Forty-Three and Counting
Horgox
Six months. Forty-three successful runs. And I still overcorrect around asteroid fields.
"Fifteen degrees port before the field, Horgox. The asteroids don't chase you."
"Some asteroids have unpredictable orbital patterns—"
"Trust the nav computer."
Her exasperation arrives layered over deep affection, the specific Krilly frequency of I love you but you're driving like you're dodging skorvaths.
My hands adjust course, and this time it's smooth.
Buttercup the Second responds the way she's supposed to, and Krilly's satisfaction reaches me like a warm hand on my chest.
"Better." Her grin reaches me before I see it. "You're learning."
"I have an excellent teacher. Demanding, but excellent."
"Demanding keeps you alive."
"Observation," Bebo announces. "Pilot Ka'reen's collision avoidance has improved sixty-seven percent since initial training."
"Thank you, Bebo."
"However, Courier Baxter's original collision avoidance statistics remain—"
"Bebo, I will reprogram your humour protocols."
"Impossible. You installed them. You know exactly how integrated they are."
"Which means I know exactly how to uninstall them."
Brief silence. Then: "Noted. Humour protocols entering standby mode."
My markings flicker with amused warmth, the claiming color shimmering at the edges the way it always does now.
The opalescent shimmer is their resting state; six months of bonded life has settled the claiming color into a permanent thread through every pattern, visible to anyone who knows Varkaani markings.
Crash calls it my "taken" light. Zola says it's a bioluminescent wedding ring.
Jitters turns golden pink every time he sees it.
Junction One's hangar bay. Clean docking, smooth clamp engagement, no emergency corrections. Krilly's pride reaches me before her words do.
"See? No scraping."
"Your instruction is effective."
"My instruction is relentless."
"Also accurate."
We move through the shutdown sequence in the choreography that forty-three runs have polished into something wordless.
Her hands on systems, mine on security, Bebo verifying cargo delivery confirmation.
The diplomatic pouch is signed for. Clean run.
Boring. My favourite kind, because boring means nobody tried to kill us and I get to take Krilly home without adrenaline as a prerequisite.
Zola is doing maintenance three berths over when we exit. Auburn ponytail, grease on her hands, the dark uniform of a senior courier. She looks up with the tactical assessment that never fully switches off.
"Clean run?"
"Boring as requested," Krilly confirms.
"Good. Mother's been in a mood."
Crash slides out from under Zola's ship on a maintenance platform, golden-yellow skin smeared with engine lubricant, vertical amber pupils bright with mischief. "Hey, the rookie's back. Crash anything today, gladiator?"
"I do not crash. That is Krilly's specialty."
"I crashed once."
Zola, Crash, and I exchange looks.
"Once," we say together.
"I hate all of you."
She doesn't. Not even slightly. The warmth of belonging flows through the connection, and my arm settles around her shoulders as we head for the lifts. Routine now. Family.
Mother Morrison's office. Same organised chaos, same coffee mug, same woman who could stare down a supernova.
"Forty-three successful deliveries." She looks up from her datapad. "You're officially off probation, Baxter."
Krilly's relief hits me like a wave. She's been carrying the probation count like a weight for six months, and the number dropping to zero releases something in her chest that I feel in mine.
"And Ka'reen, you've logged enough hours for full pilot certification. You're cleared to fly solo if needed." Mother sets down the datapad. "Though I wouldn't recommend splitting you two up. You're the highest-efficiency partnership on my roster."
The claiming color pulses at my wrists. Highest-efficiency. Not most dangerous, not most problematic. Most efficient.
"Which brings me to the partnership renewal." Mother pulls up a document. "Six-month review. Standard procedure. Option to continue or dissolve."
"Continue," I say, before the sentence finishes.
"Definitely continue," Krilly adds.
Mother's mouth twitches. "Sign here."
Krilly signs first, quick and confident. Then the stylus is in my hand, and I write my name beside hers. Our names together. Official, legal, chosen.
"Next assignment: Category Three to the Outer Rim. But take two days off first. You've earned it."
"We'll be ready."
At the door, Mother's voice stops me. "Ka'reen."
I turn.
"From escaped asset to certified OOPS courier. Well done." She pauses. "Call me Mother. Everyone else does."
