“That sounds... relevant to our assessment,” she says.
I lead her toward the hydroponics bay, chattering about photosynthetic efficiency rates and adaptive soil composition. Behind me, I hear Dove exhale in relief and Papa’s glow settle back to normal.
Omarion follows us, asking me questions about my basil cultivar that are good questions. I like this inspector.
We stop by the herb section, and Omarion crouches down to examine my crossbred mint-analogue. Through the bay window, I can see Papa and Dove in the operations center. Papa’s doing the steady-warm glow while Dove explains something with her hands.
“Those patterns are fascinating,” Omarion says, following my gaze. “Do they always fluctuate like that?”
“Oh, that one means Dove is being really smart about something,” I say helpfully. “His markings get bright when she’s competent. It’s a courtship display.”
Omarion’s mouth twitches. “You know a lot about Lividian bioluminescence.”
“I read the textbook. The whole textbook. I’m very advanced for my age.”
Patel sighs. But I’m pretty sure I see her hide a smile behind her data pad.
“Pickles, how long do I need to keep them busy?”
“Ten to twelve minutes should allow bioluminescence to return to baseline. I have already initiated a convenient diagnostic alert in the operations center requiring the Terraforming Specialist’s attention. The Captain will naturally assist. They will be alone for approximately four minutes.”
“Pickles! They’re supposed to be doing the inspection, not—”
“I am merely creating operational efficiency. What they do with four minutes of privacy is not my concern.”
My garden tour goes brilliantly. Patel takes notes, and Omarion photographs my tomato plants and asks if I’ve considered publishing my growth data.
“I’m eight,” I remind him.
“Eight-year-olds can publish research papers. I’ll send you the submission guidelines for the Junior Botanical Society journal.”
I decide Omarion is my favorite adult after Papa and Dove.
We’re heading back to the operations center when I remember Phase Two: the accident.
It’s not really an accident. Dove and I discussed contingencies last night—“circuit breakers” for when tension gets too high. She meant emotional tension, like if Patel got aggressive.
I’m interpreting it more broadly.
I swing past the kitchen area and grab the container of nutrient solution I positioned earlier this morning. Then I walk into the operations center, trip over absolutely nothing, and send the solution cascading across the deck plating directly between Papa and Dove’s workstations.
“Oh no!” I say, with the right amount of dismay. Not too much. Enough.
“Small person,” Pickles announces through the room speakers with perfect deadpan timing, “sensors confirm this corridor is an asteroid-free zone. The cause of your fall remains under investigation.”
I’m going to reprogram him.
“Tavia!” Papa’s at my side immediately, checking me for injury, his hands gentle and careful with their retracted claws. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, Papa. I’m so sorry—I was carrying it for the plants and I tripped on... a floor irregularity.”
“The floor was resurfaced four months ago,” Pickles adds. “It is, in fact, immaculate.”
“Thank you, Pickles,” I say through my teeth. “Very helpful.”
Dove’s already grabbing cleaning supplies. “I’ve got it. Cetus, can you help me move the equipment crate? Solution’s getting underneath.”
They kneel together to mop up the spill. Dove reaches under the crate for a cloth, and her forearm slides across Papa’s thigh. He jerks like she tased him.
