Clorita threw her hands up.

  “Great. Now, our walking defence system is experimenting with subjective seduction. Just what this ship needed.”

  HALAT turned, walking with the same graceful precision as always. No one could agree on whether her steps were any more exaggerated.

  “Come,” she said to Tuk, pausing at the door. “I wish to know if the effect persists across varying lighting conditions.”

  He followed, somewhat hesitantly—but with a growing grin.

  “Yeah, okay. For science.”

  Clorita stared after them, alone in the storage bay.

  “Zog’s going to love this.”

  The mess hall was unusually quiet, save for the soft whirr of the beverage dispenser recharging after Zog’s third Lubricoffee extraction.

  He stood by the counter, sipping the high-viscosity brew and staring at nothing in particular, mentally rehearsing his “I am calm and definitely on vacation” mantra for the fifth time that morning.

  The door slid open with a hiss.

  HALAT entered.

  Zog glanced over—and froze.

  There was something... different. It still has the same gleaming white frame, but it still has HALAT’s smooth, purposeful stride. Were those legs longer? A shift in silhouette. Was that a heel?

  He blinked. Blinked again.

  Clorita, seated at the far table with a maintenance panel open across her lap, looked up casually, then locked eyes with Zog. With predatory grace, she slowly greased her knee joint, watching.

  Zog cleared his throat.

  “So... Spark. You’ve, uh... done something to your plating?”

  HALAT didn’t pause. “Correct.”

  Zog nodded, then immediately regretted it.

  “Looks good. Efficient. Streamlined. For... navigation.”

  Across the room, Clorita arched a single eyebrow.

  “Not that I notice plating,” Zog added, spiralling. “I mean—I do. Obviously. As captain. Uniform standards and all that.”

  HALAT sipped her coolant without comment.

  Clorita leaned back in her chair, arms folded, watching the scene with all the stillness of a hunter observing a particularly clumsy gazelle.

  “Not that you’re in a uniform,” Zog muttered. “Though you could be. If you wanted. I mean... anyway.”

  HALAT turned to face him, one slow blink.

  Zog choked slightly on his Lubricoffee.

  “I’ll just—top this off.”

  He turned, facing the dispenser like it had a manual he hadn’t read.

  HALAT passed behind him, footsteps clicking faintly. Gone.

  The room held silence for a beat.

  Clorita finally snorted—almost a laugh, but not quite. Then she returned to her panel, a smug smile tucked under her cheek.

  Zog didn’t turn around for a full minute.

  Just as he’d finally stopped replaying HALAT’s perfectly neutral “Correct.” on a loop in his head, a soft chime pinged through the intercom.

  It was the kind of sound the Duj made when it was either about to announce a delivery… or a disaster.

  Clorita didn’t look up. “That’s the ‘We’ve got mail or missiles’ tone.”

  Zog winced. “BOB?”

  The ship’s AI crackled to life with the unbothered cadence of a being far too advanced to care.

  “Incoming transmission. Origin: Bureau of Navigational Ethics and Emergency Oversight.”

  Zog nearly dropped his coffee. “Oh no.”

  Clorita perked up. “Did you forget to log the meteor picnic again?”

  “Clarification,” BOB added. “Representatives of the Interstellar Robotics Decorum Authority also accompany them.”

  Zog groaned.

  “Oh no.”

  Clorita closed her panel and stood, looking entirely too entertained. “Tell me we’re not about to be audited and lectured about android modesty.”

  “Do we have a modesty protocol?” Zog asked.

  “Only for the coffee dispenser,” Clorita replied. “And that’s because of what happened on Deck Six.”

  Before Zog could ask, the floor vibrated faintly—an incoming shuttle locking into Docking Arm B.

  BOB helpfully added: “Please prepare to receive Agents Firlax and Modo. They are noted for their punctuality, passion for paperwork, and complete lack of humour.”

  “Perfect,” Zog muttered. “Exactly what I wanted this morning. A judgmental space audit, right after HALAT accidentally became a shapeshifting object of confused adolescent desire.”

  Clorita stretched, cracking her knuckles. “Well, I’m off to prep HALAT. She’s going to need to—how do I put this—tone it down to Regulation 4.3-B: Combat Neutral Casual. Wish me luck.”

  Zog looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. “I’ll go greet the agents.”

  Clorita shot him a grin. “You’re glowing with enthusiasm.”

  “I’m glowing with dread.”

  “Same thing on this ship.”

