"Frigate class," I say, processing his assessment and my sensors simultaneously. "Single ship, running dark. No transponder."
"Fringe raider profile." His voice is flat. Calm. The specific register that means his body has switched to operational mode. "Armed. They were waiting at the jump point."
His hands on the weapons console register as an extension of my own proprioception. I know where his fingers are the way I know where my own are. Two bodies, one system.
"Incoming hail," Bebo announces. "Audio only."
Horgox's assessment of the hail is immediate: stalling tactic, information gathering, establishing whether we're soft enough to surrender cargo without a fight. His certainty is clear:we are not.
"Answer it, Bebo."
The comm crackles. "OOPS courier Buttercup, this is independent vessel Razor's Edge. Just want a friendly chat."
"Friendly chats don't come with intercept vectors."
A laugh, and I feel Horgox's markings shift beside me: the specific darkening jade of threat classification. He's catalogued the voice, the cadence, the casual cruelty underneath the friendliness. "Fair point. Let's say we're interested in your cargo manifest. Medical supplies to Kappa Station, right?"
They know the manifest. Not random — they've intercepted our flight plan.
"Our cargo is OOPS registered and under courier protection."
"Sure, sure. Drop the shipment at coordinates we provide, we transfer credits to your account, everyone's happy. You got one minute."
I mute the comm. Horgox is already working the problem: tactical options flowing through the connection like data through circuitry. His mind works in spatial dimensions, tracking vectors and threat radii, and my pilot's instincts translate his tactical language into flight solutions in real time.
"Asteroid field," he says, pulling up the nav chart. "Two hundred thousand kilometres ahead. Dense enough to require significant navigational skill. They must slow down or risk collision. We use our manoeuvrability to increase distance, then jump to Kappa from beyond pursuit range."
The field fills the display. Dense. Dangerous. The kind of obstacle course that would make a responsible pilot choose a different route entirely.
Months ago, standing in Mother Morrison's dispatch centre, bouncing on my toes for a chance at a solo run, I would have looked at this asteroid field and seen risk. The rookie who talked to her tools and named her spare parts, trying to prove she could handle the galaxy's worst assignments alone.
Now I look at it and see a solution. Because I'm not alone. Because the male beside me is feeding me tactical data through a neural link, and my hands on these controls have survived things that make asteroid fields look like parking manoeuvres, and somewhere on Kappa Station people are dying for the medicine sitting in my cargo hold.
"That's our path," I say. "Bebo, plot the fastest route through that won't kill us."
"Defining 'won't kill us' with generous margins."
I unmute the comm. "Razor's Edge, this is Buttercup the Second. Our cargo is non-negotiable. OOPS delivery guarantee."
Silence. Then: "Bad choice, courier."
"You're welcome to try." I cut the comm.
Horgox's amused approval reaches me, warm beneath the tactical jade. "Aggressive negotiation."
"I prefer confident." My hands hover over the controls. "Hold on."
The asteroid field swallows us.
Buttercup the Second is smaller than the original Buttercup, tighter, more responsive. She banks hard left around a boulder-sized rock, and I compensate and adjust andthreadbetween two spinning asteroids with five metres of clearance on each side, and Horgox's focus feeds mine and mine feeds his and the dual nervous system runs hot with shared adrenaline that makes everything faster, sharper,better.
"They're following," he reports.
"Of course they are." My grin is probably unhinged. Doesn't matter. This is what I do. This is what OOPS couriers do: deliver the cargo that matters to the places that need it, through whatever the galaxy throws between point A and point B.
"Asteroid cluster, thirty degrees starboard."
"Saw it." His warning arrives before the words leave his mouth, and I'm already adjusting. The connection shavesseconds off reaction time, compressing the loop between threat detection and response into something approaching simultaneous.
