Chapter 8 Operation Matchmaker
Operation Matchmaker
Tavia
Morning light filters through my window in pretty purple-gold patterns—the storm outside is still doing its electromagnetic thing, making everything shimmer weird. Pretty weird, though. Like science art.
I sit up in bed and listen.
Papa’s boots in the kitchen. The coffee maker doing its morning hiss. And Dove’s laugh—the real one that sounds like bubbles, not the polite courier one.
My markings pulse happy-bright before I can stop them.
“Good morning, small person,” Pickles says quietly through my room speakers. “Your biosignature suggests excitement levels consistent with holiday mornings or successful scientific experiments. I calculate an eighty-nine percent probability you are scheming.”
“Good scheming!” I whisper back, sliding out of bed. “Papa-Dove family scheming!”
“I neither confirm nor deny approval of such activities. However, I have prepared comprehensive observational data should you require tactical support.”
I crack my door open just enough to peek.
Papa stands at the counter making breakfast—his back to me, but I can see his markings through his sleep shirt. They glow in patterns I haven’t seen since before Mama got sick. The bright ones. The really happy ones that used to light up our whole quarters when she’d kiss his cheek.
Dove sits at the table in borrowed station clothes, her hair escaping its tie like it always does, holding her coffee cup with both hands like it’s treasure.
And the way Papa looks at her when she isn’t watching? His eyes go all soft and his markings pulse warmer and he forgets to flip the protein cakes until they smoke a little.
This is it. This is family-in-progress. I just know it.
“Pickles,” I whisper, “Papa’s marks are doing the thing!”
“Affirmative. The Terraforming Specialist’s bioluminescent patterns currently display a sixty-seven percent increase in intensity compared to baseline. This correlates with what Lividian cultural databases refer to as ‘attraction display during courtship behavior.’”
I don’t know all those words, but I know what it means.
Papa likes Dove. Really likes her. The kind of like that made him glow like he used to with Mama.
Breakfast is the best kind of torture.
I sit between them at the table, watching everything like a scientific observation. Which it is. Operation Matchmaker requires data.
Papa and Dove are definitely magnets. The attracted kind.
Every time Dove reaches for something, Papa moves to help at exactly the same time, and then they both freeze with their hands almost touching, stare at each other, then jump apart like the table zapped them.
His markings flare bright. Her cheeks go pink-warm.
And Papa smiles differently now. Not the “adequate nutrition achieved” smile. Real smiles that make his eyes crinkle and his markings glow steady-warm. He only used to smile like that with Mama.
Grown-ups are so weird.
“Small person, your observational skills are exceptional,” Pickles says in my earpiece.
“The Terraforming Specialist’s serotonin levels increase by forty-seven percent when the Captain is within three meters.
His bioluminescent markings display what Lividian cultural databases categorize as ‘happy family patterns.’”
“Family patterns?” I whisper into my orange juice. “Like... like in hydroponics when plants grow better together?”
“An excellent analogy. I calculate the Terraforming Specialist and the Captain exhibit similar symbiotic potential.”
I grin so wide my face hurts. “They’re growing together!”
“Tavia, are you talking to Pickles again?” Papa asks, but he’s smiling.
“He says you and Dove have symbiotic potential!”
Papa’s markings flare so bright they light up the whole kitchen. Dove chokes on her coffee.
“That’s... not exactly...” Papa starts.
“It means you’re good together,” I explain helpfully. “Like compatible organisms. For optimal growth and productivity.”
Dove’s trying not to laugh now. “Did you just compare us to a science experiment?”
“A successful science experiment. With positive results and recommended continuation.”
Papa’s covering his face with one hand, but I can see his markings pulsing through his fingers. Dove’s definitely laughing now, and when Papa peeks at her through his fingers, he starts laughing too.
This is what I want. This laughter-warmth-family feeling every morning.
Not just for a week. Forever.
After breakfast, I implement Phase One of Operation Matchmaker.
“Papa! The hydroponics sensors are doing weird readings! Very fluctuating. Probably critical. You should probably bring Dove because she’s good at technical things!”
Pickles remains suspiciously silent. We discussed this plan last night.
“Small person,” he finally says, “I have detected anomalous readings in the hydroponics bay environmental controls. Assessment recommended.”
Papa gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I’m doing, but Dove’s already heading toward the hydroponics bay, so he follows.
I wait exactly thirty seconds, then tiptoe after them.
