Chapter Twenty-One
The Hauler with Too Many Pickles
The S.S. Cosmic Clover slipped away from Hearthpoint Station with a full belly (Kael), a pocket of new wooden tokens (Kessa), and a faint dusting of cinnamon still clinging to the galley counters (the robot bee’s fault… mostly).
Kael guided the ship into a soft-lane drift, comfortable and slow. Kessa sprawled across her seat like a satisfied cat, hands behind her head.
“You know,” she said dreamily, “if we lived at Hearthpoint, I’d gain twenty pounds in soup weight.”
Kael smirked. “You already gained five.”
Kessa gasped. “How dare you.”
The robot bee buzzed past Kael’s ear and landed on Kessa’s knee like it was tallying soup sins.
“Traitor,” she whispered.
Kael leaned back, stretching. “We should send Nathan a thank-you message.”
“Yes,” Kessa agreed. “But later. Right now… I want to float.”
Kael raised an eyebrow. “Float?”
She flicked a switch.
The Clover’s artificial grav gently eased down to half strength.
Kessa lifted an inch above her seat. “Ahhhh. Freedom.”
Kael’s hair lifted slightly. “Kessa—”
“Kael, it’s drift day. You can’t deny a girl her drift day.”
He sighed. “Fine. Just don’t—”
Ping.
The comms panel lit up.
Kessa groaned. “Ugh. Responsibility.”
Kael tapped the control. “Incoming hail.”
A shaky voice crackled through the speakers.
“Um… h–hello? This is the hauler Dovetail. I, uh… I seem to be in a bit of a—well—pickle.”
Kessa’s eyebrows shot up. Kael mouthed: No. She mouthed back: Oh yes.
Kael took the call. “This is the Clover. What’s your situation?”
A frantic voice replied:
“I…I bought too many pickles.”
Kael froze.
Kessa stared at the speaker.
The robot bee did a confused spin.
There was a long silence before the voice added:
“And… they’re everywhere.”
Kessa covered her mouth. “Oh no.”
Kael pinched his nose. “Define ‘everywhere.’”
“EVERYWHERE,” the voice squeaked. “The crates broke. They’re rolling around the cargo bay. And the galley. And the crew bunks. And I’m slipping and sliding every time I move. I’ve fallen four times. FOUR.”
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Kael muttered, “We’re living in a cosmic comedy.”
Kessa was already unbuckling her harness. “We’re helping them.”
“What?” Kael said. “Kes—”
“Yes,” she said decisively. “They’re in a pickle.”
Kael groaned. “No.”
Kessa beamed. “YES.”
The bee buzzed appreciatively at the pun.
Kael looked up at the ceiling. “Stars save me.”
The Pickle Problem
The Dovetail was a small courier ship with a cheerful paint job and a decidedly un-cheerful aura as the Clover approached.
Through the viewport Kael could see the problem immediately.
Pickles. Floating pickles. Drifting in zero-G like green comets.
Kessa covered her mouth again. “Kael. They’re orbiting.”
Kael nodded grimly. “An actual… pickle-planetary system.”
The comm channel opened again.
The voice — higher, panicked, and slightly damp — squeaked:
“Do you have… like… nets? Or towels? Or emotional support?”
Kessa whispered, “Kael we HAVE to help.”
Kael rubbed his forehead. “Fine. But we’re using containment suits. I draw the line at brine stains.”
Boarding the Dovetail
The moment the airlock opened between the two ships, a single pickle drifted past Kessa’s helmet visor with all the majesty of a tiny green satellite.
She giggled helplessly.
Kael sighed. “Stay focused.”
A young hauler, wide-eyed and mortified, clung to a handrail inside. His name tag read:
Ril Finn — Apprentice Courier (He/Him, Emergency Rating: Please Don’t Ask)
Ril waved frantically. “THANK YOU for answering. I—I tripped on crate one. Then crate two fell. And then crate three—”
“All broke?” Kessa guessed.
Ril nodded miserably. “They were the good kind, too. Spiced. My captain LOVES spiced.”
Kael surveyed the floating chaos. “Let’s start with containment.”
Kessa saluted. “On it!”
Ril blinked. “You… you’re not scared of them?”
Kessa grinned. “Please. My brother and I handled emotionally dramatic kale last week.”
Ril stared. “Emotionally… what?”
Kael waved it off. “Long story.”
The robot bee zipped forward and began trying to herd pickles like a very tiny, very confused sheepdog.
Three Haulers and a Jar
Between the three of them — and the determined little robot bee — they wrangled the pickles back into makeshift containers made of cargo mesh, silicone pans, and two laundry bags.
Kessa laughed so hard at one point she nearly floated into a bulkhead.
Kael muttered at least six mutinous things under his breath but kept working.
Ril apologized so many times Kessa eventually taped his mouth shut with sterile strip tape “in self-defense.”
When the last pickle was secured, Ril flopped against a wall, exhausted.
“Thank you,” he wheezed. “I was… literally drowning in brine.”
Kessa wiped her visor. “You were in a—”
“A pickle,” Kael said wearily.
Kessa blinked. “…KAEL DID A PUN.”
The robot bee buzzed triumphantly.
Ril stared. “Uh… should I be writing this down?”
“No,” Kael said.
“Yes,” Kessa said.
Safe Delivery (of Pickles)
Back aboard the Clover, Kessa kicked off her boots, laughing so hard tears streaked down her cheeks.
“That—was—AMAZING.”
Kael flopped into his chair. “We helped a stranger clean up pickles in zero-G.”
“Yes!” Kessa said brightly. “Small kindness!”
Kael paused, then nodded. “…Small kindness.”
Ril’s voice crackled over the comm one last time.
“Clover crew? If you ever need help… or pickles… or both… I owe you.”
Kessa grinned. “Deal.”
Kael added, “Travel safe. And secure your crates.”
Ril groaned. “Lesson learned.”
As they drifted away, the Clover’s lights brightened — subtle, pleased, proud.
Kessa kicked her feet up. “So. What next?”
Kael smiled — tired, warm, real.
“Next,” he said, “we take the next small step.”
Kessa nodded. “And maybe avoid pickles for a while.”
The robot bee buzzed in agreement.
And the Clover hummed her lantern-soft hum — guiding them back toward the long road ahead.
