Chapter 16 Bureaucratic Complications #2
The word makes something warm unfurl in my chest. Not just mate. Not just bonded pair. Partners. Equals choosing to build something together.
“Partner,” I echo, testing the word and finding it fits perfectly.
The partnership formation paperwork turns out to be exactly as bureaucratically nightmarish as Dr. Yennix promised.
Crash and I have been hunched over datapads at the small galley table for hours, working through forms that require everything from emergency contact information (we list each other, which creates a circular reference the system flags as an error) to detailed equipment inventories (turns out Crash has been flying with an expired medical kit for three months) to liability waivers that make my engineering brain hurt.
The regenerative bandaging is doing its job, but healing takes time, and bureaucracy waits for no one's healing process.
“Stop that,” I say without looking up from Form 12-B (Partnership Dissolution Protocols and Asset Distribution Guidelines).
“Stop what?”
“Trying to hide how much you’re hurting.
” I set down my datapad and look at him.
His golden skin has stress patterns darkening around his ribs, and he’s holding his left arm carefully against his body.
“Take another dose of pain suppressors. We have two more forms to finish, and you won’t be any use to me if you pass out from trying to be stoic. ”
“I’m fine,” he lies, then winces when he reaches for his stylus wrong.
I pull the medkit from under the table and shake two capsules into my palm. “Take them, or I'm calling Dr. Yennix to come enforce her 'no strenuous activity' order. ”
He takes the capsules with a look that suggests he’s only doing it because I asked, not because he needs them. Through the bond, I feel the medication starting to work—dulling the sharp edges of pain into something more manageable.
“Question seventeen asks for ‘projected partnership dissolution scenarios,’” he reads after a moment, his tone suggesting he’s reached the same level of bureaucratic exhaustion I have. “We’re supposed to predict how we might... stop being partners?”
“Put ‘death,’” I suggest tiredly. “That’s really the only scenario where this bond lets us dissolve the partnership.”
He types, then pauses. “It’s flagging that as insufficient detail.”
“Fine. ‘Catastrophic death of one or both partners, rendering continued operations impossible.’”
“Accepted.” He sets down the datapad and rubs his eyes. “Fifteen forms completed. Two remaining.”
I look at the chrono. We’ve been at this for six hours straight, fueled by approximately nine pots of Jitters-filtered coffee. The blob himself has retreated to the ceiling, exhausted from his brewing duties and currently displaying a tired grey color.
“We need a break,” I announce, standing and stretching. My back protests from hunching over paperwork. "Let's tackle the cargo bay workspace setup, finish the last two forms tomorrow morning, and submit everything well before the deadline."
Crash nods gratefully, rolling his shoulders in a way that makes his scales ripple with reflected light. “Agreed. Though I should mention that KiKi has been sending me increasingly passive-aggressive notifications about ‘optimal rest periods for bonded pairs’ for the last hour.”
As if summoned, KiKi’s voice fills the galley. “Finally! I have compiled seventeen peer-reviewed studies on the importance of adequate rest for newly bonded partners. Would you like me to read them aloud?”
“No,” we say in unison.
“Spoilsports,” KiKi mutters.
The Precision’s cargo bay has never been my favorite part of the ship—too much open space, too many opportunities for things to shift during maneuvers, too much potential for catastrophic failure if someone doesn’t secure their containers properly.
But right now, standing here with Crash while we figure out where to set up our official “business operations center,” it feels different. Like we’re claiming territory. Making this ours instead of mine with him as passenger.
“We should designate workspace,” Crash suggests, examining the cargo bay with his tactical assessment gaze. “Partnership requires joint operations planning. Shared logistics management.”
“Are you trying to say we need a desk?” I ask, amused.
“I am trying to say we need professional infrastructure that reflects our status as legitimate business partners rather than two people who accidentally biochemically bonded and are hoping no one notices we have no idea what we’re doing.”
I laugh—the first genuine, unguarded laugh since before Thek-Ka appeared on our sensors. “We definitely have no idea what we’re doing.”
“Affirmative,” he agrees with unusual frankness. Then, more quietly: “But we will figure it out together.”
A warbling sound from the ventilation grate makes us both look up. Jitters emerges from his hiding spot, oozing through the grate with the cautious hopefulness of someone who’s been listening to our entire conversation and isn’t sure if he’s included in this “together.”
