Page 70 of Folds
“You saidelevated attire,” I said, “so I did. Are we going to stand here while you take inventory of my fashion sense, or are you going to sit and eat with me?” The words came out more brazen than I intended, but I was wired on nerves. Izu processed for a second, then slid back into the booth, making a show of how little effort it cost him.
chapter two
IZU
I selected a dark, civilian jacket to dull the obviousness of my station livery, and as a concession to civilian protocol, left the majority of my defensive kit in a locker. The Hangar was a Level Four establishment, in the sense that it catered to officers and specialists who could afford imported ingredients. The air inside carried notes of caramelized sugar, reduced wine sauces, and the subtle perfume of rare herbs cultivated in the station’s hydroponic gardens. My enteric nervous system catalogued each aroma with precision, identifying the molecular signatures of at least three different planetary cuisines being prepared behind the polished bar.
Sadie entered in a body sheath of some obsidian textile that caught the blue cast of the bar’s lighting and spun it up the length of her. I understood suddenly why humans described attraction as a punch to the sternum. It was—improbable. She was smaller even than I’d remembered, but the dress made her seem... elongated, a blade wrapped in satin. I tried not to stare and failed; her anatomy was a technical marvel of asymmetry and curve, shoulders squared and arms bare in defiance of the environmental chill. The satin clung just above the knees, where her stance shifted minutely as she scanned the room.
I had anticipated visual impact. I had not anticipated visceral disturbance. My secondary hearts ticked up a half-beat.
She made her way to the booth, and I suppressed the urge to stand again. It would have rendered me absurd. Still, my hands pressed to the table edge, knuckles blanching.
“You clean up nice,” she said. The words were light, but not unserious.
I nodded, intending to reciprocate, but it lodged somewhere raw in my throat. I had devoted study hours to the construction of human flattery—there were sixteen templates depending on context, but in the moment, the correct phrase escaped me. I tried to triangulate between her iridescent blue accent stripe, the exposed throat, the dress’s cunning architecture, and the suggestion of warmth beneath the fabric.
My mind compiled the variables, and when I spoke, the output was dissonant: “Your garment projects kinetic symmetry. It is… delightfully destabilizing.”
She snorted, which I took for approval, and her mouth split into a wide, invitation-shaped smile. “You know, most guys just saynice dress.”
I allowed myself the liberty of a second observation, more measured. “You have reconfigured the dress code with impressive advantage.”
“See, now you’re just flattering me,” she said. She glanced up at me, lips pursed, and the way she leaned against the table made it clear she’d made the first move and was curious how I’d answer.
I let my eyes wander, a long-enough pass over her arms and face that it could be mistaken for cultural scrutiny, not just need. She gestured for the bartender’s attention, then rolled a credit between her knuckles. I tracked the motion, watching how her nerves played out in kinetic details. I inclined my head to the amber bottle she ordered.
“We do not ferment,” I said, “but chemical simulation is part of our recreation training. I am curious to observe an authenticeffect.”
She grinned, then pitched her voice lower. “I’ll order you something non-lethal.” She eyed me sidelong.
“Non-lethal is an improvement over my introduction to your medical wing,” I said, and her tongue darted over her lower lip. I wasn’t sure if she realized, but it drew my focus. I resisted the urge to mirror the gesture.
The bartender set down two glasses, one for each of us. The vapor rising from the surface was sweet and stung faintly—a floral, citrusy note, familiar from the station airscrub. I raised it, analyzed, and held her gaze as I sipped.
She watched me, probably expecting a reaction, so I broke protocol and let my tongue trace the rim of the glass before swallowing. It was tart, sharp, not entirely unpleasant, but the ethyl initiated a heat crawl from my chest outward, a slow detonation of sensory mapping. The taste was like the chemical equivalent of Sadie Mercer—unexpected, slightly dangerous, undeniably persistent.
She grinned at the way I tested the drink. “See? Not even a grimace. You’re already picking up the customs.” She slid her own glass closer. The liquid worked at my insides with a quickening tempo. The edges of the light around Sadie refracted, brighter and more acute, as if the photons were emboldened by the ethanol. Speech was slower, or maybe the world was less urgent to finish her sentences. My muscles arranged themselves into what the Bozad called “combat relaxation”—all of the tension, none of the animosity. My tongue, usually so governed, grew experimental.
Sadie set her glass down too loudly and leaned closer until the scent of her skin merged with the chemical top note of the drink.
“Is it hitting you yet?” she asked. “You look… mellow. For you.”
I evaluated the lexical gap betweenmellowandinebriated.I approximated, “The psychoactives have a pronounced but not disagreeable effect. I was prepared for far less coherence.” But the vowels slurred together, and I was aware, dimly, that my mouth had less oversight.
She grinned, teeth even and white, and I realized she was watching for cracks in my composure—curiosity without mockery.
“You Bozad have an off switch for that intensity, or is it always stuck on max?”
I recalibrated, trying for humor. “It is a design feature, not a bug.”
Her laughter was a full-body thing, shoulders shaking beneath.
We sat in a booth in a back corner, away from the worst of the ambient bellowing and blinking wall screens. A surface-level privacy, plausible deniability for two off-duty nothings. Sadie moved like she’d been here a thousand times, running her fingertips absently along the synth-wood, thumb tapping at a rough spot as if playing an invisible instrument. I sat facing her, hands folded in my lap, determined not to betray nervous energy with any overly Bozad posture or fidget. It was futile.
“So, Karel,” she said, letting her glass rest against her bottom lip, “what do Bozad operatives do when you’re off the clock? Please say it involves some kind of bloodsport.”
I considered the question. “Most of us prefer athletic contests or philosophical debate,” I answered, “though some indulge in simulated combat rituals. Those are generally reserved for morale-building. Or as a means of selecting leadership in high-density deployments.”
