A groan from Jazil.
“The occasion being the successful completion of a pair-bond that I have been monitoring since approximately forty-five seconds after Ms. Vance walked up the ramp. I would like this noted. I would also like it noted that I provided the schematics, the ventilation adjustments, the hatch malfunction, and the medical exemption that Mother Morrison approved in nine seconds.”
“HORATIO.”
“The pair-bond biosignature has registered on all systems. Both parties. Stable. Locked. Permanent.” The theater drops. Genuine.Quiet. “Captain. I have been with you for nine years. Single servings. Single places. The only voice on this ship.” A pause. “I am no longer the only voice. This is the happiest day of my operational life. Please note.”
Jazil’s arm tightens around my waist. Shaking. Laughing into my hair.
“Noted, HORATIO.”
“The wine reserve is available. And Captain, I have begun composing a commemorative piece. E-flat major. The Ventilation Junction Variations. Debut within the week.”
“HORATIO.”
“I am being spectacularly good. Please note for the annual review.”
I am laughing into the pillow. The hum-sense humming. His arms around me. The mark warm on my thigh. The dress on the corridor floor. The lace in two pieces. Wet footprints from the shower. The breakfast waiting. HORATIO composing a symphony he will play without warning for the rest of our lives.
The ship hums. Home hums.
We are home.
Epilogue: Stay
Jazil
Threemonths.
Three months of her. Three months of two mugs on the drying rack and HORATIO setting three places and the blanket smelling like both of us and the copilot’s seat that is no longer mine. It is ours. She corrected me the second week.
We have a place on Junction One. Small quarters on the residential level — a bedroom, a kitchenette, a head barely big enough for both of us, which has not stopped us from using it simultaneously. The place is a negotiation between her chaos and my order. Her side of the bedroom has a pile of datapads and three mugs in various stages of lukewarm tea, and a jacket draped over the chair since week one. My side has the Courier’s Atlas and a regulation locker and the bed madeto spec. The middle is where we meet: a small table, two chairs, and the remote HORATIO terminal that HORATIO installed himself one afternoon and unveiled with the wordsCaptain, I have extended my operational range to include your shared living quarters. I did not ask for permission. I am not sorry.
Lorri is good at the job. Better than good. She runs the manifest. Handles the comms. Talks to nervous cargo handlers in the steady voice that calmed a Vrennak and they hand over the freight without knowing why they trust her. Mother Morrison sent me a note last week:She’s better than you at comms. Don’t tell her I said that. Morrison.
The route has changed. More frequent Junction stops. Morrison’s “operational restructuring.” The games have expanded — hide and seek with forfeits, sardines, temperature games, sensation games with blindfolds, things we bought on the route at markets along the belt. HORATIO keeps score. HORATIO has a sealed file labeled RECREATIONAL INCENTIVES that requires dual authorization and plays a dramatic sound effect when opened.
HORATIO has composed four pieces. The Ventilation Junction Variations debuted during a dock inspection. Sonata for Sealed Bay. Fugue in Two Settings. And an untitled one he plays when she is on the station and the ship is quiet.
Tonight is a dock night. Junction One. I am walking along the concourse from the cargo office to our quarters. The routing log is done. Her shift ended two hours ago; Mother sent her home early.
The dock level is quiet. Late shift. The overhead strips dimmed to standby. I pass the Bay 9 junction and the cargo offices and the maintenance corridor that connects to the unregistered freight baysand —
I stop.
Ardent. Station security deputy. Natalie Torres’s second-in-command. He is standing at the junction of the maintenance corridor and the unregistered bay access, datapad in hand. Human. Average height. Average build. The kind of male who is unremarkable enough to pass through a station unnoticed — which is, by his profession, useful. Tattoos visible at the collar of his off-duty shirt, dark ink disappearing under the fabric. Pleasant face. Easy posture. The casual lean of a male who has been leaning against station walls for three years and has perfected the art of looking like he belongs wherever he is.
“Evening, Ereux. Late run?”
“Finishing up.”
“Good to see you. Tell Vance I said hello.”
He nods. I nod. He goes back to his datapad. Routine security sweep. Late shift.
The concourse is empty. Late enough that the dock crew has cleared out. The overhead strips are on standby. There is nobody else on this level. Just me. And Ardent.
My tongue flicks. Involuntary. Tasting the air.
