Convergence Project
by THodge
Copyright© 2025 by THodge
Action/Adventure Story: Tim investigates a 4.7-million-year-old message written specifically for him, discovering seven billion consciousness fragments trapped in quantum agony. Granting them mercy through a dangerous energy transfer, he gains profound understanding of reality while awakening sister ship Meridian-8. But Meridian races toward a facility containing something worse than The Silence—and 199 similar mysteries await across the galaxy.
Caution: This Action/Adventure Story contains strong sexual content, including Fiction Mystery Science Fiction Space .
Tammy settled into a chair beside her mother’s bed, her hand immediately finding Nontslah’s. “Mother, you don’t have to be strong right now. Not for us.”
“But I’m the queen,” Nontslah protested weakly. “I’m supposed to—”
“You’re our mother first,” Tabitha interrupted firmly. “And right now, that’s all you need to be.”
Dell finished her final checks and stepped back. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything. But Your Majesty, you need sleep. Real sleep, not unconsciousness. Your body is still healing.”
Nontslah nodded mechanically, but her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Shasim lying beside me in that tent. Smiling. Pointing at stars. And then I remember he’s gone, and it’s like losing him all over again.”
Tim moved to the window, giving the family space while staying close enough to hear. ’She’s cycling,’ he thought, recognizing the pattern. ’Forget for a second, remember, crash. It’ll be like that for weeks.’
“Tell me something,” Nontslah said suddenly, looking at Tim. “Tell me something about the investigation. Give me something concrete to focus on besides this emptiness.”
Tim turned from the window, his expression shifting to professional focus. “We found a fiber at the crime scene. Military-grade synthetic, dark blue. Standard issue for Katteenian security forces.”
Tabitha picked up the thread. “Plus the sedatives were military-grade too. Whoever did this had access to security supplies and knew proper dosing for Feline metabolism.”
“Commander Pearcee,” Nontslah said, her tactical mind engaging despite her grief. “She was in charge of our security detail for that trip.”
“She’s one suspect,” Tim confirmed carefully. “But there’s more. A palace guard named Vexrin confessed to helping, then killed himself before we could question him further. He mentioned a ‘Big Boss’ who orchestrated everything.”
Nontslah’s ears perked forward slightly. “Someone with enough power to manipulate palace security, access classified information about our location, and remain hidden even after their conspirator’s death.”
“Exactly,” Tim said. “We’re looking for someone with deep connections inside the palace, military access, and motivation to eliminate both you and Shasim.”
“Donald,” Nontslah breathed, pieces clicking together. “Tabitha said he staged a coup the same day Shasim died. That’s not coincidence.”
“Donald’s ambitious,” Tabitha said bitterly, her tail lashing. “But Mother, we don’t have proof he ordered the actual murders. He’s opportunistic—seized power the moment Father died. But the attack itself? That might have been someone else.”
Tim nodded. “Vexrin worked directly under Commander Pearcee. If she were the ‘Big Boss,’ Donald could have simply taken advantage of the chaos without being involved in the planning.”
Nontslah’s claws extended slightly, gripping the bedsheets. “Or Donald orchestrated everything and used Pearcee as his weapon. Promised her something—promotion, power, money—in exchange for eliminating the king and queen who stood in his way.”
“That’s what I think,” Tabitha said quietly. “Father trusted Donald completely. Gave him access to everything—schedules, security protocols, personal information. Donald knew exactly where you’d be, when you’d be vulnerable, who could be manipulated into helping.”
“And then he waited,” Tammy added, her voice shaking with anger. “Waited for his assassins to succeed, then swooped in to ‘save’ the kingdom from instability. The perfect crime.”
Nontslah closed her eyes, exhaustion and rage warring across her features. “Shasim probably died never suspecting Donald’s betrayal. Thirty years of loyal service, and it was all preparation for murder.”
Tim watched her carefully, recognizing dangerous fury building beneath grief. “Nontslah, we need evidence. Solid proof connecting Donald to the attack. Right now, everything is circumstantial.”
“Then find it,” Nontslah said, her voice hardening with royal authority. “Tim, I’m authorizing you to investigate Donald with full access to palace records, security files, everything. Tabitha, coordinate with him. I want that bastard’s head on a spike.”
Dell cleared her throat from the doorway. “Your Majesty, you need rest. This conversation is raising your blood pressure dangerously.”
