Chapter 1 #2
My baseline must be flagging as compatible. So while their equipment screamed ‘evacuate,’ mine is reading ‘potential genetic match detected’ and KiKi is gleefully running with that data like she just won the shipboard dating service lottery.
The air around him shimmers with heat—actual, visible heat distortion like he’s running a fever.
I catch a whiff of something that starts metallic and sharp, then cycles to warm vanilla, then something that makes me think of lightning and honey.
The scents shift rapidly, like his body can’t decide what it’s producing.
“Are you... alright?” I ask, genuinely concerned as those golden markings along his skin start to pulse in what looks suspiciously like a heartbeat rhythm. “You seem to be having some kind of biological reaction.”
His golden eyes go wide with what looks like panic.
“What? No! Very normal! All males react this way to... to...” He gestures helplessly at me, and I notice his hands are trembling slightly.
“To professional safety inspections. Very standard biological response. Completely natural enthusiasm for... for workplace compliance.”
My scanner helpfully displays: BIOLOGICAL COMPOUND CONCENTRATION INCREASING. SOURCE: SUBJECT PROXIMITY. RECOMMEND ENHANCED VENTILATION OR HAZMAT PROTOCOLS.
Wait. Enhanced ventilation or hazmat protocols? Usually my equipment is definitive about safety recommendations. This reads almost like it’s giving me options—like it can’t decide whether what’s happening is dangerous or... something else entirely.
The other inspectors reported their equipment screaming warnings to evacuate immediately. Mine is suggesting I might want to stick around for enhanced analysis.
“My safety inspection?” His voice cracks slightly on the words, and I can hear an undertone like a purr mixed with a growl.
Each word sounds carefully controlled, like he’s concentrating very hard on pronunciation while having some kind of internal crisis.
“I was not expecting... that is, you smell—”
He cuts himself off abruptly, golden skin flushing darker.
“You arrive with most excellent punctuality,” he finishes weakly.
The heat shimmer around him intensifies, and now I can definitely smell something that makes my scanner go ballistic with warnings. It’s not unpleasant—actually, it’s oddly appealing, warm and exotic. Nothing like the “toxic compounds” described in the previous reports.
“Inspector Zola Cross, OOPS Safety Division.” I hold up my credentials, noting how his gaze tracks the movement with predatory intensity before his pupils dilate even further. “You’re having some kind of biological reaction.”
“Indeed. That is... yes. I am Crash Maxone.” He stands straighter, then immediately seems to regret it as more heat haze shimmers around him.
A bead of something that definitely isn’t sweat—it’s faintly luminescent and seems to catch the light like liquid starlight—tracks down his temple.
“I perform very standard courier activities with great... enthusiasm for the work. Very normal enthusiasm.”
My scanner adds another alert: BIOLOGICAL COMPOUND CLASSIFICATION: UNKNOWN. PSYCHOACTIVE PROPERTIES: POSSIBLE. THREAT LEVEL: INDETERMINATE.
Indeterminate. Not dangerous, not safe. Just... unknown.
“You’re secreting something,” I observe, pulling out my stylus to make notes. “Something that’s making my equipment very confused.”
His golden skin flushes darker—a fascinating reaction that makes the geometric patterns along his arms pulse brighter.
“Ah! Yes! That would be my... my cologne.” The word comes out strangled, like he’s never heard it before and isn’t entirely sure what it means.
“Very popular masculine fragrance. All males wear such... potent scents when they encounter attractive safety inspectors.”
He stops, clearly realizing what he just said.
“Professional safety inspectors,” he corrects hastily, the luminescent beads multiplying along his hairline. “Very professional. Extremely professional attractive—I mean, competent. Professional competence is very... appealing to observe in action.”
I stare at him. This gorgeous, obviously alien male is having what appears to be a biological crisis in my presence, and he’s trying to convince me it’s cologne.
It’s possibly the most endearing thing I’ve witnessed in months.
“What brand?” I ask, mostly to see what he’ll come up with.
“It is...” His gaze darts around desperately while more of that luminescent fluid beads along his skin. The heat shimmer around him intensifies until I swear I can see it with my naked eye. “Very expensive. Human-manufactured. From... the human planet of... Humanville.”
I blink at him. “Humanville?”
“Very authentic human location,” he insists with the kind of desperate conviction that suggests he’s never been within three sectors of human space. “You would find their cologne most... appealing? To your human sensory organs?”
The metallic-honey-lightning scent intensifies around him, and my scanner starts displaying what I swear looks like enthusiasm. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my equipment was enjoying this as much as I am.
Before I can ask more about the obviously fictional planet Humanville and its exotic cologne industry, a strangled sound comes from above us—like someone trying not to laugh while also having a panic attack.
The ventilation grate rattles violently, and something that looks suspiciously like a rainbow-colored droplet splashes onto the platform near my boots.
“That sound would be... Jitters expressing approval,” he says quickly, though his voice has gotten rougher, more of that purring undertone bleeding through.
The luminescent beads are multiplying across his golden skin now, and the heat shimmer around him is making the air itself seem to dance.
“He becomes... enthusiastic... when witnessing successful courtship displays. Very supportive of reproductive compatibility.”
My scanner chooses that moment to beep helpfully and display: SECONDARY BIOLOGICAL SIGNATURE DETECTED. CLASSIFICATION: EXTREMELY AGITATED.
“Pets that express opinions about your mating attempts?”
“Emotional... investment in my reproductive success,” he says weakly. “Creates behavioral phenomena that mimic... distress when outcomes appear uncertain.”
The grate rattles more violently. A blob of what appears to be liquid rainbow drops down with a wet splat, lands squarely on his shoulder, takes one look at me, and immediately turns bright alarm-red while vibrating like a distressed tuning fork.
