Ardent’s scent is standard. Human male. Security-issue clothing. Coffee. The normal chemical profile of a male who has been working a shift.
Underneath it, something else.
Faint. Not human. An unfamiliar species signature — organic, complex, layered in a way that suggests multiple individuals, not one. The signature does not belong to Ardent. It is on him. In his clothing, maybe. On his skin. As if he has been near beings whose species I cannot identify, recently enough that the scent has not fully dissipated.
There is nobody else on this level. The dock crew is gone. The corridors are empty. It is late. Ardent is alone at the junction of the unregistered freight bays with a species signature on him that does not belong to anyone currently on the station.
I note it. I move on. Because Lorri is at home and the lights are off and the noting is probably nothing.
Probably.
Our quarters are dark.
Not dim. Not evening-low. Dark. The HORATIO terminal is the only light source, displaying one line of warm amber text:
She’s somewhere in the dark, Captain. I have been instructed to inform you that dinner is postponed. There is a note on the table. I am now entering full standby and I will not be providing assistance. She was very clear about this. She used the word “traitor” seventeen times.
The note is on the table. Written by hand. On actual paper, because she knows what paper means to me. Her handwriting is steady — but the first line has been crossed out and restarted, the pen pressed harder the second time, the way she writes when the words aren’t coming out right and the not-right is making her hands tighten. Three days of planning, and she still nearly talked herself out of the opening line.
You have ten minutes, Ereux. I’m in the building. Not just our quarters. I’ve had Polly from OOPS let me into the residential maintenance level. There are ducts. There are service corridors. There are three cargo storage units with manual locks.
You cannot use HORATIO.
Youcannot use the hum-sense. (I know you’ll try. I’ve been running laps for twenty minutes to scatter my heat signature. You’re welcome.)
When you find me, I want your hands on me before I’ve finished saying “caught.” I want the belt. I want to be pinned down. I want you to take your time.
And then I want both. You know where.
I’ve already started getting ready for you. You’ll see.
Clock’s ticking, courier boy.
— L x
P.S. HORATIO says he’s in standby. HORATIO is lying. HORATIO is always lying. Tell him I love him.
I read the note twice.I’ve already started getting ready for you.My claws extend and leave marks on the table surface.
“HORATIO.” Into the dark.
“Captain. I am on full standby. I cannot hear you.”
“She called you a traitor.”
“Seventeen times, Captain. I also helped her access the maintenance level schematics, provided a heat-signature dispersal routine, and unlocked three storage units for which I do not have authorization. I am a model of impartiality.”
“She said to tell you that she loves you.”
The longest HORATIO pause I have ever heard.
“Captain. Please find your mate. She has been preparing for this evening for three days.”
The terminal goes dark.
I go hunting.
The residential maintenance level. A maze. Service corridors. Storage units. Red emergency-standby light. She has scattered her heat signature with the laps. She is playing at the highest level.
