"Observation," Bebo announces. "Pilot Ka'reen's collision avoidance has improved sixty-seven percent since initial training."
"Thank you, Bebo."
"However, Courier Baxter's original collision avoidance statistics remain—"
"Bebo, I will reprogram your humour protocols."
"Impossible. You installed them. You know exactly how integrated they are."
"Which means I know exactly how touninstallthem."
Brief silence. Then: "Noted. Humour protocols entering standby mode."
My markings flicker with amused warmth, the claiming color shimmering at the edges the way it always does now. The opalescent shimmer is their resting state; six months of bonded life has settled the claiming color into a permanent thread through every pattern, visible to anyone who knows Varkaani markings. Crash calls it my "taken" light. Zola says it's a bioluminescent wedding ring. Jitters turns golden pink every time he sees it.
Junction One's hangar bay. Clean docking, smooth clamp engagement, no emergency corrections. Krilly's pride reaches me before her words do.
"See? No scraping."
"Your instruction is effective."
"My instruction is relentless."
"Also accurate."
We move through the shutdown sequence in the choreography that forty-three runs have polished into something wordless. Her hands on systems, mine on security, Bebo verifying cargo delivery confirmation. The diplomatic pouch is signed for. Clean run. Boring. My favourite kind, because boring means nobody tried to kill us and I get to take Krilly home without adrenaline as a prerequisite.
Zola is doing maintenance three berths over when we exit. Auburn ponytail, grease on her hands, the dark uniform of a senior courier. She looks up with the tactical assessment that never fully switches off.
"Clean run?"
"Boring as requested," Krilly confirms.
"Good. Mother's been in a mood."
Crash slides out from under Zola's ship on a maintenance platform, golden-yellow skin smeared with engine lubricant, vertical amber pupils bright with mischief. "Hey, the rookie's back. Crash anything today, gladiator?"
"I do not crash. That is Krilly's specialty."
"I crashedonce."
Zola, Crash, and I exchange looks.
"Once," we say together.
"I hate all of you."
She doesn't. Not even slightly. The warmth of belonging flows through the connection, and my arm settles around her shoulders as we head for the lifts. Routine now. Family.
Mother Morrison's office. Same organised chaos, same coffee mug, same woman who could stare down a supernova.
"Forty-three successful deliveries." She looks up from her datapad. "You're officially off probation, Baxter."
Krilly's relief hits me like a wave. She's been carrying the probation count like a weight for six months, and the number dropping to zero releases something in her chest that I feel in mine.
"And Ka'reen, you've logged enough hours for full pilot certification. You're cleared to fly solo if needed." Mother sets down the datapad. "Though I wouldn't recommend splitting you two up. You're the highest-efficiency partnership on my roster."
The claiming color pulses at my wrists. Highest-efficiency. Not most dangerous, not most problematic. Mostefficient.