The effect is so ridiculous—this gorgeous Velogian male trying to convince me his overheating is an attractive mating display while being slowly covered by an increasingly panicked blob creature—that I almost forget about the professional implications.
Almost.
My scanner detects the new arrival and promptly displays: UNREGISTERED LIFEFORM DETECTED. SPECIES CLASSIFICATION: UNKNOWN. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE DOCUMENTATION FOR OOPS DATABASE. QUARANTINE PROTOCOLS ADVISED. SUBJECT CORTISOL LEVELS CRITICAL. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE CALMING INTERVENTION.
I stare at the readout. Did my scanner just tell me to cuddle the illegal alien blob?
I really need to have a conversation with KiKi about appropriate boundaries in professional assessments.
But knowing her, she’d just argue that “biological compatibility indicators” are technically safety-related data points.
“Jitters, no,” Crash whispers urgently to the blob, his voice going soft and gentle despite his obvious biological crisis. “Calm yourself. She is not a threat requiring panic responses.”
The blob—Jitters—quivers more violently and cycles through several shades of distressed purple before settling on nauseated green, still vibrating anxiously.
As I watch, it attempts to camouflage itself against Crash’s golden skin, overshoots by several shades, and turns him bright orange with electric blue polka dots.
“He’s trying to help you blend in,” I realize, and something about the creature’s desperate attempt to protect its person by making him look more human—and failing spectacularly—hits me right in the chest.
“Jitters does not understand human color palettes,” Crash admits, looking down at his polka-dotted arm with fond exasperation. “He tries to be helpful, but...”
“But he’s never encountered someone who triggers this kind of reaction in you before,” I finish. “Has he?”
Crash goes very still. For a moment, the only sound is Jitters’s anxious vibrating and the distant hum of the platform’s life support systems.
“This is... normal biological response,” he says finally, but the fight has gone out of his voice. “All Velogian males produce such... enthusiastic pheromones when encountering compatible...” He trails off, golden skin flushing darker. “When meeting professional safety inspectors.”
I’m starting to understand why the other inspectors filed emergency reports, but whatever they experienced, it’s completely different from this.
They described hostile biological agents and toxic compounds.
I’m getting readings about compatibility and optimal proximity while watching a gorgeous Velogian male have what appears to be a biological crisis because I walked onto his platform.
“Mr. Maxone,” I say carefully, watching him attempt to scrape orange polka dots off his arm while Jitters vibrates with increasingly obvious distress, “what exactly is happening here?”
“Very normal Velogian reactions,” he insists, even as those golden markings pulse brighter and the heat shimmer around him becomes visible to the naked eye. “All males of my species respond this way to... to genetically compatible females.”
He stops, looking mortified that he just called me genetically compatible again.
“Professional safety inspectors,” he corrects for the fourth time. “Very professional. Extremely professional. Your professional... competence... is most... stimulating to witness.”
The word ‘stimulating’ comes out rough, almost growled, and I watch his pupils dilate again as he realizes what he’s said.
My scanner, clearly enjoying this more than any piece of equipment should, displays: SUBJECT STRESS LEVELS: MAXIMUM. PHEROMONE OUTPUT: UNPRECEDENTED. BIOLOGICAL COMPATIBILITY INDICATORS: HIGHLY FAVORABLE.
Highly favorable. My equipment is rating our biological compatibility.
I really need new gear.
A rough laugh scrapes across the platform behind me, like metal dragging against stone. “Well, well. Crash finally got himself a proper inspection.”
The voice belongs to a grizzled human courier whose breath could strip paint and whose personal hygiene has clearly been optional for several months.
Logarx, according to his name patch—though whether that’s first name or last, I can’t tell.
His bloodshot gaze crawls over me with the subtlety of a cargo scanner, lingering in places that make my skin crawl for entirely different reasons than Crash’s presence does.
“Hope she’s real thorough,” Logarx continues, stepping closer with the confidence of someone who’s never learned about personal space or basic human decency.
His smile reveals teeth that have clearly given up the fight against various forms of decay.
“Real thorough. Make sure to check all his... equipment. I bet he’s got some real interesting. .. tools that need a close inspection.”
The innuendo is as subtle as a plasma blast to the face.
“I assure you, Mr. Logarx, my inspections are always thorough and professional,” I say crisply, taking a step back and wishing I’d brought my stun baton to somewhere more accessible than my equipment belt.
“Oh, I bet they are, sweetheart. Real professional.” His grin widens, showing more of those unfortunate teeth. “Maybe you need someone to show you around the station? I know all the best... inspection points. All the dark, private places where you can really get hands-on with the equipment.”
The change in Crash is instantaneous and absolutely terrifying. Behind him, Jitters dissolves into a puddle and shoots up the ventilation shaft faster than physics should allow. Seeing the alien pet abandon ship is not reassuring at all.
The vanilla-honey scent vanishes like it was never there, replaced by something sharp and metallic that hits my hindbrain like a sledgehammer.
Every primitive survival instinct I possess screams DANGER in letters ten feet tall.
The temperature doesn’t just spike around us—it becomes scorching, like someone opened a blast furnace.
The very air seems to thicken and press against my skin with malevolent intent.
My scanner doesn’t shriek—it emits a flat, dissonant wail, the Code Black alert I haven’t heard since the mining disaster simulations.
The readout flickers through alerts so fast I can barely read them: HOSTILE BIOLOGICAL AGENT DETECTED.
THREAT LEVEL: MAXIMUM. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE EVACUATION.
TOXIC COMPOUND ANALYSIS: PENDING. SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: DECLINING.
This is what the other inspectors experienced. This crushing sense of imminent death, this absolute certainty that I’m in the presence of something that could end me without effort or remorse.