Chapter 9 Convergence Point #2
“The small person’s observational skills continue to exceed projections,” Pickles observes once her door closes. “Though I maintain that facilitating adult conversations is well within my operational parameters.”
Despite everything, Dove laughs. “Did you actually shock her?”
“I prefer to characterize it as strategically timed static discharge. For educational purposes.”
“You’re terrible,” I say without heat.
“I contain multitudes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have seventeen orbital mechanics simulations to actually generate, since I promised them. The lies we tell for romance.”
Which leaves me and Dove alone.
She’s washing dishes. I’m pretending to review maintenance logs. Neither of us mentions the tension thick enough to disrupt atmospheric readings.
“I should check the guest quarters environmental controls,” I say finally. Professional. Neutral. “Make sure everything’s optimal.”
“Oh. Okay.” She doesn’t look at me. “I can come with you if—”
“No need. Finish your coffee. I’ll be quick.”
The guest quarters are neat. Almost unnaturally so for someone who’s been staying three days. Her few belongings carefully arranged. The bed made with perfect corners.
And partially visible under the bed—a corner of fabric.
I crouch. Pull it out.
Her courier bag. The one she arrived with. Packed. Ready.
My hands shake as I open it. Spare clothes. Ration packs for three days. Her personal tablet with nav charts plotted—I recognize the trajectory. Junction One. She was going to run straight back to Mother Morrison, lead the collectors away from here.
Away from us.
The rage hits first. Hot. Immediate. She’s still planning to leave. Despite my offer to help. Despite Tavia’s attachment. Despite everything building between us.
Then the hurt. She doesn’t trust me to protect her. Doesn’t think I’m capable of keeping her safe.
Then—underneath both—understanding.
She’s terrified. And terror makes people run. Makes them choose flight over fight, solitude over risk.
I carefully repack the bag. Place it back exactly where I found it.
Then I go find her.
She’s at the communications station, staring at a star chart with unfocused eyes.
“You’re still planning to run,” I say quietly.
She goes very still. Doesn’t turn around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your bag is packed. Hidden under the bed in the guest quarters.” I move closer. Not touching. Close enough to feel her warmth. “Ration packs for three days. Nav charts plotted for Junction One. You were going to leave. Without saying goodbye. Without giving me a chance to help.”
“Cetus—”
“When?” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “When were you planning to go? Before the collectors arrived? After? In the middle of the night so Tavia wouldn’t see?”
She turns to face me. Her eyes are red-rimmed. “I won’t let them hurt her. If I’m gone when they arrive—”
“They’ll chase you across the sector. Hunt you down.
Hurt you.” I close the distance between us.
She backs into the console—nowhere to go.
I brace my hands on either side of her, caging her in.
Not touching. Close enough that my warmth wraps around her.
“You think I’d let you face that alone? You think I’d choose safety over you? ”
“You should! You have Tavia to think about—”
“I am thinking about Tavia! I’m thinking about how losing you would break her heart.” My hands slide from the console to frame her face. “How it would break mine.”
Her breath catches. “You barely know me—”
“I know enough. I know you make my daughter laugh. I know you fixed my station’s power grid in three hours. I know you were willing to face collectors alone to protect us.” The harmonics in my voice intensify. Claiming frequency. “I know you’re worth fighting for.”
“They’re dangerous—”
“So am I.” My thumb brushes across her cheekbone. “You don’t run from me, Dove. You don’t leave my protection. You don’t make me explain to Tavia why I let you walk into danger.”
“I can’t ask you to—”
“You’re not asking. I’m telling you.” Closer. Our foreheads nearly touching. “We face this together. And I have a plan.”
“What plan?” Whispered. Desperate.
“Trust me first. Then I’ll show you.”
We’re breathing the same air. Her hands fisted in my shirt. My markings blazing gold across both of us.
I’m leaning in—closer, closer, her lips parted and waiting—
“Captain,” Pickles interrupts gently. “Incoming priority transmission from Junction One. Mother Morrison. She emphasizes extreme urgency.”
Dove starts to pull back. I don’t let her.
“We take this together,” I say firmly. “Both of us. No more running. No more plans to leave. Agreed?”
She searches my eyes. Looking for certainty. Finding it.
“Agreed,” she whispers.
“Good.” I release her, catching her hand instead. “Come on.”
Mother Morrison’s face fills the screen—stern, knowing, entirely unsurprised to see both of us.
“Specialist Storm. Captain Foxton. I assume you’ve compared notes on the situation?”
“Director Morrison,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Status on the evidence package?”
