“Guest comfort is important.”
“Even if comfort involves being slightly uncomfortable?”
“Apparently.”
I’m smiling. When did I start smiling so easily?
I prepare coffee with methodical precision—water temperature, grounds measurement, timing. When I hand her a cup, it’s exactly how she mentioned liking it last night.
She notices immediately, her fingers brushing mine as she takes the cup. “You remembered.”
The contact sends electricity racing up my arm. My claws extend slightly before I force them to retract.
“I pay attention to details. It’s required for terraforming.” The words come out more intense than intended.
“Right. Professional attention to detail.” She holds my gaze, and her expression says she knows exactly how unprofessional my attention has become. “Thank you, Cetus.”
The way she says my name—soft, warm—makes me run hot enough to be uncomfortable.
This is a problem.
“Captain!” Her comm unit crackles to life, and we both flinch at the interruption. “Good morning! I have completed overnight diagnostics and have several items requiring your attention.”
Dove sighs. “Morning, Pickles.”
“Good morning, Terraforming Specialist Storm,” the AI continues with formal precision. “Your station’s atmospheric monitoring systems are impressively sophisticated. I took the liberty of integrating some of my sensor data with your network. I hope this is acceptable.”
I blink, forcing my attention away from how Dove looks in my shirt and toward the more immediate concern of unauthorized system access. “You integrated with my systems without authorization?”
“Pickles doesn’t ask permission,” Dove says. “He apologizes later. Usually.”
“I am a military-grade AI core,” Pickles says with audible dignity. “Integration is literally my function. Also, I’ve detected several efficiency improvements in your environmental controls that I’d be pleased to implement, should you grant authorization.”
Despite myself, I’m intrigued. “What kind of improvements?”
“Primarily thermal regulation optimization and predictive maintenance protocols. Your current systems are adequate, but I calculate a 23% efficiency increase with my modifications.”
“Adequate?”
“I meant no offense, Terraforming Specialist. Your systems are well-maintained for a single-operator facility with limited resources.”
“That’s Pickles for ‘I’m impressed but I’ll never admit it,’” Dove translates, and I notice she’s moved closer. Close enough that I can smell vanilla and clean skin.
Heat spreads along my neck and shoulders. This is becoming embarrassing.
“Your AI is distinctive.”
“He’s a menace. I salvaged him from a derelict military vessel. Spent three weeks putting him back together.”
“She named me Pickles because I’m ‘salty, sour, and got pulled out of a really bad situation to be preserved,’” the AI adds. “I am still processing whether this constitutes affection or insult.”
“Both,” Dove and I say simultaneously.
Our eyes meet. Shared humor, unexpected connection, heat.
The kind of moment that feels dangerously like compatibility.
“I have also taken the liberty of analyzing station biometric data,” Pickles continues, oblivious to—or deliberately ignoring—the charged atmosphere. “Terraforming Specialist Storm, your cardiovascular rhythm increases by 23% when Captain Foxton enters a room. This is statistically significant.”