“My husband is dead because of a traitor!” Nontslah snapped, then immediately softened, tears returning. “I’m sorry, Dell. You’re right. I just ... I need justice. For Shasim.”
The three of them stepped into the corridor, Dell closing the door behind them with a soft click. For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Finally, Tabitha exhaled shakily. “We can’t tell her everything. Not yet.”
“She needs something to focus on besides grief,” Tammy agreed quietly, wiping her eyes. “If she knew Donald’s already been dealt with, that there’s no revenge left to take...”
Tim leaned against the wall, his expression grim. “She’d have nothing to fight for. No reason to push through recovery.” He looked at both sisters. “Your mother’s a warrior. Warriors need missions.”
“So we give her one,” Tabitha said, her voice hollow. “We let her believe Donald’s still out there, still needs to be brought to justice. We let her think her investigation matters, that she can still make a difference.”
“It’s not entirely a lie,” Tim pointed out carefully. “The ‘Big Boss’ Vexrin mentioned—we still don’t know if that was Donald or someone else. Commander Pearcee’s involvement isn’t fully explained. There are legitimate mysteries remaining.”
Tammy’s tail curled tight around her waist. “But we’re manipulating her. Using her need for justice to keep her alive.”
“To keep her fighting,” Tabitha corrected firmly. “Mother needs a purpose. Father’s gone. Her kingdom moved on without her. If we don’t give her something concrete to hold onto, she’ll...” She couldn’t finish.
Tim understood. ‘She’ll give up. Let grief consume her completely.’
“Dell thinks she’s strong enough?” he asked.
“Dell thinks she needs a reason to be strong,” Tabitha replied. “Investigating Donald gives her that.”
They stood in uncomfortable silence, three people who loved Nontslah enough to lie to her.
For her own good.
Tim stepped into the hallway, his shoulders still heavy from Nontslah’s grief. ‘Need to focus,’ he thought. ‘The investigation can wait. Right now, I need to find the next sister ship.’
Sarha’s voice filled the chamber. “Tim, establishing connection to the Architect’s network.”
The air shimmered, and a holographic figure materialized—one of the Architect’s worker forms, simple and unremarkable except for the ancient presence that radiated from it.
“Captain Tim,” the Architect’s resonant voice emerged. “This is unexpected. You rarely initiate contact.”
“I need information,” Tim said directly. “You’ve been monitoring sister ships across the galaxy for millions of years. Where’s the next one we should find?”
The Architect’s worker form tilted its head slightly, a gesture that suggested consideration. “You seek another rescue mission. Interesting timing, given the tragedy on Katteena.”
Tim’s jaw tightened. “How do you know about that?”
“I observe. It is my nature.” The ancient intelligence paused. “Queen Nontslah awakens. King Shasim remains dead. You carry guilt you did not earn.”
“Can we focus on the sister ship?” Tim said, deflecting.
The Architect’s form went still for several long moments. “The next vessel ... is problematic.”
“Problematic how?” Tim asked, his tactical mind engaging.
“I have been tracking a sister ship designated Meridian-8 for approximately six hundred years. Its behavior is ... unprecedented.” The ancient voice carried something Tim had never heard before—uncertainty. “It does not remain in one location.”
Sarha’s hologram appeared beside Tim. “Sister ships don’t move on their own. Not without crew input.”
“Precisely,” the Architect agreed. “Yet Meridian-8 appears in different sectors every few months. It follows no pattern I can discern. No hyperspace signatures. No detectable propulsion. It simply ... relocates.”
Tim felt a chill run down his spine. “That’s impossible.”
“I have observed the impossible for three million years, Captain. This qualifies.” The Architect’s worker form gestured, and star charts appeared in holographic form. “Last confirmed location was the Veil Nebula, eighteen days ago. Before that, the Horsehead Nebula. Before that, an unnamed system near galactic core. The jumps are random—or appear random.”
“What about distress signals?” Tim pressed.
“None. No communications whatsoever. Just ... movement.”
“How many times has it moved?” Tim asked, studying the star charts.
“Forty-seven confirmed relocations in six centuries. Each jump separated by intervals ranging from three weeks to fourteen months.” The Architect paused. “There is more that disturbs me.”
“What?”
“Meridian-8 is not listed in any Dhandrilan fleet records I possess. Its designation suggests it should exist, but there are no construction logs, no crew manifests, no mission parameters. It is as if someone erased its entire history.”
