I’m going to dismantle that AI with my bare hands.
“PICKLES,” Dove says, color rising in her cheeks.
“I am merely providing relevant data. Also, Captain, your respiratory pattern becomes irregular when the Terraforming Specialist is in close proximity. I calculate this indicates—”
“That’s enough tactical intelligence for this morning,” Dove interrupts hastily. “Maybe focus on those system efficiency improvements instead.”
“As you wish, Captain. Though I feel compelled to note that ignoring relevant biometric data is statistically correlated with—”
“Pickles.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Your AI is troublesome,” I say, mostly to avoid addressing the biometric observations that are absolutely, mortifyingly accurate.
“He’s protective. In his own weird way.” Dove takes a sip of her coffee, and I’m staring at her lips against the cup rim before I can stop myself.
This is getting worse by the minute.
“the small person is awake,” Pickles announces. “Her biometrics suggest excitement. I calculate a 91% probability she’s planning matchmaking activities.”
“See?” Dove says. “Now your daughter’s going to be best friends with a sarcastic military AI who has no concept of boundaries.”
“I resent that characterization,” Pickles protests. “I have excellent boundaries. I simply choose when to observe them.”
Before I can formulate a response, Tavia’s voice carries from her room.
“Is Dove awake? Can I talk to Pickles? Papa, are you making that face again?”
“What face?” I call back.
“The face you make when you’re thinking about things you don’t want to admit you’re thinking about!”
My daughter is entirely too perceptive.
“I should go see what she needs,” I say, grateful for an excuse to extract myself from this kitchen where the atmospheric composition has become approximately 40% sexual tension and 60% complicated feelings.
“And I should probably check on my ship,” Dove says, but she’s smiling in a way that suggests she knows exactly why I’m fleeing.
“Yes. Efficient use of time.”
“Very efficient.”
Neither of us moves.
“Cetus?” she says softly.
“Yes?”
“Your markings are doing something really beautiful right now. What does that pattern mean?”
Increased cognitive focus, I should say. Atmospheric electromagnetic interference. Environmental factors.
“I’m not certain,” I say instead, which is a lie. I know exactly what this pattern means—it’s the one Lividians display when we’re attracted to someone, when proximity makes us want to close distance rather than maintain it, when every territorial instinct is quietly insisting mine.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s very nice to look at.” She sets down her coffee cup, and her hand lingers near mine on the counter. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel warmth radiating from her skin. “See you in a bit?”
“Yes. The sensor repair. We should address that.”
