“Courier support.”
Morrison’s chair creaks.
“I said take time.”
“I’ve taken it.”
“Vance, I said —”
“Director Morrison.” Lorri’s voice. Firm. Clear. Brave-steady, not scared-steady. “I spent my whole life taking time. I spent my whole life being careful and being small and making sure I didn’t choose the wrong thing. Yesterday I chose to walk into a cargo bay, and a Vrennak tried to kill me, and I’m still here. I am done taking time. Courier support. On-ship. With him.”
Silence. Long silence. The kind Morrison uses when she is deciding whether to be impressed or annoyed and is landing on both.
“Ereux.”
“Mother.”
“You heard all of that.”
“I heard all of that.”
“And?”
“Courier support. With her. I agree to the co-assignment. Separate duties. Separate evaluations. If it doesn’t work operationally, we reassign.” I hold her eyes. “It’s going to work.”
Morrison looks at me for three seconds. Then at Lorri. Then back at me. Something shifts behind her professional face — the same thing that moved during the call, a woman who has been watching a male she considers family pretend to be fine for a decade and has just watched him stop.
“Your route is due for review,” she says. “I’ve been considering a restructure. More frequent Junction stops. Operational efficiency.” She says this with a perfectly straight face. “The restructuring would coincidentally align with Ms. Vance’s training rotations. Your freight capacity is unaffected; the scheduling adjusts, the cargo volume doesn’t. Ms. Vance’s salary is drawn from the OOPS operational support budget, not your route income. I have already filed the budget amendment.” She pauses. “I trust that is acceptable.”
“That’s acceptable.”
“I’m sure it is.” She picks up the coffee mug. “Now. There is also the matter of a formal complaint. Filed by one Vresh, Bay Thirteen cargo hauler, against —” She checks the pad. Her mouth thins. “—the human vermin who contaminated my bay with her incompetent species-specific stench.His words.” She sets the pad down. “I have informed Vresh that anti-species language is a docking violation and that his next complaint will be reviewed by the diversity tribunal. He was not pleased. I do not care. He has submitted fourteen complaints in the last twenty-four hours. A station record. I have denied them all. If he bothers you, Vance, you will tell me, and I will make his docking fees a matter of public record. Are we clear?”
“Clear,” Lorri says. She is trying not to laugh. She is failing.
“Good. Get out of my office. Both of you. I have actual work.”
We stand. We turn toward the door.
“And Vance.”
“Director Morrison.”
“It’s Mother. Everyone calls me Mother. You work for me now, so you call me Mother.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Good. Now get out.”
The corridor outside Morrison’s office. The ring star casts a long golden light through the observation panels.
She stops. I stop.
She looks at me. The hazel eyes, the borrowed shirt, the gauze on her temple and the brave set of her shoulders.
“Courier support,” she says.
“Courier support.”
