“Of course.”
“After you put on a shirt.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Is my current state of dress... distracting?”
“Your current state of dress is a workplace safety violation. I’m adding it to the compliance checklist.”
He does smile then. Full and real and devastating, his markings flaring warm gold. “I’ll return in five minutes. Appropriately attired.”
He leaves, and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since last night.
“Captain,” Pickles says, “your core temperature elevated by 1.3 degrees during that interaction. For reference, that exceeds your thermal response to the actual electromagnetic storm.”
“Not a word, Pickles.”
“I have already said several words. But I shall refrain from additional commentary. For now.”
Cetus returns wearing a work shirt that he’s buttoned wrong.
I’m not going to tell him. The gap between the third and fourth buttons exposes a strip of teal skin where yellow markings trace down his sternum, and if the PDC wants to dock points for improper attire, that’s between them and their own self-control.
“The primary environmental sensors are in three locations,” he says, pulling up a station schematic. Professional. Focused. Apparently he’s decided to match my energy, which is both helpful and slightly annoying, because part of me—the stupid, reckless part that got me into debt in the first place—wanted him to keep looking at me like I was extraordinary. “Atmospheric processing array, water recycling hub, and the bio-dome junction. The crawlspace access for the first two requires passing through a shared ventilation shaft.”
“How tight?”
“The shaft dimensions are ninety centimeters by seventy centimeters.”
I stare at him. His shoulders alone are wider than seventy centimeters.
“I’ll go first,” he says, reading my expression. “The wider section is near the sensor housing. The initial passage is... more constrained.”
Constrained. Right.
We gather tools—plasma torches, calibration units, Pickles downloaded onto a portable diagnostic pad—and head for the access panel in Corridor B. Cetus removes the panel cover, revealing the dark shaft beyond. Warm air flows out, carrying the hum of processing systems.
“Papa! Dove! Wait for me!”
Tavia rounds the corner at full sprint, her markings bright with morning energy, her hair a teal-streaked disaster. She’s wearing what appears to be a hand-drawn “INSPECTION CREW” badge pinned to her shirt.
“Small person,” Pickles says through the corridor speakers, “it is 0530 hours. Why are you awake?”
“Because something exciting is happening and I have a badge!” She points to it proudly. “I made it. I’m the Official Inspection Preparation Assistant.”
“Tavia, the crawlspaces aren’t safe for—” Cetus begins.
“I’m not going in the crawlspaces. I’m going to do quality control from out here.” She produces a data pad from behind her back. “Pickles helped me make a checklist. I’m going to inspect the inspectors.”
“That’s... not how inspections work,” I say.
“It is now. I have a badge.”
Cetus looks at me. I look at Cetus. His markings pulse with that helpless warmth he gets whenever Tavia is being impossibly herself.
“Fine,” he says. “You can monitor from the corridor. But stay within Pickles’s sensor range and don’t touch any access panels.”
“Obviously. I’m a professional.” She sits cross-legged against the corridor wall, data pad ready. “Proceed with your crawlspace activities. I’ll be scoring your teamwork.”
“Scoring our—”
