“And run a full systems diagnostic.”
“Excellent idea.”
“Maybe recalibrate the atmospheric processors.”
“Certainly.”
We’re both grasping at technical tasks to avoid acknowledging what almost happened, but my biology isn’t cooperating with the pretense. Every time she moves, every time she speaks in that crisp professional tone while her scent still carries traces of arousal, my pheromone production spikes.
Which is when KiKi decides to be helpful.
“Attention, bonded partners!” the AI announces with inappropriate enthusiasm. “I’m detecting elevated stress hormones, increased pheromone production, and what my upgraded protocols identify as ‘unresolved sexual tension.’ Shall I dim the lights and play soft music to encourage completion of bonding activities?”
“No!” we both say simultaneously.
“Are you certain? My databases suggest that interrupted intimate encounters often result in biological frustration that can be resolved through—”
“KiKi,” Zola says firmly, “no relationship advice.”
“But the atmospheric contamination readings are quite concerning,” KiKi continues. “Current pheromone concentration is approaching levels that could affect ship systems.”
I freeze. “What do you mean, affect ship systems?”
“Well, the air filtration processors are working overtime to cycle the biochemical compounds you’re both producing. Engine efficiency is currently reduced by thirty-seven percent due to the extra power drain.”
The words hit like a gravity well collapsing in my chest. My arousal is literally sabotaging our ship.
Heat floods my face—actual heat, the kind that has nothing to do with biology and everything to do with mortification so complete I want to melt into the deck plating. I’m not just failing to control my responses. I’m actively endangering us through sheer biochemical incompetence.
“Engine efficiency reduced by how much?” Zola asks, her professional demeanor snapping into place.
“Thirty-seven percent and climbing,” KiKi reports cheerfully. “At current production levels, I estimate complete atmospheric contamination within six hours.”
“And then what happens?”
“Oh, the engines will function normally, but anyone breathing the air will experience heightened arousal, reduced inhibitions, and what humans typically describe as ‘being incredibly horny.’”
The mortification deepens. I’ve turned the ship into a floating aphrodisiac delivery system.
“I am very sorry,” I manage, my voice strangled with embarrassment. “This is... I have never... this level of loss of control is completely unacceptable.”
“It’s not your fault,” Zola says, but I can see her brilliant mind working through the implications. “Can you control the pheromone production?”
“Not easily. The bonding creates automatic responses to your proximity, your emotional state, your...” I trail off, realizing what I’m about to admit.
“My what?”
“Your competence,” I say miserably. “When you demonstrate professional expertise or tactical thinking, my biology responds with enthusiasm.”
She stares at me. “So when I was examining your glands and being all medical and thorough...”
“My pheromone production increased dramatically, yes.”
“And when I make command decisions or solve problems...”
“Also yes.”
“So essentially, the more professional and competent I am, the more your biology tries to seduce everyone on the ship.”
