Dove’s expression goes carefully neutral. “Tavia, I don’t want to put you or your father in danger—”
“But Papa can fix things! He’s really good at fixing things!” She turns to me with desperate hope. “Can’t you fix it so Dove doesn’t have to leave?”
Every protective instinct roars to life.
“I’m going to try,” I promise. To Tavia. To Dove. To myself. “I’m going to do everything I can.”
After breakfast, Tavia lingers at the table, clearly angling to eavesdrop on whatever conversation she’s determined Dove and I need to have.
“Small person,” Pickles says with suspicious cheer, “this would be an excellent time to review those orbital mechanics modules. The interactive simulations you’ve been requesting are now available.”
“But I want to stay and—”
“I have prepared seventeen different asteroid trajectory scenarios specifically calibrated to your current skill level. With explosions.”
Tavia perks up slightly. “Explosions?”
“Impressive explosions. However, they are time-sensitive and will expire in approximately—”
“I’m not falling for that, Pickles. You don’t have expiring—ow!” She jumps in her chair, rubbing her leg. “Did you just shock me?”
“I detect no such occurrence. Perhaps a minor static discharge from the chair’s upholstery. Entirely coincidental.”
“Pickles!”
“I recommend immediate relocation to your educational station to avoid further... coincidental discharges. The orbital mechanics simulations await.”
Tavia narrows her eyes at the ceiling. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“I am an AI. I do nothing ‘on purpose.’ I merely facilitate optimal learning environments and, when necessary, provide privacy for adult conversations that small persons should not overhear.”
“I’m not small, I’m eight!”
Another small zap makes her yelp.
“Pickles Foxton Storm, that’s cheating!”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to. Though I note the chair appears to be accumulating unusual amounts of static electricity. Perhaps you should relocate. Immediately.”
Tavia huffs, shooting us both a knowing look. “Fine. But I’m telling Mother Morrison that Pickles is abusing his electrical systems for romantic interference.”
“I’m certain she’ll be devastated,” Pickles says dryly. “Please proceed to your quarters before the furniture develops further electromagnetic anomalies.”
She stomps off, throwing one last comment over her shoulder: “I know you’re helping them be all romantic and stuff! You’re not as sneaky as you think!”
“The small person’s observational skills continue to exceed projections,” Pickles observes once her door closes. “Though I maintain that facilitating adult conversations is well within my operational parameters.”
Despite everything, Dove laughs. “Did you actually shock her?”
“I prefer to characterize it as strategically timed static discharge. For educational purposes.”
“You’re terrible,” I say without heat.
“I contain multitudes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have seventeen orbital mechanics simulations to actually generate, since I promised them. The lies we tell for romance.”
Which leaves me and Dove alone.
She’s washing dishes. I’m pretending to review maintenance logs. Neither of us mentions the tension thick enough to disrupt atmospheric readings.
