Epilogue Annual Performance Review #3
“KiKi is a navigation and communication system, not a couples therapist,” Mother replies. “Though I understand she’s been running a betting pool on when you two would finally sign the partnership papers. She netted quite a profit.”
“She what?”
“Moving on.” Mother swipes again. “Mission Completion Time: Consistently below projected timelines, which would be commendable except your methods involve regular violations of speed limits, safety margins, and in one memorable case, local gravitation laws.”
“That was technically Crash’s piloting—”
“With you in the co-pilot seat calculating impossible trajectories,” Mother interrupts. “You’re equally responsible for the chaos, Cross. Don’t try to pin it all on your mate.”
She taps another screen. “Client Satisfaction Rating: Ninety-eight percent. The remaining two percent are deceased due to unrelated causes, so technically a perfect score.”
“See?” Crash says. “Perfect.”
“Except for the fifteen formal complaints filed by competing courier services claiming you’re ‘making them look bad,’” Mother adds.
“And the six commendations from sector authorities for ‘extraordinary service under impossible circumstances,’ and the three marriage proposals from clients who were apparently very impressed by your dedication.”
I blink. “Marriage proposals?”
Crash growls. Actually growls.
“Declined on your behalf,” Mother says. “You’re welcome.
” She closes the holographic display and regards us both with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Here’s what I’m seeing, people. Cross-Maxone Solutions is, objectively speaking, a bureaucratic nightmare.
You generate more paperwork than any three standard couriers combined.
You violate protocols with alarming regularity.
You’ve turned your ship into what the safety inspectors describe as ‘a relationship laboratory with thrusters.’”
She pauses, letting that sink in.
“However,” she continues, and I feel hope kindle in my chest, “you’re also the most disgustingly competent operation I’ve seen in thirty years of dispatching.
You complete jobs that other couriers won’t touch.
You’ve never lost a client to injury or dissatisfaction.
You operate as a seamless unit that somehow makes the impossible look routine. ”
Mother leans forward, her expression softening into something that might be pride.
“You’ve also created something only my best couriers achieve in this line of work—a genuine partnership built on mutual respect, complementary skills, and the kind of trust that turns impossible odds into successful missions. ”
Crash’s overwhelming emotion mirroring my own along the thread connecting us.
“So here’s my assessment,” Mother says, pulling up a final document.
“Cross-Maxone Solutions: Approved for continued operations. Hazard rating upgraded to reflect your specialty in high-risk deliveries. Pay grade increased accordingly.” She slides a datapad across the desk.
“And you’re both hereby offered priority selection for the most dangerous, complicated, absolutely-guaranteed-to-be-a-disaster runs in the OOPS network. ”
I stare at the contract. “You’re... promoting us?”
“I’m acknowledging reality,” Mother replies. “You’re going to cause chaos regardless of what I assign you. Might as well point you at the jobs where chaos is an asset rather than a liability.”
Crash picks up the datapad, scanning the terms. Through our bond, I feel his satisfaction—this is exactly what we wanted. The jobs that challenge us. The runs that require both of us working together. The kind of work that makes us grateful to have each other at the end of the day.
“One more thing,” Mother adds. “Jitters Maxone.” She nods at the blob on her desk, who immediately turns an anxious yellow. “I’m formally recognizing him as an official OOPS contractor under your business license. Communications Specialist classification, with full benefits and hazard pay.”
Jitters goes from anxious yellow to brilliant gold in an instant, vibrating with joy so intense he nearly falls off the desk. I catch him reflexively, and he wraps himself around my arm in what I’ve learned to interpret as a hug.
“He’s earned it,” Mother says, her tone gentling. “Best communications relay I’ve had in a decade, and he’s saved your hides more times than I can count.” She meets my eyes. “Take care of him. All of you take care of each other.”
“We will,” Crash says, reaching over to gently pat Jitters’ surface. “We’re family.”
“Good.” Mother stands, signaling the end of the formal review. “Now get that disaster of a ship cleaned up before Station Control files a formal complaint. And for the love of all that’s holy, stop having sex in cargo bays. That’s what your quarters are for.”
“But the cargo bay has better—” I start, then catch her expression. “Right. Quarters. Got it.”
We’re halfway to the door when she calls out: “Cross? Maxone?”
We turn back.
Mother’s expression has shifted into something softer, more personal. “Happy anniversary, you two. Whatever chaos you’re causing... it looks good on you.”
We’re supervising the cleanup of Cargo Bay Three—which mostly involves KiKi directing station maintenance bots while Jitters helpfully marks areas that need extra attention—when I spot Dove’s ship powering up three bays over.