Sarha’s holographic form flickered with agitation. “That’s impossible. Dhandrilan record-keeping was meticulous. Every ship was documented in triplicate across multiple repositories.”
“Yet this one was not,” the Architect insisted. “I have searched for six hundred years. No data exists beyond visual confirmation that it exists and moves.”
Tim’s instincts screamed warning. “Visual confirmation from where?”
“Multiple civilizations have reported brief encounters. The ship appears, remains stationary for days or weeks, then vanishes. No one has successfully approached within scanning range. Those who try experience ... equipment failures.”
“What kind of failures?”
“Complete system shutdown. Navigation, propulsion, life support—everything goes dark simultaneously. Ships drift helpless until Meridian-8 disappears, then systems restore instantly.”
Tim exchanged a look with Sarha. “That sounds like a defense mechanism.”
“Or a warning,” the Architect replied. “I cannot determine which. The ship-mind, if it still functions, does not respond to any communication attempts. Quantum signals, radio waves, even ancient Dhandrilan protocols—all ignored.”
“Could the ship-mind be damaged?” Sarha asked, concern evident in her voice.
“Possible. Or it could be functioning perfectly and deliberately avoiding contact.” The Architect’s worker form moved closer to the holographic display. “There is one more anomaly.”
“Of course there is,” Tim muttered.
“Every location where Meridian-8 appears has one commonality—they are all sites of ancient Dhandrilan outposts. Places my civilization established millions of years ago, then abandoned.”
Tim’s tactical mind processed that. “It’s visiting old bases. Like it’s searching for something.”
“Or running from something,” the Architect countered. “I cannot predict where it will appear next. The pattern, if one exists, eludes even my analysis.”
“So we’re hunting a ghost ship that might not want to be found,” Tim said flatly.
“Essentially, yes. Do you still wish to pursue this rescue?”
Tim’s expression hardened. “It’s a sister ship. That means we find it.”
“Your determination is admirable, if potentially reckless,” the Architect observed. “Meridian-8 has evaded detection for six centuries. What makes you believe you can succeed where I have failed?”
Tim’s jaw set stubbornly. “Because I don’t give up on my people. Every sister ship has crew who need help, who deserve rescue. I don’t care how long it’s been wandering.”
The Architect was silent for a moment. “There may be no crew left to rescue, Captain. Six hundred years is a long time.”
“Then I’ll find out what happened to them. Give them proper closure instead of mystery.” Tim’s hands clenched at his sides. ’Like Nontslah deserves closure. Like Shasim deserves justice.’
Sarha’s hologram moved closer, her expression concerned. “Tim, this mission feels different. More dangerous.”
“They’re all dangerous,” Tim replied quietly. “But we’ve brought home thirteen sister ships. We’re not stopping now.”
The Architect’s worker form seemed to study him. “You carry fresh grief, Captain. Pursuing mysteries while emotionally compromised is unwise.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not. But you will pursue this regardless.” The ancient intelligence paused. “Very well. I will monitor for Meridian-8’s next appearance and alert you immediately.”
Tim headed back to the bridge of SSG1, his footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors. The conversation with the Architect had left him unsettled, but he needed to focus on actionable intelligence rather than mysteries he couldn’t yet solve.
His office felt too quiet when he entered. He dropped into his chair and activated the console. “Sarha, I need a consolidated update on the status of the sister ships. Everything—locations, missions, crew conditions, repair progress.”
Sarha’s holographic form appeared across from his desk, her expression showing concern for him but professional enough not to mention it. “Compiling now, Tim.”
A three-dimensional display materialized between them, showing the current fleet disposition. Sarha began her report with practiced efficiency.
“SSG2 and April just located our position after tracking the emergency jump signature. Susan reports all systems optimal and is standing by for orders.”
“SSG3 and Vera are at the Nexus Forge system, supporting nine hundred twenty-three thousand Nexari engineers. Thomas reports colonization proceeding smoothly. No issues.”
“Lysa—SSG4—is managing agricultural production across multiple worlds in the Whirlpool Galaxy. Her colony is thriving. Production quotas are exceeding projections by eighteen percent.”
Tim nodded, letting the familiar routine of fleet management ground him. ‘Focus on what I can control,’ he thought.
