Page 40 of Naughty List Delivery
The ship lurches violently as something impacts the hull with the sound of rending metal. Through the blast door openings, I can see the distinctive glow of plasma cutters and the shadows of figures in heavy armor. Mother’s rescue teams, cutting their way through to extract the hostages.
But we’re not clear yet. Krax still has access to the detonation controls, Ober is hiding serious injuries, and forty-seven families are trying to evacuate through a ship that’s coming apart around us.
“Go,” Ober says quietly, his hand briefly touching mine. “I’ve got this. Save Christmas, save these people, and come back to me in one piece.”
I squeeze his hand once, feeling the warmth and strength that’s kept me grounded through three years of learning to be better than what we were apart.
“See you on the other side,” I tell him, and then I’m running toward the engineering section while plasma fire lights up the bay behind me and the galaxy watches our story unfold in real time.
The corridor to engineering is a nightmare of sparks and debris, but PIP’s voice guides me through the chaos with the kind of precision that reminds me why having an AI companion is better than any weapon or tool.
“Fifteen meters ahead, then left at the junction. The power coupling is behind the third access panel—it’ll be marked with biohazard warnings because disconnecting it will flood the area with coolant gas. Not lethal, but you’ll need to hold your breath.”
Behind me, I can hear the sounds of combat and evacuation—Ober coordinating the families, guards choosing sides, and Krax’s increasingly desperate attempts to activate systems that Vex has systematically sabotaged. The broadcast continues, showing the galaxy what Christmas looks like when it’sthreatened by revenge and saved by people who refuse to let hatred win.
I reach the engineering section as Mother’s voice crackles through the ship’s communication system with the kind of authority that makes smart people reconsider their life choices.
“This is Madge Morrison, OOPS Command, broadcasting on all frequencies. We’ve got visual confirmation of forty-seven civilian hostages being evacuated from the vessel you’re watching on emergency broadcast. Any interference with this rescue operation will result in immediate response from STI military forces operating under Authorization Omega Seven Seven.”
Before I can process what that means, Ober’s comm crackles with a familiar gravelly voice.
“Captain,” Kex’s voice cuts through the chaos with military precision. “Shadowhawk and Crimson Tide are holding perimeter. Multiple bogeys trying to break through the rescue cordon. Should we breach and assist?”
“Negative,” Ober responds immediately, his voice carrying command authority despite his obvious pain. “Maintain position and coordinate with OOPS rescue fleet. No one gets past you, Kex. No one.”
“Copy that, Captain. We’ve got your back.”
The brief exchange sends relief flooding through me. Ober’s crew is still out there, still loyal, still protecting our escape routes while we save the families. It’s the kind of tactical coordination that reminds me why we used to be so devastating together.
Omega Seven Seven. I’ve never heard that code before, but it makes the remaining hostile guards pause their advance.
“Furthermore,” Mother continues, her voice carrying the weight of someone who’s spent decades keeping impossible situations from becoming disasters, “STI Official Luzrak is en route with full military authority and some very strong opinionsabout people who threaten children during Christmas. I suggest you consider your career prospects carefully.”
STI Official Luzrak. Mother’s partner, the Kytherian with enhanced senses and a territorial instinct that makes Ober look restrained. If he’s coming with official authority, this rescue just became a government operation with personal stakes.
I reach the power coupling as alarms begin shrieking warnings about hull breaches and atmospheric loss. The panel is exactly where PIP said it would be, marked with enough warning symbols to make anyone with survival instincts reconsider their choices.
“Disconnect the primary power feed—the thick cable with the pulsing energy signature. It’ll cut power to the detonation charges, but also to life support in this section. You’ll have maybe sixty seconds before the coolant gas becomes a problem.”
I grab the coupling with both hands and pull. Sparks shower around me as the connection breaks, and immediately the ship’s lighting shifts to emergency power while coolant gas begins hissing from vents I can’t see.
A new alarm joins the cacophony—the distinctive wail that means automatic escape pod deployment systems are activating. When a ship’s structural integrity fails beyond certain parameters, command-level pods launch without manual authorization. Through the engineering section’s viewport, I catch a glimpse of a small craft ejecting from the ship’s upper section in a burst of emergency thrusters.
Krax. Running like the coward he’s proven himself to be.
“Power disconnected!” I report through my comm, already turning to run back toward the bay. “Detonation charges should be offline! And Krax just launched in an escape pod!”
“Confirmed!” Vex’s voice carries relief and exhaustion in equal measure. “All explosive systems are showing as disabled. The families are safe! And... brother is gone. The automatic systemsdetected structural failure and launched his command pod.” There’s something in his voice that might be grief or might be relief. “He’s alive, but he’s chosen exile over facing what he’s done.”
I run through corridors filling with coolant gas, my lungs burning as I hold my breath and navigate by emergency lighting and PIP’s guidance. Behind me, systems continue failing as the ship comes apart, but ahead of me lies the bay where forty-seven families are being evacuated and my alien partner is keeping everyone safe despite injuries that could kill him if he doesn’t get medical attention soon.
I burst back into the bay to find organized chaos—families streaming through multiple breach points where Mother’s rescue teams have cut through the hull, medical personnel triaging injuries, and Ober standing guard over the evacuation despite the way he’s swaying on his feet.
“Noomi!” the grandmother from earlier catches my arm as I pass. “Thank you. Thank you for giving us Christmas back.”
I squeeze her hand briefly, but my attention is focused on Ober, who’s coordinating with someone through his comm unit while blood soaks through his jacket. He looks up as I approach, and his smile could power a star drive despite the pain I can see in his amber eyes.
“Detonation charges disabled,” I report. “How are the evacuations going?”