He’s still the exhausted grey color he turned after using himself as a living circuit to bypass Thek-Ka’s EMP.
Parts of his gelatinous form look singed around the edges—literal burn damage from channeling electricity through his protein matrices to restore our communication systems when we needed it most.
He saved us. Both of us. And he’s still not sure if he belongs.
That’s unacceptable.
I kneel down, bringing myself to Jitters’ level where he’s puddled on the cargo bay floor. “Hey, buddy. We need to talk.”
He cycles through several nervous colors—orange anxiety, muddy brown uncertainty, flickers of pink hope he’s trying to suppress.
Crash kneels beside me, his large golden form somehow managing to project gentleness. “Jitters. You understand you’re part of this team, yes?”
The blob creature quivers, then produces a questioning chirp that roughly translates to “really?”
“Really,” I say firmly. “You bypassed a military-grade EMP, saved our communication systems, and literally burned parts of yourself to keep us connected during the most critical moment of combat. You’re not just some blob who came along for the ride. You’re our logistics specialist.”
Jitters turns a brighter shade of pink, but there’s still uncertainty in the way he’s holding his form—like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for us to say “just kidding, you can leave now.”
I pull out my datapad and navigate to the Cross-Maxone Solutions formation documents we’ve been working on. “See this section? ‘Personnel Roster.’ It requires listing all team members essential to operations.”
I type carefully: “Jitters Maxone, Logistics Support Specialist.”
The blob’s color shifts from pink to brilliant gold as he reads the screen. He makes a sound like happy sobbing mixed with the hum of satisfied machinery.
“Maxone?” Crash asks, his voice going rough with emotion.
“You found him when he was terrified and alone on that derelict cargo hauler,” I say quietly, remembering the story he told me.
“You gave him a home when no one else would. You’re his family, Crash.
He should have your name.” I look at Jitters, who’s now vibrating with overwhelming joy.
“Besides, Cross-Maxone Solutions needs a Maxone who can actually make decent coffee. I’m certainly not qualified. ”
Jitters launches himself at me in what I’m pretty sure is a hug, wrapping his gelatinous form around my shoulders and turning such a bright gold that he’s practically glowing.
Through the contact, I can feel his overwhelming happiness—not through the bond like with Crash, but through simple proximity to his empathic protein structure.
He’s family. Not because he has to be, but because we all chose it.
“Welcome to Cross-Maxone Solutions, Jitters Maxone,” Crash says formally, reaching out to gently pat the blob’s quivering surface. “We’re going to need you to filter approximately forty-seven more pots of coffee while we complete these partnership documents.”
Jitters makes a determined chirping sound and immediately flows toward the galley, his gold color shifting to purposeful blue. Within seconds, we hear the familiar sounds of coffee brewing—the one thing he’s absolutely mastered and takes obvious pride in.
Crash and I are left kneeling on the cargo bay floor, surrounded by seventeen different forms that need completion, a week until our first official contract, and a blob creature who just became our first employee.
“We really have no idea what we’re doing,” I say.
“Not even slightly,” Crash agrees.
And somehow, that makes it perfect.
That evening, the adrenaline from the past forty-eight hours finally catches up to me in The Precision’s refresher.
I strip off my flight suit—the one I wore while providing tactical support from the bridge, watching Crash fight for his life through sensor feeds and bond feedback.
No tears or bloodstains on mine, just the lingering smell of fear-sweat and the ache in my muscles from sitting rigid with terror for an hour straight.
The claiming marks on my throat pulse as I catch my reflection in the mirror. Permanent golden crescents that mark me as Crash’s mate, visible proof of what happened in the cockpit during our desperate flight through the asteroid field.
I’m alive. We’re alive. Crash survived a zero-gravity duel with a seven-foot Exoscarab warrior and is currently healing in the sleeping quarters instead of floating dead in space.
I still can’t quite believe it.
The shower activates with a thought, water heating to just below scalding. Steam fills the compact space as I step under the spray, letting the heat work at the knots in my shoulders—tension I’ve been carrying since the moment the EMP cut our bond and I couldn’t feel him anymore.
The door hisses open behind me.
“Zola.” Crash’s voice, rough and low.
I don’t turn around, but I smile. “How are the ribs?”
“Dr. Yennix’s regenerative bandaging is working.” There’s a pause. “Mostly.”