Chapter 1 #2
“Of course it is.” I sigh dramatically. “Fine, Lord Serious-Pants. You can come along, but there are rules on my ship.”
One perfect eyebrow arches slightly. “Lord... Serious-Pants?”
“Rule one: My ship, my music. Rule two: No complaining about my flying style. Rule three: No mysterious comm calls while we’re in hyperspace—it messes with the navigation. And rule four: Try to smile at least once during the trip. It’s good for your health.”
For a moment, I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile, but perhaps the ghost of one. Then it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“I will abide by your first three conditions,” he says stiffly.
I grin. “Close enough. Come aboard, then. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”
As I turn to lead him up the boarding ramp, I catch him taking a deep breath, as if steeling himself for an ordeal. It makes me want to laugh. One night with me on Pink Slip isn’t an ordeal—it’s an experience.
And something tells me Mr. Rynn Valorian could use a little experience outside his carefully controlled world.
“This is... compact,” Rynn observes as I give him the world’s shortest ship tour. Pink Slip isn’t large—just a cockpit, a small common area that doubles as a galley, a cargo hold, and my private quarters.
“She’s built for speed, not luxury,” I reply, running my hand affectionately along the worn control panel. “She’s got it where it counts.”
Rynn stands awkwardly in the center of the common area, looking like a sculpture that’s been placed in the wrong exhibit. Everything about him screams “I don’t belong here”—from his perfect posture to the way he keeps his hands slightly away from any surface, as if afraid of contamination.
“You can sit, you know,” I tell him, gesturing to the padded bench along the wall. “The journey to Kainos usually takes about twelve to fifteen hours. That’s a long time to stand.”
He perches on the edge of the bench like he’s afraid it might bite him. The small case containing his precious cargo remains clutched in one hand.
“Secure harness for departure,” Zip announces with characteristic drama. “Preparing for launch sequence. Pink Slip is ready to show this Core World port what real speed looks like.”
I slide into the pilot’s seat, my fingers dancing across the controls with practiced ease.
This is where I belong—in the cockpit, surrounded by blinking lights and the soft hum of engines powering up.
Out here, among the stars, nobody cares about my background or my unconventional appearance.
I’m just another pilot, free to go wherever the next job takes me.
“You might want to hold on,” I call back to Rynn. “Initial thrust can be a bit—”
Pink Slip surges forward, the acceleration pressing us back into our seats. I hear a muffled curse from the common area and grin. Maybe that was a little harder than necessary, but hey—he needs to loosen up.
Once we clear Venturis’s atmosphere and hit the departure vector, I engage the autopilot and swivel my chair around. Rynn has managed to maintain his dignity despite the rough takeoff, though his knuckles are white where he grips the edge of the bench.
“So,” I say, propping my boots up on the console, “what brings a fancy diplomatic attaché like yourself to a backwater place like Helios Station? Last I heard, it was just a ramshackle trading post with more smugglers than actual traders.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You seem well-informed for a courier.”
I shrug. “OOPS goes everywhere the big companies won’t. You pick things up.”
“The nature of my business is confidential.”
“Everything about you seems confidential,” I observe. “But we’ve got hours to kill, and I’m a curious person by nature. So either you give me something to work with, or I’ll start making up stories about you. And trust me, my imagination is vivid.”
He sighs, a small, controlled exhale that somehow conveys an entire universe of resignation. “I am delivering sensitive diplomatic correspondence that cannot be transmitted electronically. The bio-lock requires... specialized amplification to disengage. Equipment that only Helios possesses.”
“Specialized amplification?” I grin at him. “Sounds like you locked your keys in the car and need a locksmith.”
“It is significantly more complex than that.”
“See? Was that so hard?” I wink. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Next question: why Helios? It’s practically in the middle of nowhere.”
“Because discretion is paramount. And the signal noise of the Kainos Nebula provides cover.”
“Cover from what?”
A small line appears between his brows. “This isn’t a game, Courier West.”
“Everything’s a game if you look at it right,” I counter. “And please, call me Polly. ‘Courier West’ makes me sound like I’m in trouble with Mother—our Chief and dispatcher,” I clarify when he looks confused.
“I prefer to maintain professional boundaries,” he says stiffly.
I roll my eyes. “Suit yourself, Mr. Valorian.” I emphasize his name with exaggerated formality. “I’m going to set our course direct to Helios Station. Pink Slip’s got plenty of fuel for this run, and the sooner we reach the Kainos Nebula, the better.”
He nods once, sharply. “That is acceptable, provided we maintain schedule.”
“We will,” I assure him, turning back to the controls. “Like I said, Pink Slip is fast. And I’m the best pilot OOPS has.”
“Your confidence is... notable.”
I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment, so I choose to take it as the latter.