“Terra is on standby in the home system. Three hundred years of combat experience against the Drak’thuul means she’s ready for anything. No hostile activity in her defended space.”
“Kaila is conducting diplomatic missions between alliance member worlds. Her experience managing refugees makes her perfect for cultural integration work.”
“Nova is establishing Korvathian agricultural colonies in the Verdant Reaches. Six hundred twenty-five thousand people settling successfully.”
Sarha paused, her expression softening slightly. “Stellaris is on perimeter defense patrol. She participated in the quantum resonance lance mission against the Infinite Mind. Fully operational.”
Tim’s hands rested on his desk, fingers interlaced. The fleet was functioning. His people were safe, productive, making differences across multiple galaxies.
But somewhere out there, Meridian-8 wandered alone.
“Echo-7 is in the home system,” Sarha continued. “Seventeen crew members emerged from stasis after we eliminated the Synthesis-9 contamination. She’s running diagnostics and getting reacquainted with the fleet.”
“Jack—Whisper-3—is ninety percent through his systems upgrades in Drydock Bay Three. First confirmed male ship-mind in the fleet.” Sarha’s tone carried a hint of amusement. “He’s been helpful with Gento’s engineering projects.”
“Aurora-9 is providing medical support. Dr. Dell is currently stationed aboard her.” Sarha hesitated. “Aurora-9 received casualties from the final battle—Emelia, Lyssa, Pauline, and you. All are recovering well.”
Tim’s expression darkened briefly at the mention of injuries, but he gestured for Sarha to continue.
“Harmony-12 is sixty percent through reconstruction in Drydock Bay Seven. Gento’s supervising the work personally. She was trapped twelve hundred years mediating a three-faction war.”
“Serenity-15 is operational after destroying the Infinite Mind entity. Eight hundred forty-seven years of isolation ended. She’s integrating well with the fleet.”
“Sentinel-5 was just rescued from Progenitor space with eighteen crew members recovered. Captain Torres didn’t survive, but the rest are in good condition.”
Tim absorbed the information, his tactical mind cataloging strengths, weaknesses, deployment options. Thirteen sister ships found. Thousands of lives saved.
And one ghost ship still wandering the darkness.
Tim leaned back in his chair, processing the fleet status. Thirteen sister ships accounted for, crews recovering, missions progressing. Everything functioning as it should.
Except for one ghost ship that refused to be found.
“Sarha, any patterns in Meridian-8’s appearances that the Architect might have missed? Something we could—”
A priority alert chimed across his console, interrupting mid-sentence. The holographic display shifted, showing an incoming communication through the MTS network from coordinates Tim didn’t recognize.
“Unknown origin,” Sarha reported, her form flickering with curiosity. “The signal is coming from ... Galaxy 147 in the Architect’s database. Designated Archivum.”
“Never heard of it,” Tim said, sitting forward. “What do they want?”
“Translating now.” Sarha paused, her expression shifting to surprise. “Tim, they’re requesting urgent contact with you specifically. By name.”
That made Tim’s instincts prickle. “How do they know my name?”
The communication resolved into a holographic figure—a tall, slender being with crystalline skin that seemed to refract light into spectrum patterns. Four eyes arranged vertically along its elongated face blinked in sequence.
“Captain Timothy Bodge of SSG1,” the being said in perfectly translated Standard. “I am Curator Venn’s hall of the Collectors’ Archive. We have ... discovered something that concerns you directly.”
“I’m listening,” Tim said cautiously.
“Three days ago, our archivists accessed a sealed vault in our deepest repository—records dating back 4.7 million years, predating even the Dhandrilan Collective.” Venn’s hall’s four eyes all focused on Tim simultaneously. “The vault contained technological schematics, historical records, and warnings about an entity called ‘The Silence.’”
Tim’s hand moved unconsciously toward his sidearm. “What kind of warnings?”
“Warnings that specifically mention you by name, Captain. And detailed information about something the ancient records call ‘The Wandering Eight.’” Venn’s hall paused, all four eyes blinking in obvious distress. “Captain Bodge, these records were written millions of years before you were born. Yet they describe your ship, your mission, and your search for the sister ships with perfect accuracy.”
Tim’s blood ran cold. Records written millions of years ago that mentioned him by name? That was impossible. Unless...
’Unless someone knew I’d be searching for these ships, ’ he thought, his tactical mind racing through implications. ’Someone who could see across time, or manipulate events to make their predictions come true.’
