Chapter 5 Systems of Attachment
Systems of Attachment
Dove
My scanner shows the tracking signal embedded in that message. The Blackstar Collective knows exactly where I am. They’ll wait until the storm clears, then send a retrieval team.
My forehead rests against the cool window. Think, Dove.
“Captain.” Pickles’s voice is gentle through my comm. “I have been monitoring your biometrics. Your cortisol levels are approaching critical thresholds.”
“I’m aware.”
“I have also been monitoring communications traffic. The tracking signal from the Blackstar Collective message was sophisticated but not unbreakable. I could potentially mask your location if given access to the station’s communication arrays.”
I straighten. “You could mask it? Completely?”
“I am a military-grade AI core with extensive experience in signal manipulation. I neither confirm nor deny having been involved in covert operations that required similar electronic countermeasures. However, I calculate an eighty-seven percent probability of success if the Terraforming Specialist grants me the necessary access.”
“Which would require explaining why I need a debt collector’s tracking beacon hidden.”
“Affirmative. Deception becomes increasingly difficult with individuals who demonstrate the Terraforming Specialist’s level of observational acuity.”
Lightning arcs across alien skies. “I can’t drag them into my mess, Pickles.”
“Captain.” Pickles pauses, which is unusual enough to get my attention. “In eight hundred forty-eight days of monitoring your behavioral patterns, I have never observed you accept help from others. However, I must note that optimal outcomes rarely result from facing complex problems in isolation.”
“Did you psychoanalyze me?”
“I merely provided relevant observational data. However, I feel compelled to mention that the small person has asked me seventeen times if you are upset with her. I have run out of reassuring responses.”
“I’m not upset with Tavia.”
“I recommend informing her of this directly. She is currently in the hydroponics bay, ostensibly checking on the plants but primarily exhibiting signs of distress.”
He’s right.
Damn him, he’s right.
I find Tavia exactly where Pickles said she’d be, sitting among the growing stations with her data pad, markings dim and dull.
“Hey, small person.”
She looks up. Her markings brighten slightly. “Pickles calls me that!”
“He does. I think it’s his way of being affectionate.” I settle onto the floor beside her among the plants. “What are you working on?”
“I was documenting photosynthetic efficiency rates, but I’m not very focused right now.” She fidgets with her data pad. “Are you mad at me?”
“What? No! Tavia, why would I be mad at you?”
“Because I was too pushy this morning. Papa says I can be overwhelming when I get excited about things. And you left really suddenly, and you looked upset, and I thought maybe I did something wrong.”
This kid is going to absolutely destroy me.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I had some work stuff come up. Adult problems that have nothing to do with you. I promise.”
“But you looked scared.” Her yellow eyes are too perceptive. “When that message came. You looked how I feel sometimes when I have bad dreams about Mama.”
The comment catches me off guard. “You have dreams about that?”
“Sometimes. Papa says it’s normal to be scared of losing people you love.” She picks at her data pad. “Do you have people you’re scared of losing?”
I think about my parents. The accident. Nine years of running from attachments because losing them nearly broke me.
“Yeah. I do.”
“Is that why you’re leaving when the storm stops?”
The question hits like a gut punch. “I have other deliveries scheduled. A job to get back to.”
“But what if you didn’t have to leave?” She’s watching me with unblinking directness. “What if you could stay here? With us?”
“Tavia—”
“Papa smiles more when you’re here. Real smiles.” Her markings pulse hopefully. “And I like having you here too. You explain things that make sense, and you make Papa happy, and you do the voices when you read stories.”
“Your papa and I met yesterday.”
“So? Mama used to say sometimes you just know when something’s right.”
I have to smile despite everything. “You’re pretty wise for a small person.”
“Pickles says I demonstrate exceptional emotional intelligence for my developmental stage.”
“Pickles is right.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, surrounded by growing plants and the soft hum of atmospheric processors.
“Dove?” Tavia says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Even if you have to leave when the storm stops, could you maybe… come back sometime? To visit?”
The hope in her voice—raw and unguarded in the way only children can be—cracks something open in my chest. She’s asking me to be part of her life. This eight-year-old who barely knows me is offering something I haven’t had in nine years.
I should hedge. Should give myself an out.
“I’d like that.” The words come easier than I expect. “I really would.”
