Tavia
Ihaveneverbeenthis good in my entire life.
Hands-folded, posture-perfect, smile-calibrated-to-the-right-brightness good. Papa keeps glancing at me like I might be running a fever.
“Small person,” Pickles says through my earpiece, “your current behavioral parameters are performing at ninety-seven percent of what I have classified as ‘angel child protocol.’ I am impressed and mildly concerned.”
“Best behavior,” I whisper back through my teeth, still smiling. “Inspector behavior. Save-the-station behavior.”
“Noted. I shall monitor and provide tactical support as needed.”
The PDC shuttle landed forty-three minutes ago. Two inspectors came out. Inspector Patel—a human woman with dark hair pulled back so tight it looks painful, eyes scanning everything like she’s already writing the violation report. She hasn’t smiled once.
Tech Specialist Omarion—a tall Juptix male with the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on a grown-up, who walked into the atmospheric processing bay and actually gasped.
“This filtration array is incredible,” Omarion said. “Is this a modified Korvin-7 system? I’ve only seen these in academic papers.”
Papa stood a little taller. His markings did a pleased-warm thing.
Dove stood next to him holding a clipboard—an actual physical clipboard, which she told me last night was a “power move.” Hers isn’t blank, though. She spent the entire night filling it with perfect documentation, color-coded tabs, cross-referenced logs.
She’s scary-good at paperwork. In a hot way. At least that’s what Papa’s markings keep saying.
We’re in the operations center now. Inspector Patel is reviewing safety protocols at the main console. Omarion is stillvibrating over the atmospheric data. Papa stands behind Dove’s left shoulder, where he’s been standing all morning—close enough that their arms almost touch, far enough that it looks professional.
It does not look professional.
“Pickles,” I whisper, pretending to study my data pad. “Papa’s marks are doing the thing again.”
“Affirmative. The Terraforming Specialist’s bioluminescent output has increased by thirty-four percent since the Captain began her compliance presentation. The pattern is consistent with what Lividian cultural databases categorize as ‘pride-based attraction display.’ Essentially, watching her demonstrate competence is triggering courtship signaling.”
“He thinks she’s pretty when she’s bossy?”
“In simplified terms, yes. Additionally, the Captain’s heart rate increases by nineteen percent each time the Terraforming Specialist’s markings flare. They are, in my professional assessment, a biometric feedback loop of mutual attraction. It is both fascinating and deeply inefficient.”
I press my lips together hard to keep from grinning.
Dove’s explaining the atmospheric processor maintenance schedule—the one she invented from scratch in six hours—and Patel asks a pointed question about sensor calibration intervals.
Before Papa can answer, Dove pulls a document from the third tab of her clipboard. “Calibration logs for the past eighteen months, cross-referenced with atmospheric event data. You’ll notice the intervals tighten during storm season, which accounts for the drift Inspector Patel flagged in the preliminary data.”
She anticipated the question. She had the answer ready.
Papa’s markings go lightning-bright down both arms. The pattern I know from Mama. The one that means *mine* in colors instead of words.
Patel notices. “Specialist Storm, your markings appear quite... active.”
“Electromagnetic interference,” Papa says. “Residual storm activity.”
Dove’s hand darts out—quick, instinctive—and squeezes his arm.Calm down.Except the touch makes his markings flare brighter, not dimmer, and she yanks her hand back like she burned it.
Omarion coughs into his fist.
The inspection moves through the station methodically. Patel checks everything—emergency exits, bilingual signage, supply inventories, evacuation routes. She marks things on her data pad with sharp little taps.
Omarion keeps wandering off to examine Papa’s terraforming innovations. When he asks about the hydroponics integration, Papa credits Dove’s efficiency improvements. Dove deflects, saying he’d deprioritized them, not overlooked them. “Different specialization, not a deficiency.”
Papa turns to look at her. She’s not watching—she’s showing Patel the water reclamation documentation—but his marks pulse so warm the air shimmers.