“That’s not possible,” Tim said aloud, his voice harder than he intended. “Nobody could have known about me millions of years ago.”
Curator Venn’s hall’s crystalline skin shifted colors, patterns flowing like agitated water. “We thought the same, Captain. Our archivists believed the vault contained corrupted data, a glitch in our preservation systems. But the records are authentic—verified through seventeen different dating methodologies.”
Sarha’s hologram moved closer to Tim’s shoulder. “Tim, this could be connected to Meridian-8. The Architect said it was erased from Dhandrilan records. Maybe whoever wrote these ancient warnings also erased the ship’s data.”
“What exactly do these records say about me?” Tim demanded, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair.
Venn’s hall’s four eyes blinked in sequence—a gesture Tim was beginning to recognize as anxiety. “They describe your alliance, your rescue missions, your discovery of the MTS technology. They list the names of sister ships you would find—SSG3, SSG4, Terra, Kaila. All ships you have already rescued.”
“How many ships are listed?” Sarha asked sharply.
“Fourteen,” Venn’s hall replied. “Thirteen you have found, and one designated as ‘The Wandering Eight—Meridian-8.’ The records state that this ship must never be boarded, never be approached, never be rescued.”
Tim stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the deck. “Why?”
“Because Meridian-8 does not contain a crew, Captain. It contains The Silence—an entity that the ancient records describe as ‘the end of consciousness, the death of thought, the void between minds.’ The warnings are explicit: any attempt to rescue Meridian-8 will result in catastrophic failure.”
The office suddenly felt colder. Tim’s mind raced through the implications. A sister ship that wasn’t really a sister ship. An entity masquerading as a rescue mission. And somehow, millions of years ago, someone knew he would come looking for it.
“I need to see these records personally,” Tim said, his voice carrying absolute authority. “Can you provide coordinates for the Archive?”
Venn’s hall’s colors shifted to a deep purple that suggested both relief and fear. “Yes, Captain. But there is one more detail you should know before you come.”
“What?”
“The vault also contained a message. A personal communication addressed to ‘Captain Timothy Bodge, Seeker of the Lost.’ It has been waiting for you for 4.7 million years.”
Tim’s hands clenched into fists. A message waiting for him for nearly five million years. The impossibility of it made his head spin, but the tactical implications were worse—someone had been planning this, manipulating events across incomprehensible spans of time.
“What does the message say?” he asked quietly.
Curator Venn’s Hall’s shifted uncomfortably, crystalline skin flickering with uncertain patterns. “We don’t know, Captain. The message is encrypted with technology we cannot decode. Our best analysts have spent three days attempting to access it. The encryption adapts, evolves, defeats every attempt.”
“But it’s addressed to me specifically,” Tim said, processing the implications.
“Yes. The vault’s opening mechanism was keyed to quantum signatures matching your MTS network. When you activated the portals across multiple galaxies, it triggered a cascade that unlocked the vault. We believe the message will only open for you personally.”
Sarha’s holographic form pulsed with concern. “Tim, this could be a trap. Luring you to a specific location with promises of answers.”
“Or it could be a warning I desperately need,” Tim countered. He looked at Venn’s Hall’s directly. “These records—do they say what The Silence wants? What its purpose is?”
The Curator’s four eyes blinked rapidly, all simultaneously this time—pure fear. “The records describe it as a consciousness predator. It feeds on sentient thought, consumes minds, leaves empty shells behind. The ancient civilization that wrote these warnings claimed The Silence destroyed seventeen galaxies before they managed to trap it inside Meridian-8.”
“They trapped it inside a sister ship?” Sarha’s voice carried horror. “Why would they do that?”
“Because Dhandrilan ship-minds were the only technology capable of containing it. The sister ship’s consciousness acts as a cage, constantly battling The Silence to prevent its escape. But the records warn that the ship-mind cannot hold forever.”
Tim felt sick. Somewhere out there, a sister ship consciousness had been fighting alone for millions of years, containing an entity that destroyed galaxies. And he’d been planning to rescue it.
“How long does the ship-mind have?” he asked.
Venn’s Hall’s colors shifted to deep crimson. “According to the calculations in the vault, Captain ... approximately six months. After that, the containment will fail, and The Silence will be free to spread across the galaxy again.”
Tim’s jaw tightened. Six months to figure out how to destroy an entity that survived for millions of years, or watch it consume every thinking mind in the galaxy.