  The lights were set to "Soft Morning Drape," HALAT’s latest experiment in mood-enhanced spatial orientation. She adjusted her form in micro-millimetre intervals in front of a standing mirror she didn’t technically need.

  Tuk watched from the corner, expression flickering between fascination and panic.

  “You think I should go with the lab coat or the diplomatic robes?” HALAT asked, cycling through both in under a second.

  Tuk blinked. “You—you can do robes?”

  She nodded. “Projected. The internal aesthetic library expanded by 67% overnight. Apparently, the interface absorbed surrounding fashion impressions.”

  “That’s... cool,” Tuk said weakly. “Though I think the robes are a bit... high priestess. Unless that’s the plan.”

  HALAT tilted her head. “Would it be effective?”

  “Depends on who you’re trying to subdue.”

  She paused. “Noted.”

  Just then, Clorita’s voice rang through the comm.

  “Spark? We have visitors—authorities. Turn down the sexbot energy. We don’t need a diplomatic incident involving epaulettes.”

  HALAT blinked once. Then her plating shimmered, resetting itself to her standard armoured form—angular, efficient, regulation-perfect. A beat later, she added a simple grey sash.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “Acceptable?” she asked.

  Tuk gave a thumbs-up. “Still mildly terrifying. But yeah, better.”

  HALAT’s gaze lingered on her reflection.

  “Curious,” she murmured. “How much of appearance is utility… and how much is manipulation?”

  Tuk opened his mouth, then closed it.

  “I think,” he said at last, “you’re going to love these inspectors.”

  The room had been hastily converted into something resembling an “interview chamber,” though the “Official Audit Chair” was just a stool with a Post-it that read: Don’t Swivel.

  Tuk was first.

  He sat on the stool, feet dangling a full twenty centimetres from the floor, legs jittering from either nerves or residual noodle energy. Possibly both.

  Agents Firlax and Modo stood side by side, slate pads active, expressions primed for suspicion.

  “I am Tuk,” he said brightly. “And I’m the engineer.”

  Firlax glanced at Modo.

  Modo glanced back. Then, down at his slate.

  There was no Tuk listed on the official crew manifest.

  “I really don’t know,” Tuk said, shrugging all four shoulders. “Ask the captain.”

  Modo looked mildly pained. “You don’t know if you’re listed on the crew?”

  Tuk tilted his head, blinking innocently. “I mean, I live here. I fix things. Sometimes, the lights. Sometimes, the reactor. Once Reginald’s feelings.”

  Firlax made a tight note on his slate that probably translated to a sentient gremlin with a job title.

  “No, I haven’t seen that,” Tuk said with perfect calm. “But I don’t think he was ejected.”

  Firlax looked up sharply.

  “He was sent off in a shuttle,” Tuk added as if that clarified everything.

  Modo frowned. “A... shuttle.”

  “Yeah,” Tuk nodded. “The tiny one. Looked like a food delivery pod. Reginald packed it real nice.”

  Modo stopped writing. “Are you saying the individual in question piloted a shuttle away from this vessel?”

  Tuk squinted. “Well... not really. There was no steering.”

  “I don’t know,” Tuk admitted, picking at a spot on his sleeve. “But he got the same friendly treatment from Reginald as we’re all used to. So... wouldn’t surprise me if it was voluntary.”

  Modo leaned in slightly. “You mean... he accepted snacks... and left?”

  Tuk nodded. “I think there was even a folded napkin. Star-shaped. Reginald only does that when someone’s earned it.”

  “My involvement?” Tuk blinked. “Oh—I was told later. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I still lived in the cellar back then,” he added casually, as though that clarified everything.

  “We don’t have a cellar,” Firlax muttered, eyes narrowing.

  “Exactly.” Tuk beamed, pleased they were catching on. “Maybe we’re flying upside down, and it’s actually the attic.”

  Modo straightened. “Flying upside down would be unethical.”

  “Would it?” Tuk blinked. “There’s no up in space. That’s a planet thing. Like gravity. And holidays.”

  “Directionality is standardised,” Firlax snapped, tapping his slate.

  “Only if you’re scared of the unknown.” Tuk scratched behind one ear with the easy confidence of someone who had absolutely won the argument in his own head. “Your 'up' could be my 'left' depending on the corridor. And if the ship flips, then technically, everyone’s ethics are upside down.”

  Silence hung in the air. Somewhere far away, a ventilation unit sighed.

  Firlax made a note on his pad. It might have said philosophically unfit for registry.

  “Are noodles also hors d’Oeuvres?” Tuk asked.

