Chapter 16 Bureaucratic Complications
Bureaucratic Complications
Zola
The subspace relay station’s medical bay smells like antiseptic and bureaucratic doom.
Crash sits on the examination table, his golden scales still showing stress patterns from the fight—darker patches where Thek-Ka’s strikes landed, micro-fractures visible along his ribs where the impact cracked something inside.
His left shoulder is wrapped in regenerative bandaging, and there’s a fading bruise along his jaw where he bit through his own tongue during combat.
I stand beside him, close enough that our shoulders touch.
Not because the bond demands it—we tested earlier and discovered the claiming has stabilized us to a comfortable fifty-foot range—but because I need the contact.
The reassurance that he’s here, alive, relatively intact after going up against a seven-foot Exoscarab warrior in zero-gravity combat.
The claiming marks on my throat pulse with a phantom ache every time I look at his injuries.
Through the bond, I can feel the dull throb in his ribs, the way his shoulder screams when he moves it wrong.
But I also feel his stubborn refusal to show weakness, his relief that we both survived, his fierce protectiveness despite being the one who nearly died.
Dr. Yennix, a Cerulean medical officer with four eyes and the bedside manner of a particularly judgmental houseplant, reviews Crash’s biometric scans with increasing disapproval.
“Permanent interspecies biochemical bond,” she announces, as if we don’t already know.
“Velogian mate-claiming mechanism fully integrated with human neurochemistry. Irreversible. Documented.” She taps her datapad, then looks pointedly at Crash.
“Along with three cracked ribs, a partially torn rotator cuff, severe muscular strain consistent with prolonged zero-gravity combat, and significant soft tissue damage from repeated blunt force trauma.”
“I’ve had worse,” Crash says, which is probably true given his gladiatorial past, but doesn’t make me feel better about watching him fight a seven-foot alien warrior while I sat helpless on the ship.
“You’ve also had proper medical treatment for those previous injuries,” Dr. Yennix replies tartly.
“The regenerative bandaging will accelerate healing, but you’ll need at least seventy-two hours before engaging in any strenuous activity.
Including,” she adds with a pointed look at both of us, “the kind of strenuous activity bonded pairs typically engage in.”
My face heats. Crash just grins.
“Understood,” he says, completely unrepentant.
Dr. Yennix makes a sound that might be approval or possibly disgust. “And according to OOPS regulations, this particular bonding situation creates approximately seventeen different forms of paperwork.”
“How much paperwork?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know the answer.
“Seventeen different forms.” Dr. Yennix doesn’t even look up from her datapad. “And that’s just the initial filing. You’ll need quarterly updates, annual recertifications, and if you ever want to operate in sectors beyond Frontier jurisdiction, add another thirty-seven to the count.”
“Seventeen,” Crash repeats weakly.
“To start with,” she confirms. “Oh, and one of them requires you to officially register as a business partnership. You can’t operate as independent contractors while biochemically bonded.”
“Partnership formation?” I say, and Crash turns to look at me with an expression somewhere between curious and slightly alarmed.
Dr. Yennix’s four eyes blink in synchronized exasperation.
“New policy. You can’t operate as independent contractors while biochemically bonded.
The bond creates medical dependencies, tactical coordination requirements, and—according to subsection forty-seven of the Employee Handbook—you’re now legally classified as a ‘cohesive operational unit’. ”
I stare at her. “We have to form a company?”
“Unless you want OOPS to classify you as a medical liability and terminate both contracts, yes.” She slides a datapad across the table. “Fill these out. I need documentation that you’re both mentally competent to make this decision despite the obvious evidence to the contrary.”
Crash picks up the datapad, his golden eyes scanning the first form with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserves for navigation hazards. “Partnership name is required.”
“Cross-Maxone Solutions,” I say immediately, surprising myself with how certain I sound.
He looks at me, something warm and fierce in his expression that makes my chest tight. “You want my name on our company?”
“Our company. Equal partners. That’s what we are, right?”
Through the bond—which still hums between us with that new, stabilized certainty—I feel his overwhelming emotion. Not gratitude. Not obligation. Just pure, fierce love that he’s chosen to feel, that we both chose in that moment when he could have let me walk away and didn’t.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “That is exactly what we are.”
