It’s a terrible idea. Guaranteed to hurt. Will make her departure exponentially more difficult.
“Yes,” I say anyway.
Her smile makes everything worth it.
“Good.” She pats my chest. “Now we should probably get out of this crawlspace before Pickles starts providing running commentary on our biometrics.”
“He’s already been documenting them.”
“Of course he has.” She laughs. “He’s probably preparing a comprehensive presentation.”
“He mentioned 612 slides.”
“That sounds exactly right.”
We extract ourselves from the crawlway into the larger maintenance area, and the loss of necessary proximity feels like a physical ache.
“Well,” she says, brushing dust off her coveralls. “That was productive.”
“The sensor array is functioning optimally.”
“Right. The sensors.” Her smile is knowing. “Very professional work.”
“Extremely professional.”
We’re both lying, and we both know it.
When we return to the residential pod, we find Tavia and Pickles engaged in collaborative scheme planning.
“—and then when they’re both in the hydroponics bay, I could say I need help with something urgent—” Tavia is saying.
“An excellent tactical distraction,” Pickles approves. “Though I calculate a 73% probability they’re already aware of each other’s interest. The biometric data is quite conclusive.”
“They’re being slow about it. Adults are weird.”
“Agreed. Perhaps we should—oh. Hello, Captain. Terraforming Specialist. Your return is... timely.”
Tavia spins around, patterns brightening with glee. “Papa! You’re back! Did you fix the sensors? Was Dove helpful? Did you talk about things that aren’t work?”
“We addressed the technical malfunction,” I say firmly.
“Papa’s marks are really bright,” Tavia observes with devastating accuracy. “They only do that when he’s really happy about something!”
“I’m happy the sensors are repaired.”
“Sure, Papa. The sensors.” She exchanges a look with Pickles’s speaker unit. “Do you want to help me with the hydroponics bay? I’m doing a science project.”
“That sounds suspiciously like an excuse to leave your father and me alone,” Dove says.
“No it doesn’t! It’s a real project! But also you should probably talk about things while I do my project. Adult things. Like feelings.”
“You’re eight years old.”
“Eight and three-quarters. And I’m very emotionally intelligent.” She grabs her data pad. “Pickles, you’ll help me document the plant growth patterns, right?”
“It would be my honor, small human.”
They disappear toward the hydroponics bay, leaving Dove and me alone in the suddenly very quiet residential pod.
