He stops, looking mortified that he just called me genetically compatible again.
“Professional safety inspectors,” he corrects for the fourth time. “Very professional. Extremely professional. Your professional... competence... is most... stimulating to witness.”
The word ‘stimulating’ comes out rough, almost growled, and I watch his pupils dilate again as he realizes what he’s said.
My scanner, clearly enjoying this more than any piece of equipment should, displays: SUBJECT STRESS LEVELS: MAXIMUM. PHEROMONE OUTPUT: UNPRECEDENTED. BIOLOGICAL COMPATIBILITY INDICATORS: HIGHLY FAVORABLE.
Highly favorable. My equipment is rating our biological compatibility.
I really need new gear.
A rough laugh scrapes across the platform behind me, like metal dragging against stone. “Well, well. Crash finally got himself a proper inspection.”
The voice belongs to a grizzled human courier whose breath could strip paint and whose personal hygiene has clearly been optional for several months. Logarx, according to his name patch—though whether that’s first name or last, I can’t tell. His bloodshot gaze crawls over me with the subtlety of a cargo scanner, lingering in places that make my skin crawl for entirely different reasons than Crash’s presence does.
“Hope she’s real thorough,” Logarx continues, stepping closer with the confidence of someone who’s never learned about personal space or basic human decency. His smile reveals teeth that have clearly given up the fight against various forms of decay. “Real thorough. Make sure to check all his... equipment. I bet he’s got some real interesting... tools that need a close inspection.”
The innuendo is as subtle as a plasma blast to the face.
“I assure you, Mr. Logarx, my inspections are always thorough and professional,” I say crisply, taking a step back and wishing I’d brought my stun baton to somewhere more accessible than my equipment belt.
“Oh, I bet they are, sweetheart. Real professional.” His grin widens, showing more of those unfortunate teeth. “Maybe you need someone to show you around the station? I know all the best... inspection points. All the dark, private places where you can really get hands-on with the equipment.”
The change in Crash is instantaneous and absolutely terrifying. Behind him, Jitters dissolves into a puddle and shoots up the ventilation shaft faster than physics should allow. Seeing the alien pet abandon ship is not reassuring at all.
The vanilla-honey scent vanishes like it was never there, replaced by something sharp and metallic that hits my hindbrain like a sledgehammer. Every primitive survival instinct I possess screams DANGER in letters ten feet tall. The temperature doesn’t just spike around us—it becomes scorching, like someone opened a blast furnace. The very air seems to thicken and press against my skin with malevolent intent.
My scanner doesn’t shriek—it emits a flat, dissonant wail, the Code Black alert I haven’t heard since the mining disaster simulations. The readout flickers through alerts so fast I can barely read them: HOSTILE BIOLOGICAL AGENT DETECTED. THREAT LEVEL: MAXIMUM. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE EVACUATION. TOXIC COMPOUND ANALYSIS: PENDING. SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: DECLINING.
This is what the other inspectors experienced. This crushing sense of imminent death, this absolute certainty that I’m in the presence of something that could end me without effort or remorse.
2
Threat Assessment
Zola
Crashmoveswithliquidmenace, placing himself between me and Logarx with predatory grace that’s beautiful and absolutely lethal. The golden scales along his arms aren’t just visible now—they’re gleaming like armor plating, catching the red warning lights and throwing them back in sharp, dangerous reflections. His ears have elongated to proper points, his fangs are clearly visible, and when he speaks, his voice carries an undertone that vibrates through the platform’s metal decking and makes my bones ache.
“You will remove yourself from this area, Logarx.” Each word is precisely articulated, formal and cold as the vacuum between stars. “Immediately.”
It’s not a request. It’s the kind of statement that comes right before violence—the verbal equivalent of drawing a blade and holding it at someone’s throat. The air around him shimmers with barely contained aggression, and I catch a glimpse of something in his golden eyes that’s far older and more dangerous than any courier should possess.
Logarx goes pale, his swagger disappearing as if someone’s cut his strings. He stumbles backward, and I can smell the sharp tang of fear-sweat mixing with his existing bouquet of personal neglect.
“Stars, Crash, I was just being friendly,” he mutters, but he’s already backing toward his own ship. “No need to go all... whatever the fuck that was.”
“Leave Logarx,” Crash repeats, and the word comes out like he’s tasting something rotten.
Logarx flees.
As soon as the other courier disappears, the metallic scent fades like smoke. The crushing sense of threat lifts so abruptly I actually stagger. Crash’s golden markings dim back to their normal gentle luminescence, the temperature returns to normal, and the air stops trying to suffocate me.
He’s trembling, but not from adrenaline. He’s staring at his hands—the claws still fully extended—and then he looks at me with the flinching anticipation of a kicked dog. He’s waiting for me to scream. He’s waiting for me to run like the others.
What the hell did I just witness?
My scanner is still shrieking warnings about toxic compounds and evacuation protocols, but my hands are steady. My heart should be hammering with terror, but instead it’s a heavy, wet thud low in my belly. My fight-or-flight response has apparently decided that ‘fight’ means ‘climb him like a tree.’ It’s the most unprofessional physiological reaction I’ve ever had, and I can’t even blame the pheromones. It’s him. This is what drove the other inspectors to file emergency reports and flee for their lives. This crushing certainty of imminent death.
