Her stubborn refusal to admit defeat mixed with the dawning realisation that she has set dinner on fire. The combination is absurdly endearing.
"Bebo," she says, "is the protein salvageable?"
"The protein has exceeded safe internal temperature by approximately three hundred percent. I recommend reclassifying it from 'dinner' to 'carbon sample.'"
"Helpful. Very helpful."
"I am also detecting elevated smoke particulates. The ventilation system has flagged Room 314 for an environmental alert. If the smoke concentration increases by twelve percent, the corridor fire suppression system will activate."
Krilly stares at the burning protein. Stares at me. Back at the protein.
"We're ordering commissary food."
"That seems wise."
She scrapes the carbonised remains into the waste recycler with the focused efficiency of someone disposing of evidence. I sit at the counter and watch her, and her embarrassment and her amusement tangle together until she's laughing at herself, shoulders shaking, the spatula still in her hand.
"My mother could cook," she says, wiping her eyes. "Real food, from actual ingredients. She made this grain stew that the whole maintenance crew would line up for."
"You did not inherit this skill."
"I inherited her ability to fix a comm relay in zero gravity. Cooking apparently requires a different gene." She looks at the smoke-streaked kitchen with the assessment of an engineer surveying a failed prototype. "We'll add it to the list of things we learn in freedom. Right after 'choosing clothes' and 'navigating cafeterias' and 'not breaking gym furniture.'"
The commissary food arrives via station delivery. Adequate. We eat on the couch with the viewport showing Junction One'sevening traffic, and the specific contentment of a shared meal in a home that smells faintly of burnt protein and belongs entirely to us.
Morning. Departure day.
The hangar bay holds Buttercup the Second in Docking Bay Three, the replacement vessel that arrived two days ago and that Bebo has been integrating into with proprietary delight. Smaller than the original Buttercup. Tighter cockpit, newer systems, the specific smell of a ship that hasn't been lived in yet.
I run the pre-flight security check while Krilly handles systems diagnostics. Her focus is sharp and specific, the engineer's attention that processes spacecraft the way my body processes threat environments. Complementary systems. Partnership encoded into how we work.
The medical supply cargo is loaded and secured. Temperature-regulated containers, fragile labels, the specific weight of something that matters to the people waiting for it on Frontier Station Kappa. I check every securing point twice, because the cargo protocols Krilly taught me specify twice, and because my hands are steadier when they have a task.
"All systems optimal," Bebo announces. "Cargo secure. Navigation plotted. Estimated transit time: twelve hours, fourteen minutes. One advisory: Fringe raider activity has been reported along the outer corridor approach to Kappa Station. Two incidents in the last cycle. I recommend heightened sensor alertness during the final transit phase."
"Noted," I say. The advisory files into my tactical processing alongside route data and threat vectors. Arena instincts finding their new purpose.
"Twelve hours," Krilly says from the pilot's seat, running her final checklist. "Category Three route. Unpatrolled sector."
"I have reviewed the threat assessment. Three escape vectors mapped. Sensor range maximised. Defensive countermeasures armed."
"You armed the countermeasures already?"
"Four hours ago."
"Of course you did." Her amusement layered over genuine appreciation. The partnership working the way it's supposed to.
I settle into the co-pilot seat. Security station. The console displays sensor feeds, weapons systems, and a tactical overlay that I've configured to mirror arena threat-tracking interfaces. Familiar tools, new purpose.
"Bebo," I say. "Status."
"All systems green. Docking clamps ready to disengage on your command, Courier Baxter." A pause. "I would like to note that this is Mr. Ka'reen's first official OOPS assignment. I have prepared a commemorative log entry."
"A what?"
"A commemorative log entry. It reads: 'Horgox Ka'reen, formerly designated HX-347, departed Junction One on his first courier assignment as a free male and registered OOPS partner. His security preparations were thorough, his cargo securing was exemplary, and his heart rate has been elevated by eleven percent since boarding, which I attribute to a combination of professional anticipation and the fact that Courier Baxter is wearing the jumpsuit with the modified magnetic seals.'"
"Bebo."