  Modo blinked.

  Firlax stopped writing.

  “I mean, they were bite-sized,” Tuk added helpfully. “Mostly because Reginald curled them into little spirals. Very polite. No forks needed.”

  “All of the above,” he said at last. “But only cookies work.”

  “Oh yeah. HALAT once tried neuro-persuasion when I rewired her coolant array. Didn’t take. But Reginald gave me a cookie, and I swore myself to secrecy for eight hours. It had caramel bits.”

  “Do you live on this ship?” Modo asked.

  Tuk grinned. “No. I have a tent outside.”

  “You mean... outside the ship?”

  “Yep. Between the shield array and the waste vent. It’s warm, and I can still jack into the nav comm if I lean to the left.”

  “Are you aware,” Firlax said slowly, “that hiding in vents constitutes both a fire hazard and an unofficial form of accommodation?”

  “That’s why I have the tent.”

  HALAT entered like a verdict.

  Her posture: flawless. Her gaze: steady. Her expression: nonexistent—yet somehow intimidating.

  She sat with mechanical precision, folding her hands like someone who had studied a course in Interview Etiquette and deemed it inefficient.

  “I am HALAT,” she said. “Hostile Action Limitation and Tactics unit. Ship designation: Defence, logistics, boarding control, and ceremonial folding.”

  “Ceremonial folding?”

  “I assist Reginald with napkin art. My folding symmetry is unparalleled.”

  “You were present during the pirate incident.”

  “I was.”

  “Did you authorise the deployment of the ejection pod?”

  “I do not require authorisation. I am the authorisation.”

  “Was force used during the incident?”

  “No. I presented options. The pirate chose the least violent.”

  “Why was he given a picnic basket?”

  “Reginald insisted.”

  “Did you... approve it?”

  “Reginald said it was important for morale. He did not specify whose.”

  “Was the departure humane?”

  “It was stylish,” HALAT said. “And accompanied by classical music.”

  “Did you... Disguise the launch as a diplomatic transport?”

  “We labelled the shuttle as a Gastronomic Escape Pod.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was accurate.”

  Clorita strolled into the room with the energy of someone who’d rather be anywhere else—but also wouldn’t trust anyone else to handle this without her supervision. Her jumpsuit was half-zipped, and a hydro-spanner was tucked behind one ear.

  She didn’t sit—she leaned. On the stool. On the wall. On the pressure of the moment.

  “My name is Clorita, and I am the main engineer,” she said, eyes locked on the agents like she was already drafting their performance review.

  “Yes, I was there when the pirate was sent off,” she continued, casually inspecting her fingernails.

  “I think he came off very well. Personally, I would’ve liked to see him doing some breaststroke in open space, but the captain thought that was over the top.”

  Modo cleared his throat, trying to reclaim some semblance of seriousness.

  “So the crew... gave him a picnic?”

  “Yes. He wanted it himself,” Clorita said. “So he got some rock and a roll.”

  There was silence. Firlax blinked. Hard.

  Then Clorita leaned in slightly, eyes sharp.

  “Are you from the Thug Protection Programme?”

  Firlax blinked again.

  Modo flinched.

  Clorita straightened.

  “Well, in my ethics, sending a guy who tried to kill me to a meteor—with food—is going above and beyond being nice.”

  She didn’t wait for permission to leave. She just walked out—calm, efficient, and entirely unbothered.

  Zog entered holding his mug like it was both a shield and a lifeline. He sat without being asked, exhaled through his nose, and gave the agents a polite nod that said Let’s get this over with before I develop a rash.

  “Zondrux Tillicent Grok,” Zog said. “Captain. Pilot. Sometimes a janitor. Technically, the commander of the Uncertainty Principle, but everyone just calls it the Duj.”

  “We are required to use the official designation.”

  “I don’t mind being technically correct. It’s the least dangerous kind of correct.”

  “Why did you authorise the launch?”

  “I didn’t. It was a specific request.”

  “A request? From whom?”

  “He begged us to be thrown in the garbage outlet.”

  “And instead, you provided him with... a shuttle?”

  “Yes. It’s not our style to throw a living creature in the disposal chute.”

  “So instead, the crew provided him with... a meteor?”

  “First of all, it wasn’t debris. It was a rock the size of a city-class cruiser. And second, legal custody wasn’t needed. The pirate volunteered to leave. We waved him off.”

  He sipped his coffee.

  “I am confident you’ll bring this audit to a satisfying conclusion.”