I peek around the corner of the growing racks.
Papa and Dove stand surrounded by tomato vines and herb boxes, examining a sensor panel, standing close because the space is narrow.
“I don’t see any fluctuations,” Papa says.
“Me neither.” Dove glances around. “Wait. Is this a setup?”
“I calculate a ninety-three percent probability,” Pickles announces through the bay speakers.
“Pickles!” I hiss from my hiding spot.
“However, I must note that the door has experienced an unexpected locking malfunction.”
The door hisses shut behind them.
Papa turns, tries the panel. “Pickles.”
“A most unfortunate technical glitch. I estimate repairs will require approximately thirty minutes.”
I press my hand over my mouth to stop the giggles.
Through the gap in the growing racks, I watch Papa’s shoulders relax into that slumpy thing that means he’s given up arguing.
“Your daughter is terrifying,” Dove says, but she’s smiling.
“She learned tactical planning from watching diplomatic negotiations on her educational modules.”
They’re standing really close now. Papa reaches up to check a moisture sensor, and his arm brushes Dove’s shoulder. His markings flare bright. She doesn’t step away.
“Cetus...” she says quietly.
“Yes?”
“Your daughter is watching us from behind the herb boxes. I can see her markings glowing.”
I freeze.
“Tavia Storm, I know you’re there.”
Busted.
I step out, trying to look innocent. “I was just... checking on the basil?”
“The basil is thriving, as you well know.” But he’s not really mad. “Pickles, unlock the door.”
“Override protocols restored. Most mysterious malfunction resolved.”
Dove walks past me, ruffling my hair. “Nice try, small person.”
But she’s smiling the whole way, and when I peek at Papa, his markings are still doing that happy-bright glow.
Phase One: Partial success. Proximity achieved. Almost-touching observed.
Science takes time.
Phase Two happens after lunch.
“Pickles,” I whisper. “Ready?”
“I am not a matchmaking service. However, I am providing technical support for environmental systems maintenance. Any romantic consequences are purely coincidental.”
“Kissing probability?”
“Currently calculated at sixty-two percent and rising.”
The lights flicker. Then go completely dark except for emergency runners.
“Papa!” I call, running into the common area. “The lights broke!”
Papa’s already at the main control panel. In the dim emergency lighting, his markings provide most of the illumination, casting everything in soft yellow-gold.
“Pickles, status report.”
“Primary lighting grid has experienced a cascading failure. I require manual reset at junction box in maintenance corridor three. I recommend technical support.”
“I’ll come,” Dove volunteers.
They head off together, and I count to ten before following at a safe distance.
The maintenance corridor is so narrow they have to turn sideways to fit. I peek around the corner, staying in shadow.
Papa reaches up to access the junction box, which puts his arm right around Dove’s shoulders. She has to duck slightly, which brings her face really close to his chest.
His markings pulse brighter.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Tight quarters.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice sounds different. Softer. “I don’t mind.”
“Dove...”
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t finish. Just looks down at her, and his markings do this slow, beautiful pulse.
They’re so close. Just a little bit closer and they’d be—
“Junction box accessed,” Pickles announces cheerfully. “Manual reset complete. Lighting systems restored in three... two... one...”
The lights flicker back on.
Papa and Dove jump apart.
I duck back around the corner, giggles bubbling in my chest—success!
“Phase Two complete,” Pickles says in my earpiece. “Kiss probability now calculated at seventy-eight percent. I am becoming quite proficient at this ‘not matchmaking’ activity.”
“You’re the best robot uncle ever!”
“I am not a robot. I am a sophisticated AI core. However, I accept the familial designation with... satisfaction.”
That night, Papa comes to tuck me in like always. His markings are still doing that soft steady glow.
Happy-bright. Family-bright. The way they used to be with Mama.
“Papa?”
“Yes, small one?”
“Your marks are really glowy lately. Like when Mama was here. Before she got sick.” I watch his face careful. “You’re happy with Dove here?”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“Yes,” he finally says. “I am... very happy with Dove here.”
“Mama said you should find a smile-person. Someone who makes you smile real smiles.”
“Mama said that?”
I nod. “Before. When she was really sick and we had those talks. She said you should find someone who makes your marks glow bright again.”
Papa’s eyes get shiny-wet. He pulls me into a hug, careful with his claws.
“Mama was very wise,” he whispers.
“Dove makes you smile real smiles. And your marks glow bright. Like happy family patterns.”