Thenavigationsystempurrslike a satisfied cat, every Earth component I’ve jerry-rigged humming in perfect harmony with alien quantum processors. Through the viewport, stars streak past in ribbons of light—actual faster-than-light travel that should be impossible but is happening because I’ve made it work.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, watching the readings stay steady green. “It’sactually holding.”
Ja’war’s hands move over his controls with fluid precision, but I catch the way his shoulders relax for the first time since we’ve met. “Your modifications are performing beyond optimal parameters. The interface efficiency is remarkable.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” I lean back in the co-pilot’s chair, grinning. “I told you I was good at this.”
“You told me you fixed engines. This—” He gestures at the seamless fusion of technologies around us. “This is artistry.”
The ship feels alive around us, responding to both our touches now. Frost Walker has learned my patterns during the repairs, accepting me as easily as she does Ja’war. The glowing panels shift to warmer tones when I approach, and the neural interfaces no longer startle me with their sensitivity.
A soft chime indicates an incoming transmission. Ja’war’s expression tightens as he accepts the call, and a holographic display materializes between us.
The woman who appears looks like she could intimidate a black hole into submission. Steel-gray hair pulled back in a ruthless bun, eyes that could cut through titanium, and the kind of weathered competence that comes from surviving things that would break lesser people.
“Ja’war Frixt,” she says without preamble, her voice carrying decades of authority. “Care to explain why your route reports look like they were written by a drunk Vorthan with a head injury?”
“Mother,” Ja’war replies carefully, and I catch the fondness beneath his wariness. “I can explain—”
“Oh, I’m sure you can. Three years of ‘weather delays’ and ‘navigation recalibrations’ that all mysteriously happened near the same Earth coordinates?” Her gaze shifts to me, sharp as a plasma blade. “And you must be the mechanic who’s been enabling this romantic idiot’s stalking hobby.”
My jaw drops. “You knew?”
“Honey, I’ve been managing lovesick couriers for thirty years. You think I didn’t notice when my best pilot started filing route deviations to buzz the same small town every winter?” Her attention snaps back to Ja’war. “Speaking of which—mission status?”
“Medical cargo secured and en route to Kepler Station. Estimated arrival in fourteen hours.”
“And your stowaway?”
I bristle. “I’m not a stowaway. I’m essential technical support. This hybrid navigation system needs constant monitoring.”
Mother—and I can tell from Ja’war’s tone that she’s exactly what she is to all her pilots—studies me with calculating eyes. “You built that interface?”
“Jury-rigged Earth components to communicate with Xarian quantum processors, yeah. It’s holding steady but needs someone who understands both technologies to maintain it.”
“Interesting.” She leans back, and I catch a glimpse of someone tall and bronze-skinned moving in the background. “OOPS regulations allow technical specialists on critical missions. Ja’war, your girlfriend just became your consulting engineer.”
“She’s not my—” Ja’war starts.
“Yet,” she cuts him off. “Look, I don’t have time for romantic drama. We’re under audit by some efficiency expert who thinks courier services should run like a factory assembly line. Half my pilots are getting reassigned, and I need competent people who can think outside the box.” Her eyes fix on me again. “Can you do more than just interface technologies?”
“I can fix anything that’s broken,” I say honestly.
“Excellent. We’ll discuss your permanent consulting contract after you deliver that medical cargo. Try not to let Romeo here get you killed in the meantime.” The transmission cuts off abruptly.
I stare at the empty space where her hologram has been, my mind reeling. “Did I just get recruited by space postal service?”
“Welcome to OOPS,” Ja’war says dryly. “Mother has that effect on people.”
“There are other humans out there?” The question bursts out of me, wonder and disbelief tangling in my chest. “How many? How long have they been in space?”
“OOPS employs hundreds of species across three galaxies. Humans have been part of the organization for nearly a hundred years—since first contact.”
A hundred years. While I’ve been fixing beat-up Fords in rural mountains, my species has been traveling between stars for a century. “Why didn’t anyone know? Why isn’t this common knowledge?”
“Your governments chose gradual integration. Selected volunteers, careful expansion. Your species has a gift for making impossible technologies work together—it’s why Mother was interested in you.” His voice carries warmth that makes me look at him sharply. “You’re proof that the program works.”
My head spins with the implications. Humans among the stars. Technologies I can’t even imagine. Entire galaxies to explore. “What else is out there? What else don’t I know?”
