Page 2 of Fought and Found

"That is the fourteenth time this quarter you have documented a case that does not involve you," Sprout observed last week, after I spent twenty minutes writing up the Brax discrepancy instead of running pre-flight checks.

Fourteen. Had it been fourteen?

I didn't answer. Sprout didn't press. The orb dimmed to something careful and hovered near my shoulder, which is what Sprout does instead of asking if I'm all right.

I don't know why I write in it. Morrison says I'm tilting at windmills. Morrison says the system works the way it works, and the cracks are somebody else's problem. Morrison is the most competent woman I have ever met, and she is incorrect about this, and neither of us has budged in twelve years, and both of us keep having the argument anyway.

I tuck the notebook back into the fox cardigan and reach for my mug instead.

The comms panel chirps. Incoming transmission, Junction One relay, priority standard. I know who it is before the ID resolves.

"Knight. Status."

"Morrison!" I sit up straighter by pure reflex — Morrison's voice does that to people, even across eleven sectors. "Lovely to hear from you. I'm well, thanks for asking. Tea is excellent. Weather's —"

"Status, Knight."

Everyone at Junction One calls her Mother. The dispatchers, the dock crews, Jinny on comms. Twenty-three years of keeping people alive in contested space tends to earn you that. I've never called her Mother. Not once in twelve years. She's never asked me to, and I've never offered, and neither of us has discussed why, which is how you know it matters.

"On schedule. Eleven hours ahead, actually. Container secure. Route clear. Not a single pirate, mercenary, or rude customs officer.Disappointing, really."

A pause. Three seconds of silence that is somehow louder than the entire conversation.

"You're on a triple-rate run through contested space carrying xenobiological research samples worth more than your ship."

"Worth more than two of my ship, according to the insurance valuation, but who's counting —"

"Do not open the container."

"Morrison. When have I ever —"

"Kaelos Minor."

"That was one time —"

"Do not deviate from the route."

"I never deviate."

Another silence. This one has texture. I can practically hear her pressing her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose.

"The route passes through Sector 7-G," she says. "I've flagged three anomalous activity reports in that corridor over the last two weeks. Unregistered ships. Transponder spoofing. Nothing confirmed, but —"

"But you called to tell me anyway."

"I called to tell you to be careful."

"I'm always careful."

"You are never careful. You are lucky. That's worse — luck runs out and careful doesn't." A beat, and then her voice does something it almost never does. It softens. "Salvage and Retrieval Solutions has a recovery order registered on the Tessaro shipment. Logged four days ago. I only just caught it in the system."

The mug stops halfway to my mouth.

SRS. The biggest, most ruthless recovery corporation in the sector. The kind of outfit that calls corporate theft "asset retrieval" and treatsinterception as a line item. They don't send polite requests. They send specialists.

"Do we know who they've assigned?"

"A Xarthian. Tier 1." Morrison's voice is flat now, the softness packed away again, because Morrison gives you the kindness first and the blow second. "Operative designation Xor Xax. Ninety-eight percent compliance rate across nine years. He doesn't fail, Knight. He doesn't negotiate. And he will be somewhere between here and Velar Prime."