“There she goes,” I murmur to Crash, watching the courier vessel’s engines flare to life. “Into the storm.”
“Literally,” he agrees, pulling up the meteorological data on his datapad. “That window is going to close six hours earlier than the forecast. She’ll be lucky if she makes it to the surface before the atmospheric instability kicks in.”
“And then she’ll be stuck there.” I lean against him, feeling his arm come around my shoulders automatically. “With a territorial terraforming commander and his daughter, waiting out a week-long storm in close quarters.”
“Sounds familiar,” Crash observes.
“Doesn’t it?” I watch Dove’s ship lift off, maneuvering through the crowded bay with the kind of casual competence that comes from years of courier work. “Think she’ll bond with him?”
“Insufficient data to predict,” Crash replies, but I feel his amusement. “Though I would put the probability at higher than she currently believes.”
Dove’s ship clears the bay, accelerating toward the jump point that will take her to Kepler Station. I send out a silent wish—not that she’ll avoid the chaos ahead, because that’s inevitable now, but that she’ll be brave enough to embrace it when it comes.
“Come on,” I say, turning back toward The Precision. “We have a cargo bay to decontaminate, a performance review to celebrate, and if I’m not mistaken, you promised me the second half of that Ceremonial Mating Dance.”
Crash’s eyes darken with promise. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Something about an endurance test?”
“Lasting many hours,” he confirms, already steering me toward our ship. “With very specific requirements for completion.”
“Well,” I say, grinning up at him, “we did just get promoted. We should probably celebrate appropriately.”
“Highly appropriate,” he agrees.
Jitters, perched on Crash’s shoulder, turns himself a deliberate gray and flow up into the vents—clearly intending to give us privacy.
“Smart blob,” I call after him.
His answering chirp sounds distinctly like laughter.
“So,” I say, tracing patterns on Crash’s chest as we lie tangled together in our bed, the afternoon light from Junction One’s primary star filtering through the viewports. “Year one of Cross-Maxone Solutions: complete. How do you feel?”
“Satisfied,” he replies immediately. “We’ve built something remarkable, zihah’tel. A business. A reputation. A life together that’s better than anything I imagined when you first walked onto my ship with your datapad and your determination to cite me for safety violations.”
“To be fair, you had so many safety violations.”
“I had character,” he corrects, then laughs when I poke his ribs. “Fine. I was a disaster pretending to be competent. You made me actually competent.”
“You were always competent,” I reply, serious now. “You just needed someone to trust you enough to let you show it.”
He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “And you needed someone to trust you enough to let you make mistakes.”
It’s true. A year ago, I was terrified of anything that deviated from the plan. Now I actively seek out the chaos, knowing that Crash will be there to navigate it with me.
“Think Dove will figure it out?” I ask. “The whole ‘embrace the chaos’ thing?”
“If she’s smart.” His hand slides up my spine possessively. “Though I suspect that particular commander is going to make things... complicated for her.”
“Good complicated or bad complicated?”
“The best kind.” He shifts, rolling us so he’s above me, golden eyes gleaming. “The kind where you think you’re absolutely doomed, and then you realize you’ve found exactly what you needed all along.”
I pull him down for a kiss, tasting a year’s worth of disasters survived and challenges conquered and mornings waking up beside each other. “Like us.”
“Exactly like us.”
The bond lets me feel his love—fierce and certain and absolutely chosen.
We came together through accident and chaos and biochemical bonding during a firefight, but we stayed together through choice.
Every single day, we choose this. Choose each other.
Choose the beautiful disaster that is Cross-Maxone Solutions.
“Ready for year two?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he replies. “Though I should warn you—I’m already planning next year’s anniversary celebration.”
“Does it involve industrial solvents?”
“Only in the best possible way.”
I laugh, pulling him closer. Outside our quarters, Jitters hums contentedly from his post on the bridge. KiKi runs final diagnostics on our newly cleaned cargo bay. And somewhere out there, Dove Foxton is flying straight into a storm that’s going to change her life.
“To chaos,” I whisper.
“To chaos,” Crash agrees.
And to the beautiful, impossible, perfect disaster of falling in love when you least expect it—and discovering that sometimes the most dangerous missions lead you exactly where you’re meant to be.
Even if it does involve screaming plants and forty-seven cargo bay incidents.
Zola and Crash got their HEA. But the OOPS crew isn't done delivering chaos.
Turn the page for Chapter 1 of Package Deal...