“Thanks! I earned it the hard way—outrunning pirates in the Zater Reach, navigating the Karris Nebula without frying my nav systems, and once, delivering medical supplies during an active planetary war. So yeah, I’m confident. ”
As I plot our course, I catch his reflection in the viewscreen. He’s studying me with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but instead sends a little shiver down my spine. There’s something about the way he looks at me—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“Coordinates set,” I announce. “We’ll hit hyperspace in three... two... one...”
The stars stretch into brilliant streaks of light as Pink Slip leaps into hyperspace. The familiar rush of acceleration washes over me, that perfect moment of transition when reality blurs and anything seems possible. It’s my favorite part of any journey—that split second of pure potential.
When I glance back, I catch something unexpected on Rynn’s face—a flash of wonder, quickly masked by his usual stoic expression. But I saw it. Beneath all that control and formality, there’s someone who can still be awed by the beauty of hyperspace.
Interesting.
“Hyperspace entry successful,” Zip announces with obvious pride. “Pink Slip continues to exceed all reasonable expectations for a ship held together by determination and creative engineering.”
“Perfect.” I stretch and stand up. “Hungry?” I ask, pushing away from the pilot’s console and spinning my chair with unnecessary flair. “Because I’m starving, and Zip makes a mean rehydrated protein pack. Well, ‘mean’ is generous. More like ‘barely edible but won’t kill you.’”
Rynn’s eyebrow twitches—the most expression I’ve seen from him yet. “I require no sustenance at present.”
“Your stomach just growled,” I point out, hopping up and heading toward the galley. “That was either hunger or you’ve got a small creature living in there. Either way, food solves the problem.”
I don’t wait for his response, just sashay down the corridor, letting my hips sway a bit more than necessary. Call it an experiment. When I glance back, his eyes snap up to my face so quickly I almost laugh. Gotcha, Mr. Broody.
The galley is tiny but functional, plastered with holographic stickers from every planet I’ve visited. I slap the food synthesizer, which hums to life reluctantly.
“Zip, two dinner specials. And make them...” I consider Rynn, who’s hovering in the doorway like he’s afraid of catching something, “...extra bland for our distinguished guest.”
“Processing request,” Zip announces with theatrical formality. “Might I suggest adding some personality to the meal? Perhaps a dash of paprika as a hint of rebellion?”
“Not tonight, old friend.” I wink at Rynn. “I think our passenger might have an allergy to fun. Seems like the type.”
The food is simple—rehydrated protein packs with synthetic vegetable cubes—but it’s hot and filling. I watch with amusement as Rynn examines each bite carefully before eating it, like he’s expecting to find something suspicious.
“It’s not poisoned,” I tell him, mouth full. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d be more creative.”
He pauses mid-bite. “That is not reassuring.”
I laugh. “Just a joke. OOPS has a strict ‘no murdering clients’ policy. Bad for business.”
“Your humor is... unusual.”
“You mean fun? Yeah, you should try it sometime.” I lean forward, studying him. “So, Rynn—can I call you Rynn now that we’re sharing a meal?—what do you do when you’re not being all mysterious and diplomatic?”
He carefully sets down his utensil. “My work consumes most of my time.”
“That sounds boring. No hobbies? No wild parties? No secret passion for collecting antique spaceships or dancing in zero-g clubs?”
“No.” His tone is flat, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of... what? Longing? Regret?
“Everyone has something they do just for fun,” I press. “Even you, Mr. Perfect Posture.”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. Then, softly: “I read. Historical texts, primarily. And I... observe the stars, when possible.”
It’s such a simple admission, but it feels like he’s shared a profound secret. I find myself smiling, not my usual teasing grin but something gentler.
“Stars, huh? That’s something we have in common, then. Though I prefer being among them to just watching.”
He looks up, meeting my eyes directly. “Yes. I gathered that about you.”
There’s a moment—brief but electric—when something passes between us. A recognition, perhaps. Then Zip voice breaks the silence.
“Approaching high-traffic sector. Manual navigation recommended,” Zip interjects with professional efficiency. “Though I could handle it myself if you’d prefer to continue your fascinating psychological analysis of our brooding passenger.”
I clear my throat and stand. “Duty calls. Make yourself comfortable. We’ve still got a few hours before refueling.”
As I return to the cockpit, I’m acutely aware of Rynn’s eyes following me.
There’s more to this “diplomatic attaché” than he’s letting on—much more.
The restricted data, the biological locks that require special equipment, the way he carries himself like someone used to being obeyed without question.
I’ve delivered enough packages for enough important people to recognize power when I see it. And Rynn Valorian, whatever his real story is, has power in spades.
The question is: what’s he doing on my ship, heading to a backwater station like Helios with a package he won’t let out of his sight?
I have a feeling this “simple delivery” is going to be anything but simple.
And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Even if Mother would definitely have something to say about my growing curiosity regarding Mr. Tall, Dark, and Classified.