Dr. Yennix makes a sound that might be approval or possibly indigestion. “Fine. Cross-Maxone Solutions. I’ll file the preliminary registration. You have until the end of the week to complete the full formation paperwork or OOPS will dissolve the partnership and separate you to different sectors.”
“They can’t separate us,” Crash says, his voice dropping into that dangerous register that means his protective instincts are firing. “The bond—”
“The bond has a fifty-foot comfortable range now, it may expand, it may not” she interrupts. “According to my scans, you could theoretically operate separate ships as long as they maintained close formation. OOPS could assign you to different courier routes if the paperwork isn’t filed properly.”
The thought of being separated—even with the bond stable—makes my stomach clench with immediate rejection. Not because we physically can’t handle it, but because we don’t want to. We just fought through hell to stay together. I’m not letting bureaucracy tear apart what we’ve built.
“We’ll file the paperwork,” I say firmly. “All seventeen forms. Today.”
“Excellent.” Dr. Yennix stands, apparently satisfied that we’re not going to die of bond-related complications in the next hour. “Director Morrison wants to see you both in Communications Bay Seven in two hours. Something about ‘addressing the situation before it becomes an interstellar incident.’”
Oh good. More bureaucratic doom.
Mother does not look happy.
On the comm screen, OOPS’s formidable director regards us with the expression of someone who has personally dealt with too many catastrophes today and we’re catastrophe number forty-seven.
“Well,” she says, her voice carrying that particular tone that makes even Crash straighten his spine. “I see you’ve survived your little adventure.”
“Mother—” I begin, but she cuts me off with a raised hand.
“Safety Inspector Cross. When I assigned you to perform a routine safety inspection of a courier vessel and courier safety compliance, I did not anticipate that you would: one, engage in unauthorized combat operations; two, create an interstellar incident involving a wanted gladiator; three, trigger a military blockade of Kallos Station; or four, permanently bond yourself to your inspection subject.”
She pauses, letting that sink in with the weight of professional disappointment.
“However,” she continues, and something in her tone shifts slightly, “you also successfully de-escalated a blood feud, prevented significant civilian casualties, brought back my ship in perfect condition, and—according to Kallos Station Security—provided the most entertaining combat display they’ve witnessed in fifteen years. ”
Crash and I exchange glances. Is that... approval?
“Which brings me to your new classification,” Mother says, pulling up something on her screen.
“Cross-Maxone Solutions, registered courier partnership. I’ve reviewed your preliminary formation paperwork.
Approved. You’ll operate as a two-person team taking specialized high-risk deliveries that standard couriers can’t handle. ”
“High-risk deliveries?” I repeat carefully.
“The kind that involve complex navigation, potential combat situations, or volatile cargo that requires both tactical thinking and creative problem-solving.” Her expression might be softening slightly.
Might be. It’s hard to tell with Mother Morrison.
“The kind of work that bonded partners with complementary skillsets excel at. You’ll receive hazard pay, priority docking, and immediate medical support when needed. ”
She leans forward slightly, her dark eyes sharp. “You’ll also file reports on time, maintain proper documentation, and absolutely will not create any more interstellar incidents without giving me advance notice. Understood?”
“Yes, Director,” we say in unison.
“Good. Your first official contract briefs in one week. I suggest you spend that time completing your partnership paperwork, getting medical clearance, and—” her lips twitch in what might be the ghost of a smile, “—figuring out how to operate as a bonded pair without violating safety protocols in quite so many creative ways.”
The screen goes dark, leaving us staring at each other in the suddenly quiet communications bay.
“Did we just get promoted?” Crash asks.
“I think we got promoted, scolded, and given a week off simultaneously,” I reply. “I’m not entirely sure how Mother does that.”
“It is a terrifying talent,” he agrees.
We stand there for a moment, processing the fact that we have jobs. Partnership. A week to figure out how to actually be Cross-Maxone Solutions instead of two people who accidentally bonded during a firefight.
“So,” I say eventually. “Paperwork with a deadline, a week until our first official contract, and absolutely no idea what we're doing.”
“Sounds accurate,” Crash says, then adds with careful formality, “Partner.”