay.
"When we get the first assignment," he says, "the medical supply run. Will you tell me about the stations we're delivering to?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Who lives there. What they need. Why the supplies matter." His voice is careful, deliberate. "I want to understand what I'm carrying. Not as cargo. As—"
