Chapter 9 Convergence Point #3
Silence fills the communications bay.
“You found my bag,” Dove says quietly.
“Yes.”
“And instead of being angry, you built an entire defensive strategy around keeping me here.”
“I was angry.” I turn to face her. “Furious. Hurt. But anger doesn’t solve problems. Strategy does.”
“This is insane, Cetus. The PDC inspection—you could lose funding, credibility, everything—”
“I could lose you.” The words emerge raw. Honest. “That’s unacceptable.”
She’s shaking her head. “You barely know me—”
“I know enough.” I close the distance between us.
“I know you make my daughter laugh. I know you fixed my station’s power grid in three hours.
I know you remember how I take my coffee.
I know you were willing to face collectors alone to protect us.
” I frame her face with my hands. “I know you’re worth fighting for. ”
“Cetus—”
“Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me the last three days haven’t mattered. Tell me you don’t feel this.” I let the harmonics intensify. Claiming frequency. “Tell me, Dove.”
She rises on her toes, hands fisting in my shirt. “You’re not wrong.”
“Then stay. Let me protect you. Let us face this together.”
“It’s a terrible plan—”
“It’s the only plan I’m accepting.”
“You’re being completely irrational—”
“Completely,” I agree. “And I don’t care.”
We’re breathing the same air. Her hands on my chest. My markings blazing gold across both of us.
I’m going to kiss her. Right now. Consequences be damned—
“Priority alert,” Pickles announces, and we spring apart. “PDC response received. Inspection team ETA: thirty-six hours, fourteen minutes. I have also received updated tracking data on the Blackstar Collective vessel. Their ETA has been... revised.”
Ice floods my veins. “Revised to what?”
“Thirty-six hours, nineteen minutes,” Pickles says quietly. “They’re accelerating. Captain Foxton’s tracking signature must have triggered an automated alert when we transmitted the evidence package.”
Dove’s face goes white. “They know we’re moving against them.”
“Which means they’re desperate,” I say. “Desperate people make mistakes.”
“Or desperate people become more dangerous—”
“Either way, we’re ready.” I turn to Pickles. “Confirm PDC team’s exact arrival time. I want security protocols active eight hours before either ship arrives. And send me that tactical analysis you mentioned.”
“The comprehensive defensive analysis with enthusiastically detailed illustrations of optimal firing positions, security protocols, and emergency evacuation procedures?”
“Emergency evacuation?” Dove’s voice cracks slightly.
“Contingency planning,” I assure her. “We won’t need it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I’m not letting anyone take you.” I meet her eyes. “No matter what it costs.”
The weight of those words settles between us. Promise. Claim. Certainty.
“Thirty-six hours,” she whispers.
“Thirty-six hours,” I confirm. “Until PDC arrives. Until collectors arrive. Until we find out if this insane plan works.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we improvise.” I manage something close to a smile. “I’m good at improvising.”
“That’s not reassuring—”
“Captain,” Pickles interrupts gently. “The small person is requesting your presence. Something about teaching her Earth card games to pass the time until ‘the bad people arrive and Papa has to be all protective and scary.’”
Despite everything, Dove laughs. It sounds slightly hysterical.
“I should—” She gestures toward the residential pod.
“Yes. Go. Distract her. Keep her calm.” I catch her hand as she turns. “Dove?”
“Yeah?”
“After this is over. After we survive. We’re finishing this conversation.”
Her smile is shaky but real. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
She squeezes my hand once, then disappears down the corridor.
I stand alone in the communications bay, staring at the countdown Pickles has helpfully displayed across the main screen:
INSPECTION TEAM ARRIVAL: 36:14:23
COLLECTOR VESSEL ARRIVAL: 36:19:16
Five minutes. We’ll have approximately five minutes between the PDC team landing and the collectors arriving.
“Those are statistically unfortunate arrival intervals,” Pickles observes.
“Yes.”
“The margin for error is negligible.”
“I’m aware.”
“However, I calculate that your protective instincts combined with the Captain’s technical competence and my tactical brilliance create a sixty-seven percent probability of successful threat mitigation.”
“Only sixty-seven percent?”
“I’m being optimistic. The realistic calculation is closer to forty-three percent.”
I close my eyes. “Thank you for that reassurance.”
“You are welcome. Shall I continue monitoring both vessels’ approach vectors?”
“Yes. Alert me to any deviations immediately.”
“Acknowledged. And Specialist Storm?”
“Yes, Pickles?”
“For what it’s worth—I approve of your decision to fight for the Captain rather than accepting her martyrdom impulse. It demonstrates genuine attachment rather than transient attraction.”
“High praise from you.”
“I contain multitudes. Including excellent judgment regarding romantic compatibility.”
Despite everything—the fear, the countdown, the impossible odds—I smile.
Because in thirty-six hours, collectors are coming.
But PDC inspectors are coming too.
And the woman I’m fighting for is teaching my daughter card games in the next room, trusting me to keep them both safe.
Thirty-six hours to survive.
Then she’s mine.