Her markings blaze bright, and she launches herself at me in a fierce hug. For a second I don’t know what to do with my hands—it’s been so long since anyone hugged me like this, like I matter—but then my arms come up automatically, holding her close.
“Tavia, time for midday meal,” Cetus’s voice carries from the corridor. “You need to—”
He appears in the doorway and stops. His markings pulse in waves—bright at his temples, dimmer at his throat, then brightening again. There’s warmth there. Longing.
“Sorry,” I say, gently extracting myself from Tavia’s hug. “We got distracted.”
“The small person requested emotional support,” Pickles announces helpfully through the speakers. “The Captain provided it with exceptional empathy.”
Tavia’s watching us with barely contained glee.
Cetus’s eyes stay locked on mine. “Would you join us for midday meal?”
“I should—”
“Please?” Tavia grabs my hand. “We never have anyone to eat with, and it would be so nice to have family mealtime with more than two people!”
The word family wraps around my chest and squeezes.
Family. The thing I lost nine years ago and haven’t let myself want since. The thing that means staying in one place, building something permanent, risking the kind of grief that nearly destroyed me when Mom and Dad died.
The thing I’ve spent nine years running from because it’s easier to keep moving than to stay and lose everything again.
Behind Tavia, Cetus is watching me with those yellow eyes, his markings doing that steady warm pulse that I’m learning means he’s hoping for something he’s afraid to ask for directly.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Lunch sounds good.”
Tavia’s squeal of delight probably registers on the atmospheric sensors.
The walk to the kitchen feels different this time. Less like heading to a meal, more like stepping into something I’m not sure I’m ready for.
Tavia bounces ahead, chattering about the educational module she finished this morning—something about terraform-resistant plant species—while Cetus and I follow at a more sedate pace.
His hand hovers near my lower back, not quite touching, but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his palm.
Professional distance is dead. We’re pretending to mourn it.
The kitchen smells like whatever Cetus has been cooking—something savory with unfamiliar spices that make my stomach growl embarrassingly loud.
“Your digestive system is making demands,” Pickles observes through the speakers. “I calculate nutrient intake is now seventeen minutes overdue for optimal function.”
“Thanks for that health update.”
“You are welcome, Captain.”
Cetus has already set the table—three places arranged with the kind of precision that speaks to years of solo-parenting routines.
Except now there’s a third chair pulled up, and seeing my place already prepared in their family space does something dangerous to my carefully maintained emotional walls.
“Sit, sit!” Tavia pats the chair between her and Cetus. “Papa made his special protein synthesis blend, but I convinced him to add actual flavor this time.”
“It is nutritionally complete,” Cetus says with wounded dignity as he brings serving dishes to the table.
“It’s also not terrible anymore,” Tavia stage-whispers to me. “Progress!”
I catch Cetus’s eye across the table. His markings pulse with warm amusement, and there’s something soft in his expression that makes my pulse skip.
The food is actually delicious—some kind of grain dish with roasted vegetables and protein that’s been seasoned with what tastes like cumin and something citrusy. Not ration-pack efficiency. Actual care went into this.
“This is really good.” I mean it.
Cetus’s markings brighten. “Tavia has been… encouraging me to expand my culinary repertoire beyond nutritional adequacy.”
“Papa reads cooking databases like some people read novels,” Tavia explains, loading her plate with enthusiasm. “Very thorough. Very systematic.”
“I prefer to understand the chemical processes involved in—”
“He means he’s learning to cook because he wants you to stay,” Tavia interrupts cheerfully.
The room goes very quiet.
Cetus’s markings flare bright enough to cast shadows. “Tavia.”
“What? It’s true! You told Pickles you were researching Earth cuisine preparation because you wanted to provide adequate hospitality—”
“The small person raises a valid point,” Pickles interjects. “The Terraforming Specialist’s database queries regarding human dietary preferences increased by two hundred forty-seven percent following the Captain’s arrival.”
I’m trying very hard not to look at Cetus, whose markings are now doing complicated patterns I suspect translate to mortally embarrassed.
“I simply thought… varied meal options would be appropriate for an extended guest,” he says with careful formality that doesn’t quite hide the underlying warmth.
“Uh-huh.” Tavia grins at me with the smug satisfaction of a successful matchmaker. “Very appropriate.”
“Eat your vegetables,” Cetus tells his daughter.