"It's thirteen runs where you don't crash, don't lose cargo, and don't start any more interstellar incidents."
"When have I ever started an interstellar incident?"
Mother and Horgox give me identical looks.
"That wasone time."
Mother almost smiles. "Next assignment: diplomatic pouch to Coreward Stations. Category Two. Boring. Exactly what you need."
"When?"
"Week from today. Repair the ship, rest, and try not to break any more gym equipment."
Horgox's markings shift, and my cheeks burn, and Mother Morrison definitely knows about the bench because Mother Morrison knows everything that happens on her station.
The door chimes.
"Come in."
The woman who enters is compact, athletic, precise in her movements. Sandy blonde hair cropped close, the kind of practical cut that saysI don't have time for hair and neitherdoes the vacuum of space.She moves like someone who's spent time at high velocity — fluid, balanced, aware of her centre of gravity in a way that pilots and zero-g athletes develop but never quite lose.
"You wanted to see me, Mother?"
"Enora. Have you met our newest partnership team?"
Enora Hickory's eyes flick to us with the sharp assessment of someone who processes risk for a living. "Heard about them. Jungle crash, escaped gladiator, tribunal. Kind of hard to miss."
"Hi." I extend my hand. "Krilly Baxter. This is Horgox Ka'reen. We're the station's resident disaster couple."
Enora shakes my hand with a grip that saysI could crush this but I'm choosing not to.Horgox recognises the grip pattern: trained. Combat or athletics. Someone who uses their body at professional intensity.
Mother hands Enora a datapad. "Assignment. Priority delivery to the Kaelian Charity Games. Specialised zero-g athletic equipment, time-sensitive, needs to arrive before the opening exhibition. Solo run, standard protocols."
"You said 'simple delivery' to Baxter before she crashed on a murder planet."
"Baxter's luck is uniquely terrible. You'll be fine."
Enora studies the datapad. Something in her expression tightens when she reads the details — brief, controlled, the flicker of someone who knows the Kaelian athletic world from the inside and has complicated feelings about returning to its orbit.
"Solo run?" Enora asks.
"Solo. Straightforward logistics."
"Good. I work better alone."
"Noted." Mother's tone says she's heard this before and is unimpressed. "Take the assignment, Hickory."
Enora takes the datapad. Glances at us one more time — at our joined hands, at the claiming color in Horgox's markings, at the specific way we occupy space together.
"Not everyone needs a partner," she says. Not hostile. Factual.
Horgox's reaction is gentle and certain: the quiet recognition of someone who once believed exactly the same thing.
"Famous last words," I say.
Enora leaves, muttering something aboutamateur psychologists, and Mother watches her go with an expression I can't quite read. Something between concern and anticipation.
"Don't start," Mother says to me.