Krilly's delight. My markings warm.
"Thank you, Mother."
The walk to Room 314 takes four minutes.
I have been broadcasting what I intend to do when we arrive for approximately three of those minutes, and Krilly's heart rate has been climbing steadily in response, which I feel in my own chest, which increases my own arousal, which she feels, which increases hers.
Six months of the feedback loop, and we have learned to weaponise it.
"You're doing that on purpose," she says, her voice slightly breathless as we turn the last corridor.
"Doing what?"
"Broadcasting. Specific images."
"I am merely thinking about what I wish to do this evening. I cannot control the bond's transmission fidelity."
"You absolutely can. You've been controlling it since the third month when you figured out you could send me specific—" She stops, cheeks flushing, because a station maintenance crew is passing.
Her mortification layered over arousal layered over the specific exasperation of a woman who is trying to walk normally while her bonded mate psychically broadcasts sexual intentions at her.
"Specific what?" I ask, innocent.
"You know what."
"I would like to hear you say it."
"In a corridor?"
"The corridor is nearly empty."
"The corridor has surveillance."
"Bebo, are there active surveillance feeds in residential corridor C?"
"There are seven cameras between your current position and Room 314," Bebo responds from Krilly's belt.
"However, I can confirm that the security monitoring team typically does not review residential footage unless flagged by an incident report.
Your current behaviour, while biometrically suggestive, does not constitute an incident. "
"Biometrically suggestive."
"Both of your heart rates are elevated. Horgox's skin temperature has increased two point four degrees. Krilly's pupils are dilated. These are indicators of—"
"Thank you, Bebo."
"—anticipatory arousal. Shall I enter low-observation mode?"
"Please."
"Acknowledged. Estimated duration?"
I send Krilly a very specific estimate based on what I have planned. Her cheeks go scarlet.
"Three hours," she says faintly.
"Ambitious but historically supported," Bebo confirms. "Low-observation mode engaged."
The door to Room 314 barely closes before my hands find her waist.
Six months has not dulled this. Six months has refined it.
In the beginning, sex was discovery. The canyon, the claiming, learning each other's bodies through urgency and wonder.
Then it was joy: the gym, the freedom, the delight of having a locked door and no predators.
Now it's something else. Mastery. Six months of data, of experimentation, of Krilly's engineer brain applied to the systematic mapping of every response my body produces and my arena-trained focus applied to every response hers provides.
We are very, very good at this.
Her jumpsuit's magnetic seals release under my hands in the sequence she modified for exactly this purpose, the fabric parting collar to hip while I walk her backward toward the bedroom. Her anticipation is a bright, specific heat that doubles my own.
"Partnership renewal celebration?" she asks, already pulling at my shirt.
"Thorough celebration. Extensive. Possibly structural."
"We already owe maintenance for two benches and a couch."
"The bed has held for six months. I trust its engineering."
Her laugh vibrates against my mouth as I kiss her, and six months of practice has taught me exactly how she likes it: firm at first, the pressure that makes her soften against me, then slower, deeper, letting the bond carry the sensation back and forth until the kiss becomes a feedback loop of its own.
The taste of her registering through the jade patterns on my tongue and transmitting data back to me: her arousal levels, her readiness, the specific neurochemical cocktail that means now, soon, please.
"You're reading me," she says against my mouth. "I can feel you doing it."
"My tongue has opinions about your current state."
"What opinions?"
"That you've been thinking about this since Mother's office. That your arousal has been building for approximately forty minutes. And that you want something specific tonight."
The pulse of what she wants. Not words. Sensation-memory: the stretch, the fullness, the lock. The specific, overwhelming intimacy of being knotted.
"Yes," I say, answering what she hasn't spoken. "We can do that."
"I love that the bond means I don't have to ask."
"You can still ask. I enjoy hearing you say it."
She meets my eyes. Six months of boldness, of discovering her own desires and naming them without flinching. "I want you to knot me. I've been thinking about it all day. The way it feels when you lock inside me and we can't separate and you have to grind instead of thrust and the ridges hit—"
I kiss her to stop the sentence because the bond is amplifying every word into shared sensation and if she finishes describing what the knot does to her while I can feel what the description is doing to her body, we won't make it to the bed.
We make it to the bed. Barely.