Chapter 11 Best Behavior Protocol
Best Behavior Protocol
Tavia
I have never been this good in my entire life.
Hands-folded, posture-perfect, smile-calibrated-to-the-right-brightness good. Papa keeps glancing at me like I might be running a fever.
“Small person,” Pickles says through my earpiece, “your current behavioral parameters are performing at ninety-seven percent of what I have classified as ‘angel child protocol.’ I am impressed and mildly concerned.”
“Best behavior,” I whisper back through my teeth, still smiling. “Inspector behavior. Save-the-station behavior.”
“Noted. I shall monitor and provide tactical support as needed.”
The PDC shuttle landed forty-three minutes ago. Two inspectors came out. Inspector Patel—a human woman with dark hair pulled back so tight it looks painful, eyes scanning everything like she’s already writing the violation report. She hasn’t smiled once.
Tech Specialist Omarion—a tall Juptix male with the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on a grown-up, who walked into the atmospheric processing bay and actually gasped.
“This filtration array is incredible,” Omarion said. “Is this a modified Korvin-7 system? I’ve only seen these in academic papers.”
Papa stood a little taller. His markings did a pleased-warm thing.
Dove stood next to him holding a clipboard—an actual physical clipboard, which she told me last night was a “power move.” Hers isn’t blank, though. She spent the entire night filling it with perfect documentation, color-coded tabs, cross-referenced logs.
She’s scary-good at paperwork. In a hot way. At least that’s what Papa’s markings keep saying.
We’re in the operations center now. Inspector Patel is reviewing safety protocols at the main console.
Omarion is still vibrating over the atmospheric data.
Papa stands behind Dove’s left shoulder, where he’s been standing all morning—close enough that their arms almost touch, far enough that it looks professional.
It does not look professional.
“Pickles,” I whisper, pretending to study my data pad. “Papa’s marks are doing the thing again.”
“Affirmative. The Terraforming Specialist’s bioluminescent output has increased by thirty-four percent since the Captain began her compliance presentation.
The pattern is consistent with what Lividian cultural databases categorize as ‘pride-based attraction display.’ Essentially, watching her demonstrate competence is triggering courtship signaling. ”
“He thinks she’s pretty when she’s bossy?”
“In simplified terms, yes. Additionally, the Captain’s heart rate increases by nineteen percent each time the Terraforming Specialist’s markings flare. They are, in my professional assessment, a biometric feedback loop of mutual attraction. It is both fascinating and deeply inefficient.”
I press my lips together hard to keep from grinning.
Dove’s explaining the atmospheric processor maintenance schedule—the one she invented from scratch in six hours—and Patel asks a pointed question about sensor calibration intervals.
Before Papa can answer, Dove pulls a document from the third tab of her clipboard.
“Calibration logs for the past eighteen months, cross-referenced with atmospheric event data. You’ll notice the intervals tighten during storm season, which accounts for the drift Inspector Patel flagged in the preliminary data. ”
She anticipated the question. She had the answer ready.
Papa’s markings go lightning-bright down both arms. The pattern I know from Mama. The one that means *mine* in colors instead of words.
Patel notices. “Specialist Storm, your markings appear quite... active.”
“Electromagnetic interference,” Papa says. “Residual storm activity.”
Dove’s hand darts out—quick, instinctive—and squeezes his arm. Calm down. Except the touch makes his markings flare brighter, not dimmer, and she yanks her hand back like she burned it.
Omarion coughs into his fist.
The inspection moves through the station methodically. Patel checks everything—emergency exits, bilingual signage, supply inventories, evacuation routes. She marks things on her data pad with sharp little taps.
Omarion keeps wandering off to examine Papa’s terraforming innovations. When he asks about the hydroponics integration, Papa credits Dove’s efficiency improvements. Dove deflects, saying he’d deprioritized them, not overlooked them. “Different specialization, not a deficiency.”
Papa turns to look at her. She’s not watching—she’s showing Patel the water reclamation documentation—but his marks pulse so warm the air shimmers.
“Small person,” Pickles says in my earpiece. “The Terraforming Specialist has touched the Captain’s lower back four times in the past twenty-two minutes. The Captain has touched the Terraforming Specialist’s arm seven times. Neither appears to be aware they are doing this.”
Seven times. I glance over. Dove’s hand rests against Papa’s forearm while she traces a line on the wall diagram with her other hand.
Papa has gone completely still. His markings pulse in slow, deep waves I’ve never seen before—not the happy-bright ones or the angry-danger ones. Something deeper. Steady.
“Pickles, what pattern is that?”
Long pause. Longer than Pickles usually takes.
“That pattern is categorized in Lividian bonding literature as a ‘settling’ display. It occurs when a Lividian has identified a permanent mate and their biology begins calibrating to the partner’s presence as a baseline rather than a stimulus.”
“What does that mean in kid words?”
“It means his body has stopped treating her as new and exciting and has started treating her as home.”
Oh.
Oh.
My eyes get stingy. I blink hard and look at my data pad.
Things get tense when Patel starts asking about personnel allocation.
“Your station is registered as a single-operator facility with one dependent,” she says, scrolling through records. “Yet your recent documentation suggests a two-person operational structure. Care to explain?”
Papa opens his mouth. His hands shift at his sides—and I see his claws extend, sharp tips catching the light before he tucks them behind his back. That’s his danger-reflex. The same one he gets during storm warnings.
The collectors. Papa’s thinking about the collectors too.
“Small person,” Pickles murmurs in my earpiece. “Adult tension levels at eighty-seven percent. I recommend deploying the spill contingency within the next six to eight minutes.”
“Not yet,” I whisper. “Dove’s got this.”
And she does.
“I’ve been assisting with station operations during my extended delivery hold,” Dove says, stepping forward with her clipboard like a shield.
“The atmospheric storms created a safety situation that required additional personnel, and my OOPS courier credentials include basic terraforming support certification.”
Patel’s chin lifts. “You have terraforming certification?”
“Level Two. Required for any courier running supply routes to active terraforming operations. I can show you my OOPS qualification records if you’d like.”
She pulls up the documentation on her data pad—already loaded, already tabbed—and Patel studies it with the first expression that isn’t skepticism. It might even be respect.
Papa’s claws retract. His shoulders drop. He watches Dove handle it with his hands behind his back—the proud scientist observing a successful experiment.
His markings are doing the lightning pattern again. The mating display. The chapter in my biology textbook I’m technically not supposed to have read yet.
“Pickles,” I type furiously. “THE LIGHTNING PATTERN.”
“I am aware. I have documented it extensively. For science.”
I need to do something before Patel notices. Papa’s markings are doing the alien equivalent of a neon sign reading THAT WOMAN IS MY MATE, and if anyone points it out he’ll go stiff and weird and tank the inspection.
Strategic interruption time.
“Excuse me, Inspector Patel?” I stand up from my chair, data pad tucked under my arm like I’ve seen Dove do with her clipboard. “Would you like to see my independent botanical research project? It demonstrates practical application of the station’s hydroponics integration. I have documentation.”
I do have documentation. Dove helped me make a whole folder last night. With tabs.
Patel looks at me. I deploy the smile—the eight-and-three-quarters-year-old one that grown-ups can’t resist.
“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.”