Page 39 of Naughty List Delivery
“If I can’t have my daughters’ Christmas,” he screams, his elegant features twisted beyond recognition, “then no one gets Christmas! No one gets family! No one gets to be happy while I suffer!”
The detonation controls. Of course.
Ober moves to intercept, but I can see the cost in his movements—the way his enhanced speed is failing him, the tremor in his hands that speaks to blood loss and trauma his alien physiology is struggling to compensate for. He’s been hiding how badly he’s hurt, and now that concealment might cost us everything.
I’m closer to the controls than he is, but Krax has a head start and desperation driving him forward. The mathematics are brutal: he’ll reach the panel before either of us can stop him.
Unless someone else intervenes.
“Stop!” The voice comes from an unexpected source—one of the guards, a young Huxarian who’s been watching the families evacuate with growing horror written across his features. “I didn’t sign up to murder children for your revenge!”
His plasma rifle swings toward Krax, and suddenly half the remaining guards are choosing sides—some maintaining their positions, others moving to protect the families, a few raising weapons with shaking hands as they realize their paychecks aren’t worth becoming galaxy-wide pariahs on live broadcast.
“Stand down!” Krax orders, but his authority is cracking like ice under pressure. “All of you, maintain your positions!”
“Negative, sir,” another guard responds, a Gluxian female whose silver skin patterns flicker with emotional distress. “My own children are watching this broadcast on Relmara Prime. I won’t let them see their mother murder other people’s families.”
The guard rebellion spreads like wildfire. Weapons lower, positions abandon, and several guards actually start helping evacuate families while the galaxy watches their moral awakening in real time.
But Krax is still reaching for the detonation controls, and Ober is still trying to stop him despite the blood loss that’s making his alien strength fail at exactly the wrong moment.
That’s when I hear it—a familiar electronic chirp that makes my heart soar with relief.
“Noomi!” PIP’s voice crackles through my hidden comm unit, tinny but unmistakably my AI companion. “I’m sorry I’ve been offline! When they disabled our ship’s systems, my backup power cores went into hibernation mode to prevent datacorruption. But I’m back online now, and I’ve been monitoring the situation through the ship’s emergency network.”
“PIP!” I nearly cry with relief. “Can you help Vex with the technical systems? We need to—”
“Already on it! I’m interfacing with the ship’s computers through Vex’s console access. The detonation charges can be disabled, but not remotely—someone needs to physically disconnect the primary power coupling in the engineering section, approximately forty meters aft of your current position.”
Forty meters. Through corridors filled with debris and failing systems while families evacuate and Ober bleeds out from injuries he won’t admit are serious.
“I can do it,” Ober calls out, obviously having heard PIP’s transmission through his enhanced hearing. He starts moving toward the engineering section, but I can see the way he favors his left side, the slight drag in his step that speaks to internal damage his healing factor can’t quite manage.
“No,” I tell him firmly, moving to intercept his path. “You’re hurt worse than you’re letting on, and I’m not losing you to stubborn heroics.”
“Noomi—”
“Look at me,” I demand, grabbing his face in my hands and forcing him to meet my eyes. “Look at me and tell me you’re not bleeding internally. Tell me you’re not running on adrenaline and alien stubbornness while your enhanced healing fails to keep up with the damage.”
His amber eyes flicker with pain he can’t quite hide, and I see the truth there—the plasma wound from Krax’s earlier strike went deeper than he admitted, finding gaps in his enhanced physiology that are taking longer to heal than he wants me to know.
“The families—”
“Will be fine because we’re both going to get through this,” I interrupt. “Together. You coordinate the evacuation and keep Krax away from those controls. I’ll handle the engineering section.”
“Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous—”
“Ober.” I let my hand trace the line of his jaw, feeling the alien heat of his skin and the slight tremor that speaks to how much effort he’s expending to stay upright. “I need you to trust me the way I trust you. I need you to let me be your partner in everything, not just your mate to protect.”
Something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe, or the kind of understanding that comes when someone finally admits they can’t do everything alone.
“Be careful,” he says quietly, his forehead touching mine for just a moment. “If something happens to you—”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” I promise, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “PIP will guide me through it, you’ll keep everyone safe here, and in ten minutes we’ll all be on Mother’s rescue ships planning the galaxy’s most chaotic Christmas celebration.”
Around us, the evacuation continues with increasing organization as former guards help families toward the blast doors. Through the emergency lighting and sparks from failing systems, I can see children being lifted over debris, elderly couples supported by strangers who’ve chosen compassion over paychecks, young adults clutching their bonding gifts while running toward a future that suddenly includes survival.
“Noomi!” Vex calls from his console. “The broadcast is working—I’m receiving responses from news services, government officials, and citizens across seventeen systems. Public pressure is mounting for immediate intervention. Whatever you’re planning, do it quickly. Krax is—”
