"We're within the delivery window."
"Barely." She doesn't look up, scanning, confirming. "But you're here. Seals intact, no contamination. Complete shipment." Two of her hands sign the manifest while the other two continue scanning. "You have no idea what this means. We lost three patients yesterday waiting for these antibiotics."
Three patients.
The number lands in my chest and sits there. Horgox feels the weight of it, and I feel his response: the quiet, fierce recognition of a male who has learned what it costs when someone doesn't arrive in time.
"We encountered pirates on the approach," he says. "They attempted to divert the cargo."
Dr. Kess's four eyes widen. "Pirates?"
"We declined their offer." His voice is neutral. "Through an asteroid field."
Dr. Kess studies us. A rookie courier in worn OOPS orange and a seven-foot-two Varkaani with glowing markings and the claiming color threaded through his patterns. "Well. Thank you for declining. These supplies will save lives. Real lives."
Three patients died yesterday. But the antibiotics are here now, and the people who are still fighting will get what they need because a courier and her partner flew through an asteroid field rather than surrender the cargo.
This. This is what Mother meant when she said OOPS delivers to the places no one else will touch, because sometimes the difference between life and death fits in a cargo hold.
Walking back up the ramp, Horgox is quiet. The specific emotional texture of a male who has spent his entire life beingused as a weapon and has just discovered what it feels like to be a shield.
"That felt significant," he says.
"It was. Not the chase. Not the asteroid field." I stop on the ramp, turn to face him. "The delivery. Theimpact. We carried hope in a box and put it in the hands of someone who needed it."
"I understand now," he says, "why you do this."
"Whywedo this."
The claiming color shimmers in his markings. The warmth of shared purpose.
The jump back to Junction One is smooth. Horgox reviews mission logs with a thoroughness that would make Mother weep with pride, and I handle nav corrections and eat replicated pasta that's terrible and doesn't matter.
When Junction One appears on sensors, something in my chest shifts. The station that took us in, processed us, heard us, freed us. Home.
"Buttercup the Second, welcome back," Mother's voice crackles. "Debrief in my office, thirty minutes."
"Copy, Mother."
I bring us into Docking Bay Twelve. Clean approach, smooth engagement, professional. A far cry from the fiery crash landing that ended my first solo run.
Horgox's quiet satisfaction. And in my own chest, something I didn't expect: the absence of the splinter. Months ago, my name at the bottom of the completed runs board was a wound I couldn't stop pressing. Now there's a completed run beside it. One of fourteen. And beside my name, his.
Mother's office. Coffee mug. Organised chaos. The woman herself, reviewing our mission report without looking up.
"Sit."
We sit.
"Medical supplies delivered on time. No cargo loss. Minimal ship damage." She pauses. "And a pirate encounter handled through evasion rather than engagement, which is exactly the right call."
"The asteroid field was my idea," I say.
"The tactical assessment was mine," Horgox adds.
"Partnership." Mother looks between us. "Imagine that." She pulls up the duty roster on her screen. "One successful delivery logged. Thirteen more until Baxter's off probation."
"Thirteen's nothing."
