Chapter 15
Another refusal notification popped up on the screen.
I don't think people like us very much.
Not us. Me.
I still like you.
Thanks, self. I like you too.
You have to, cause if you didn’t, I would probably go a little crazy!
I shook my head. I really need to talk to a professional.
Vaelix stood close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, his attention fixed on the data we'd been reviewing for the better part of an hour.
The astro lab was quiet. Its lights dimmed, and the door sealed.
Nothing but the soft hum from the viewscreens and the occasional brush of his arm against mine as he reached past me to manipulate the interface.
"Pulsar Station," I said, pulling up the message.
"Same language as the others. Due to temporary instability in the sector, we regret that docking privileges cannot be extended at this time.
" I scrolled through the formal rejection, my jaw tight.
"That makes nine independent stations, nine supposedly unaffiliated ports, all using the same phrase within the same twelve-hour window. "
"They are coordinating with each other." Vaelix's voice was low, thoughtful. His hand settled at the small of my back as he leaned in to examine the message more closely. The touch was casual. Familiar. "Show me the response from Gamma Station again, please."
I pulled it up without comment, our hands crossing as I transferred control. His fingers grazed mine, warm and calloused, and I didn't pull away. Instead, I shifted closer, letting my shoulder press against his chest while he manipulated the display.
"There." He highlighted a section. "Temporary instability. Gamma used it three days ago. Valkery used it yesterday. Now Pulsar." His thumb traced an absent pattern against my spine, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease slightly despite myself. "They are working together."
"No." I pulled up another window to cross-reference the stations' communications signals. My anger sat just beneath the surface, simmering, but it wasn't the kind that affected my critical thinking. It was the kind that made me thorough. "Someone sent them a template."
We worked in silence, analyzing the data patterns and communication relays.
Every few moments, we'd shift—me adjusting my shoulders, him reaching around me to highlight an anomaly, and each time, the contact felt less incidental and more deliberate.
I was hyperaware of how close he was without being distracted by it.
If anything, it sharpened my focus and channeled my frustration into something productive.
"Let’s look at the insurance registrations," I said. "I want to see if there's overlap in their coverage providers."
Vaelix's hand left my back long enough to input the query. The results populated instantly, and we both went still.
Seven of the nine stations shared the same underwriter. A shell company with ties to the corporation's financial networks.
"Not independent at all," he murmured.
Another notification pinged. I exhaled sharply then opened the new message: "That makes ten."
We shifted our approach after that. There wasn't a need to catalogue these responses anymore; we already knew what they would say. Now we needed to map them and identify who they worked with to avoid them. No reason to let them call in the bounty that easily.
Our display now showed a web of connections: shells nested inside shells, insurance cross-links that traced back to the same handful of investment groups, legal language that appeared in filing after filing with suspicious consistency.
Vaelix had pulled additional data from public trade registries, and I'd contributed what I could access through less official channels. The picture that emerged was damning.
"These aren't independent decisions," I said. "This is coordination without attribution. Voss has them by the short hairs. I bet he told them to close their doors to us, and they were all too happy to comply."
"Fear or profit?" Vaelix asked.
"Both. Always both." I stared at the web of connections, my mind running calculations I didn't want to make.
"They're afraid of the corporations' reach and influence.
So they've been given a financial incentive to do their bidding.
Cheaper insurance premiums, most favored station training partnerships, the whole nine yards. "
There was one more option. One contact who might be willing to help despite the risks. Someone who owed me, and who had enough resources to provide a safe harbor without needing to answer to shareholders or insurance underwriters. Someone who wouldn't have graduated from university without my help.
I opened a secure channel.
Vaelix stayed where he was. He didn't withdraw. Didn't offer me privacy unless I asked for it. The implicit statement was clear: he was here. Whatever happened next, he was staying.
The connection opened, and a face I recognized appeared on the screen. Older now, more cautious, but familiar enough that I felt a brief flicker of hope.
Leesa Hanscombe. A black market smuggler of ancient alien artifacts.
Somebody who was on the exact opposite end of the archaeological spectrum from me.
But also an old college roommate, with whom I'd worked professionally for a few years.
Ultimately, we believed in the same thing.
We just went about achieving those shared goals in different ways.
"Kira." The voice was warm but guarded. "I wondered when you'd reach out."
"I need somewhere to port. Twenty-four hours maximum. You have the facilities, and you have no love for the corporations."
A pause. The face on screen shifted; regret, calculation, decision.
"I can't." The words came gently, almost apologetically. "Kira, you know I would if I could. But the exposure, not just to me, to everyone who depends on this operation. I can't bring that kind of heat down on them. Not even for you."
"You're still moving artifacts through the Meridian corridor, right?"
The face on screen went dark for a split second before nodding.
"I get it. You can burn me. I hope you don't, but I understand if you do." Leesa's jaw tightened. "I'll tell you this: I owe you one for not pushing me here."
"I understand," I said. My voice was level. "Thank you for being honest, and for the future favor. When I call it in, you better deliver."
I closed the channel myself, before Leesa could offer hollow reassurances.
The room was quiet.
Vaelix didn't speak. He was still behind me, close enough that I could feel his presence like a physical weight.
I turned.
He was watching me with those steady eyes, waiting without expectation. Not waiting for me to fall apart. Not waiting to fix anything. Just present, in a way that felt both infuriating and essential.
I stepped into him.
It wasn't a collapse. It wasn't seeking comfort. It was claiming space, my space, and his, and the heated tension that had been building between us since we'd started working in this small room with its dimmed lights and locked door.
His arms came around me. Firm. Intentional. He pulled me closer without asking if I needed it, and the contact was grounding in a way that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with presence.
"They're not afraid of me," I said against his chest. "They're afraid of being seen helping."
His hand moved to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. "Then we'll survive on our own." His voice was low, certain. "We've done it before. We'll do it again."
I pulled back enough to meet his eyes. The frustration was still there, sharpening into something I could use. "Voss is going to set another trap."
"Yes."
"And they'll expect me to walk into it."
"Yes."
"Then maybe we set one first."
I kissed him.
He kissed me back.
It wasn't frantic. It was a release, a controlled burn to purge the tension that had been building for hours. The frustration of needing help and not finding it. The exhaustion of looking for answers that refused to show themselves. I needed my head clear, and this was how I cleared it.
Vaelix understood without explanation. His hands found my waist, grip firm, possessive, then slid lower to pull me against him with deliberate pressure.
No hesitation. No questions. Just a response, matched precisely to what I was offering.
Like he'd been waiting for permission and now intended to make every second count.
The kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping against mine, and I let the frustration transform, channeling it downward, inward, into something hotter and more focused.
His mouth was unhurried but thorough, demanding without being greedy, and I catalogued every point of contact: the roughness of his jaw scraping against my chin, the heat of his breath mingling with mine, the way his fingers pressed hard enough to leave temporary marks through the fabric of my shirt.
Good. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel something other than the spinning chaos in my head.
We moved without separating, his hands guiding me backward until my spine met the console's edge.
Screens flickered, casting pale light across his features, and I was hyper aware of what was happening: his thigh pressing between mine, hard muscle creating friction I rocked into deliberately, shamelessly.
His fingers worked at the closure of my jacket with mechanical efficiency, no fumbling, no wasted motion, and I appreciated that.
This wasn't romance. This was function. This was need meeting need with perfect precision.