“Luzrak’s analyzing Pickles’s compilation now. Six hundred twelve slides of systematic fraud affecting forty-seven OOPS couriers.” Her expression is grim satisfaction. “The Commerce Authority can move in forty-eight hours. Full raid on Blackstar Collective operations.”
Dove’s sharp intake of breath beside me. Hope and fear warring on her face.
“That’s excellent news,” I say carefully. “However—”
“However, the collectors arrive in thirty-six hours,” Mother finishes. “Before the raid. Before any legal protection exists.”
“Which is why Captain Foxton was planning to run,” I say, and Dove flinches. “Lead them away from my station. From Tavia.”
Mother’s eyes sharpen on Dove. “We discussed this!”
“I won’t put them in danger—” Dove starts.
“You won’t put yourself in danger either,” I interrupt. “Because I have a plan.”
Both women look at me.
“This morning I received notification from the Planetary Development Committee.” I pull up the message on the secondary screen. “Routine expansion viability review offer. Inspection team available within forty-eight to seventy-two hours upon request.”
Mother’s expression shifts. Understanding blooms. “You’re going to request emergency inspection.”
“Immediately.” I meet Dove’s confused gaze. “PDC inspections require full documentation, safety protocols, environmental assessments. Minimum forty-eight hours of bureaucratic process on-site.”
“But the station isn’t ready for inspection,” Dove says. “You’d never pass—”
“I don’t need to pass. I need time.” I turn back to Mother. “Collectors won’t risk confrontation with PDC officials present. Too visible. Too documented. They operate in shadows, not in front of government witnesses.”
“It’s a shield,” Mother says slowly. “A bureaucratic shield.”
“Exactly. And if by some miracle we do pass inspection, the station qualifies for expansion funding. Which requires additional personnel.” I glance at Dove. “Legitimate job offers. Legal residence permits.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re creating a legal reason for me to stay.”
“I’m creating options.” I look back at Mother. “But I need you to coordinate. Transmit Pickles’s evidence package to Luzrak immediately. Flag it as time-sensitive. And I need you to run interference if the collectors try to bypass the PDC presence.”
Mother Morrison studies us both for a long moment. Then she smiles—sharp and dangerous.
“You’re taking a significant risk, Specialist Storm. PDC inspections are no joke. If you fail, it impacts your funding for years.”
“I’m aware of the risks.”
“And you’re willing to gamble your station’s future on this?”
I don’t look at Dove. Don’t need to. “Yes.”
“Very well.” Mother’s fingers fly across her interface. “Transmitting evidence package to Luzrak now. Flagging for immediate Commerce Authority review. I’ll also contact my PDC connections—see if we can expedite the inspection team’s arrival.”
The screen splits. Luzrak’s scaled face appears alongside Mother’s—green and gold patterns bright with interest.
“Captain Foxton,” he rumbles, his translator rendering Velorian into smooth bass tones. “You have excellent taste in protectors. This Lividian fights like a merchant prince defending his caravan.”
“Luzrak,” Mother says sharply. “Your assessment?”
“The evidence package is comprehensive. Blackstar Collective has violated seventeen Commerce statutes and twelve STI protocols.” His pupils narrow to slits. “I am... displeased. The raid is locked. Hold the line, courier. Justice is coming.”
The weight of that promise settles over Dove’s shoulders. She straightens slightly.
“Thank you, Luzrak,” she says quietly.
“How fast can PDC move?” I ask Mother.
“If I call in some favors?” Mother considers. “Thirty-six hours. Maybe thirty-four if we’re lucky.”
“The collectors—”
“Are also arriving in thirty-six hours,” I finish. “I know. That’s why I’m requesting the inspection now. Creating the paper trail before they arrive.”
“Cetus, if they get here first—”
“Then they arrive to find a station in the middle of official PDC review.” I turn to face her fully. “With documentation. Witnesses. Legal authority present. They won’t risk it, Dove. The exposure would compromise their entire operation.”
“You can’t know that—”
“No. But it’s better than letting you run into danger alone.” I hold her gaze. “Trust me. Please.”
Mother clears her throat. “I’ll leave you two to discuss the personal implications. Specialist Storm—I’m transmitting the PDC emergency request form to your station now. Fill it out immediately. I’ll expedite processing on my end.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when everyone’s still breathing in forty-eight hours.” Her expression softens slightly. “For what it’s worth—you’re doing the right thing. Both the tactical plan and the personal one.”
Luzrak’s rumbling laugh fills the channel. “The merchant prince indeed. Fight well, Lividian.”
The transmission ends.