2
Hyperspace Hiccup
Rynn
Thecourier’sshipisa sensory assault—and not just to enhanced senses.
I sit rigidly on the edge of what she generously refers to as a “comfort bench,” though comfort appears to be a subjective concept aboard Pink Slip. The bench’s synthetic covering emanates chemical signatures I catalog automatically: industrial-grade foam beneath worn pleather, traces of engine coolant, and something distinctly... her.
Sweet. Warm. Human.
My enhanced olfactory receptors process the information faster than I can suppress the reaction. Polly’s scent carries notes of artificial strawberry—her hair product—mixed with something uniquely organic that makes the micro-scale plating beneath my skin ripple with unwanted awareness.
Control yourself. I force my breathing to regulate, drawing on centuries of Valorian discipline to suppress the responses I’ve spent my life learning to hide. The diplomatic pouch rests securely in my inner jacket pocket, its weight negligible yet somehow heavier than the ancient tomes in our family’s restricted archives. The data inside is locked behind a Bio-Genetic Stasis seal that requires a biological frequency I have never been able to achieve on my own.
That is why we are going to Helios. They have the amplifiers. They have the machines that can simulate the necessary intensity to trick the lock into opening. Because if I cannot open it, my family loses everything.
“You’re doing it again,” Courier West—Polly—calls from the cockpit, her voice carrying over the cacophony she insists is music.
“Doing what, precisely?” I respond, my tone carefully modulated to reveal nothing of my inner turmoil. The bass reverberates through the deck plating, and I feel each vibrationas if it’s traveling directly through my bones. My people’s enhanced hearing makes every note razor-sharp, overwhelming.
She swivels her chair to face me, those unnaturally pink strands catching the light. “That thing with your face. Like you’ve tasted something sour but you’re too polite to spit it out.”
If only she knew. The involuntary facial micro-expressions are another side effect of stress—when my physiology is pushed, my control systems begin to fail. The careful mask I wear in civilized society requires constant maintenance, whether dealing with the Stellar Togetherness Initiative. Those STI bureaucrats and their endless regulations, Core World nobility, or apparently, irreverent human couriers who smell like artificial strawberries.
“I assure you, my expression is neutral.”
Her laugh is sudden and bright, and something in its pitch makes my skin warm several degrees—another inconvenient biological response to this strange human. “There’s nothing neutral about you, Rynn Valorian. Not the way you sit, or speak, or look at my ship like it might contaminate you with its... what would you call it? Plebeian charm?”
Before I can formulate an appropriately dismissive response, she increases the volume of her “music” with a flick of her wrist, then stretches languidly in her pilot’s seat. The movement draws my unwilling attention to the way her fitted shirt rides up slightly, revealing a tantalizing strip of skin above her belt. The bass hits frequencies that resonate through my enhanced bone density, and I actually flinch.
“Is this level of auditory assault necessary for navigation?” I inquire, unable to keep the strain from my tone.
“Absolutely essential,” she replies with mock seriousness, leaning forward in her chair with deliberate casualness. The angle gives me an unfortunate view down her shirt, and I force myself to look elsewhere. “The hyperspace harmonics respond to bass frequencies. Very technical. You wouldn’t understand.”
She’s baiting me deliberately, and from the satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, she knows exactly the effect she’s having on my composure. My hands tighten involuntarily on my knees—and immediately the material of my formal trousers shows stress patterns where my grip exceeded normal pressure.
Breathe. Center. Control.
The hyperspace jump sequence initiates with a familiar lurching sensation. Stars blur past the viewport as we enter that strange space between dimensions. Here, my enhanced senses become even more acute—I can feel the ship’s hull flexing against interdimensional pressure, hear the minute variations in the engine’s harmonic cycle, smell the ozone buildup in the electrical systems.
“ETA to Helios Station?” I ask, attempting to redirect my focus.
“Three hours, seventeen minutes,” she replies without checking her instruments. She leans back in her chair with feline grace, one leg tucked beneath her in a pose that emphasizes the curve of her hip. “Unless you’d prefer I push her a little harder?” There’s a gleam in her eye and a suggestive note in her voice that makes my temperature spike despite myself.
I’m about to refuse—more to preserve what’s left of my composure than from any concern about speed—when something shifts. The quality of the hyperspace around us changes, a subtle wrongness that my enhanced senses detect long before the ship’s instruments register anything.
My skin begins to tingle, the micro-scale plating beneath the surface responding to quantum fluctuations. The effect is subtle, barely visible, but in certain light it gives my deep olive complexion an almost metallic sheen.
“Polly,” I say, my voice sharpening with urgency as my enhanced perception processes the threat. “Something’s wrong with—”
The ship lurches violently sideways. Polly’s hands fly to the controls as alarms begin wailing, but I’m already moving. My primal instinct kicks in automatically—enhanced strength, faster reflexes, heightened awareness flooding my system. I’m beside her pilot’s chair in two strides that should have been impossible in the confined space.
“Hyperspace anomaly,” she says, her voice tight with concentration. “Big one. Zip, full diagnostic!”
“WARNING: GRAVIMETRIC DISTORTION DETECTED. HYPERSPACE INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE DROP TO NORMAL SPACE.”
Another tremor rocks the ship, and this time I react without thinking. My arm shoots out to brace Polly against the violent motion, and the moment my palm makes contact with her shoulder, several things happen at once.