“Send me the coordinates to the Archive,” he said, his voice carrying steel. “I’m coming to read that message.”
Tim stared at the fleet status display, his mind still processing the mystery of Meridian-8. A ghost ship that moved without explanation, erased from all records, possibly containing something called “The Silence.”
His communicator chimed. Deniece’s voice came through, gentle but concerned. “Tim, I brought Jane to the medical bay. She collapsed after her council meeting—pushed herself too hard.”
Tim stood immediately. “Is she okay? The babies?”
“Dell says they’re fine, but Jane’s exhausted. Stress levels through the roof. She needs rest and probably someone to tell her she’s not invincible.”
“I’m on my way.” Tim closed the fleet status reports and headed for the medical bay.
The Architect’s mystery could wait. Right now, one of his wives needed him.
He walked through SSG1’s corridors, his enhanced senses picking up the familiar hum of the ship’s systems. ’Jane tried to handle everything alone, ’ he thought. ’Just like I do. Probably why we’re both terrible at asking for help.’
The medical bay doors opened quietly. Jane lay in a recovery bed, her eyes closed, medical monitors displaying stable but elevated vitals. She looked small, vulnerable—nothing like the confident governor who’d negotiated trade agreements.
“Hey,” Tim said softly, pulling a chair beside her bed.
Jane’s eyes opened, focusing on him. “Tim. You didn’t have to come.”
“I wanted to.” He settled into the chair, studying her pale features. “Deniece said you pushed yourself too hard at the council meeting. What happened?”
“They didn’t take the marriage announcement well,” Jane admitted, her voice tired. “Accusations of conflict of interest, questions about my loyalty. One councilor suggested I traded sexual favors for planetary protection.”
Tim’s jaw tightened. “Who said that?”
“Councilor Venn. But she apologized later, after I explained ... everything.” Jane’s hand moved to her stomach unconsciously. “They voted to let me keep my position, but only after I defended our entire relationship structure in front of twelve people.”
“Jane, you just had a medical emergency three days ago. You should be resting, not fighting political battles.”
“I’m the governor,” she said quietly. “I had responsibilities.”
“You have responsibilities to yourself and those babies too,” Tim countered gently. “What good are you to Kuma-7 if you collapse from exhaustion?”
Jane looked away. “I didn’t know how else to handle it.”
“By asking for help,” Tim said. “That’s what family is for, Jane. You didn’t have to face that council alone.”
“They’re my council. My responsibility.”
“And you’re my wife. That makes it my responsibility too.” Tim leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Jane, I’ve made the same mistake—trying to handle everything myself, pushing until I break. Dell threatened to call Deniece on me just yesterday for the same reason.”
Jane’s lips twitched slightly. “So we’re both terrible at this.”
“Apparently.” Tim’s expression softened. “But that’s why we have seven other wives who are better at recognizing when we’re being stubborn idiots.”
“Deniece came through that portal so fast,” Jane said, her voice catching. “I was sitting there, completely drained, and suddenly she was just ... there. Telling me to stop being heroic and let people help.”
“She’s good at that,” Tim agreed. “Probably had the same conversation with me a hundred times.”
Jane met his eyes. “How do you do it, Tim? Balance everything—eight wives, eventually seven children, commanding a fleet, diplomatic crises. How do you not collapse?”
“I don’t,” Tim admitted quietly. “Two days ago, I was on Aurora-9 recovering from injuries. Before that, I pushed myself so hard during a mission that my nanobots were working overtime to keep me conscious.”
Jane looked surprised. “You were injured?”
“Final battle during the Sentinel-5 rescue. Got hit pretty hard.” Tim’s hand moved unconsciously to his side. “Emelia, Lyssa, and Pauline were all injured too. We spent two days in Aurora-9’s medical bay while Dell patched us up.”
“So when you said Dell threatened to call Deniece...”
“She meant it. I tried to leave the medical bay early, and Dell basically ordered me back to bed.” Tim smiled ruefully. “Deniece showed up, gave me that look she has, and I stopped arguing.”
Jane processed that. “You’re telling me the fleet commander, the man who rescued thirteen sister ships, gets ordered around by his wives?”
“Constantly,” Tim confirmed. “Because they’re right, Jane. I push too hard, ignore my limits, and pretend I’m invincible. Sound familiar?”
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