22. The Delivery #2
The notebook is proof of concept. Twelve years of evidence that the work needs doing and nobody is doing it. My instinct found the gaps. His training knows how to fill them. We are, together, the thing I have been writing toward without knowing it.
“Morrison’s already found us a base.”
“Morrison found us a base before we asked for one?”
“Morrison found us a base before we existed. Sprout, show the floor plan.”
The holographic display populates between us.
Unit 7, Finder’s Market, Level 2. Two private offices, a client intake area, service corridor access to the docking ring.
Morrison has annotated the floor plan with suggestions — comm array placement, security panel locations, client seating arrangements.
Morrison has also annotated it with criticisms — “ventilation inadequate, request upgrade before occupancy” and “the previous tenant left stains, unacceptable.”
“I have already assessed the structural vulnerabilities,” Sprout announces. “There are seven. I have also identified optimal placement for the fairy lights, the tea station, and a secondary exit in case of armed incursion. I have prioritized in that order.”
“Fairy lights before armed incursion?”
“Fairy lights are the foundation of any professional operation. I will not be moved on this.”
Xor studies the floor plan. I can see the Tier 1 brain working — sight lines, choke points, defensive positions. He is assessing a small commercial unit in a space station market as though it were a forward operating base. He is also, I notice, checking the distance between the two private offices.
“The offices share a wall.”
“Morrison knows what she’s doing.”
“Morrison is managing us.”
“Morrison is managing us from a location that is — what did she say — ‘operationally advantageous.’ That’s Morrison for ‘I love you, stay close.’” I zoom into the floor plan.
The client intake area faces the market corridor — foot traffic, visibility, the kind of position where people can find you. “It’s perfect. It’s exactly right.”
“The desk in the primary office is substantial,” he says. His voice is neutral. His tail is tightening on my ankle.
“Don’t.”
“I was assessing furniture durability.”
“You were assessing furniture durability for sex purposes.”
“I was assessing furniture durability for operational purposes. The fact that certain operations might occur on the desk is a secondary consideration.”
“We are not christening the office before we have clients.”
“After clients, then.”
“After — Xor, we are planning a business. A legitimate, professional, recovery services business. We cannot christen every surface.”
“The floor plan indicates seven distinct surfaces. I have conducted a preliminary structural assessment.”
“Seven — you’ve been counting surfaces?”
“Eight, if the client seating is reinforced. I would recommend reinforcement.”
“I would like it noted,” Sprout says, “that I will be the Communications Director operating from this office and I have auditory sensors in every room and I am deeply unhappy about the direction of this conversation.”
“Sprout, you monitor everything anyway.”
“Monitoring is clinical. What he is describing is not clinical. I am requesting soundproofing in the fiscal year one budget. This is non-negotiable.”
I look at the floor plan. At the seven — eight — surfaces. At the male who has cataloged them with the same tactical precision he applies to combat scenarios. My face is hot. My thighs are pressed together again.
“Soundproofing approved,” I say. “Moving on.”
“We need people.” He says it the way he says tactical assessments — not a wish, a fact. “The notebook contains more active cases than two operatives can address.”
“I know. We need someone who can track — real tracking, wilderness work, not just data analysis. We need someone with social engineering skills. Infiltration. The kind of person who can talk their way into a place and come out with everyone thinking they were supposed to be there.” I think about the sector 7 survey vessel.
The uncharted space. “We need someone who doesn’t flinch at uncharted. ”
“We need someone large enough to walk into a room and end a conversation.” He looks at me. “I fulfil that function currently.”
“You fulfil that function for one room. We need someone who does it for other rooms while you’re in mine.”
I start a new page in the notebook. Not cases this time. Requirements. Skills. The recruitment wish list written in my round handwriting while he watches me build a company in real time. A tracker. An infiltrator. Someone with connections in places we can’t reach. Shapes, not names.
“Sprout, how many concurrent cases could we realistically handle with a team of six?”
“Based on current intake projections and the assumption that at least two of the six will develop romantic entanglements with recovery targets — a statistical likelihood I have calculated at 78% based on your precedent — approximately fourteen concurrent cases with a projected resolution rate of 89%.”
“We are not setting a precedent.”
“You absolutely are. I have data.”
“Sprout —“
“OOPS has a pattern. Morrison has a pattern. You have a pattern. Couriers go out, couriers encounter large alien males in crisis situations, couriers develop feelings, Morrison files the paperwork. I have tracked this phenomenon across eight separate incidents.” The orb glows smug gold.
“I will not be silenced by statistical denial.”
Xor and I look at each other. His gold eyes. My brown ones. The acknowledgement that we are, in fact, a precedent, and the AI is right, and the 78% projection is probably conservative.
“Morrison’s contacts processed the SRS reclassification unusually fast,” I say, because it has been nagging at me. “Bureaucratic channels don’t move that quickly. Someone with institutional pull expedited it.”
“Morrison’s contacts have recently become more personal,” Sprout says.
The orb dims once — the AI equivalent of clearing its throat.
“I am not elaborating. Morrison’s private communications are not my business.
However, I note that a certain inspector with STI clearances and a history with Junction One has been unusually responsive to Morrison’s requests in recent weeks.
I am filing this observation under ‘none of my business’ and ‘definitely my business.’”
I file that away. Morrison’s love life is Morrison’s business. But if someone with STI reach is smoothing the path, I won’t question it.
Velar Prime is green and blue and spinning slowly in the viewport.
The Tessaro Foundation’s research facility is on the northern continent — clean lines, academic architecture, the kind of place that smells of sterilized air and grant funding and people who care more about cellular structure than corporate politics.
We dock at their research berth. The Petal looks out of place among the sleek institutional vessels — fairy lights and tea stains and a ceramic figurine on the throttle.
The Petal always looks out of place. That has never stopped her.
Dr. Emira Tessaro meets us at the dock.
Human. Sixty. Silver hair pulled back in a clip.
Lab coat, no-nonsense expression, the specific energy of a woman who has been waiting for these samples for weeks and is not interested in excuses.
She reminds me of Morrison, if Morrison had gone into science instead of logistics.
The same impatience. The same competence. The same complete disinterest in charm.
“You’re late,” Dr. Tessaro says.
“The route was eventful, Dr. Tessaro.”
“OOPS always says that. It always means someone nearly died.” Her eyes move to Xor. Seven feet of crimson Xarthian standing behind me, tail at my hip, horns clearing the dock ceiling by three inches. “And this is?”
“My partner.”
The word again. Landing publicly, professionally, in front of a client. I don’t qualify it. I don’t explain. He is my partner and the word means every version of itself simultaneously.
Xor stands straighter. His tail tightens on my hip. He doesn’t pull it back.
Tessaro looks at the tail. Looks at me. Raises one eyebrow in a way that says she has seen stranger things in thirty years of xenobiology and is not remotely impressed.
“Does he always do that?” She means the tail.
“His tail has an independent foreign policy. I’ve stopped negotiating.”
“Fascinating. Xarthian pair-bonding physiology presents remarkably consistent territorial markers across —“ She catches herself. The scientist momentarily eclipsing the administrator. “The container?”
We hand it over. The sealed research container that started everything — that brought a Tier 1 operative onto my ship, that brought mercenaries and a kill order and Drask and a mineral corridor and a forced alliance that became a partnership that became a love story that became a company.
The container passes from my hands to Tessaro’s team.
They scan it. Verify the seals. Log the receipt.
Tessaro signs the delivery confirmation. I countersign. My last OOPS job. By the book. Done right.