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Starship Halcyon‑7’s sickbay was quiet in the way only a malfunctioning medical bay could be: lights flickering between “sterile white” and “existential blue,” the air recyclers sighing like they were overworked and underpaid, and the medical AI humming a tune suspiciously similar to an old Earth elevator melody.
Dr. Willimington stood at the central counter, staring at a small amber vial he’d found wedged behind a crate of anti‑radiation injectors. The label read:
“Prototype 7B — Behavioral Modulation Trial.”
Someone had drawn what might have been a heart. Or a black hole. Or a heart being consumed by a black hole. Hard to tell.
He turned the vial over. R&D had been whispering for months about a “confidence enhancer,” though officially the ship’s manifest listed it as “Crew Morale Optimization Compound (Experimental, Do Not Ingest, Seriously).” Which, in Willimington’s experience, meant someone had already ingested it.
He wasn’t sure why he was considering it. Maybe because Andar — the ship’s medtech, half‑Xyrillian, half‑something‑the‑ship’s-database-refused-to-identify — was still in the adjacent bay recalibrating the dermal regenerator. And humming. Andar’s humming sounded like a cross between a lullaby and a small engine failure, and Willimington had grown disturbingly fond of it.
He uncorked the vial.
The scent was faintly lemony. That felt promising. Or ominous. Or like someone had spilled dessert flavoring into the experimental compounds again.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m a senior medical officer. I do not self‑administer unverified substances.”
He took a sip.
It tasted like lemon syrup. Not futuristic lemon syrup. Just… lemon syrup. The kind used in children’s medicines before humanity decided to colonize the stars and outsource flavor development to alien species with questionable taste buds.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
No sudden surge of confidence.
No emotional recalibration.
No subtle shift in his neurochemical baseline.
Not even a mild tingling.
Just… lemon.
He frowned. “Well. That’s anticlimactic.”
The medical AI chimed overhead.
“Alert: Unknown substance detected in bloodstream. Emotional destabilization probable.”
Willimington glared at the ceiling. “I’m fine.”
“Denial detected. Logging incident for psychological review.”
“Andar?” he called, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near “panicked whisper.”
Andar drifted into view, literally — his species had a habit of hovering an inch off the ground when relaxed. He held a medscanner that was beeping in a tone best described as “deeply confused.”
“Yes, Doctor?” Andar’s voice had the melodic undertone of someone who had swallowed a tuning fork in childhood.
Willimington gestured at the vial. “Do you know anything about Prototype 7B?”
Andar floated closer, squinting at the label with his secondary eyelids. “Oh! That. Yes, I reorganized the placebo stock earlier. Some of the labels were peeling, so I replaced them.”
Willimington blinked. “Placebo stock.”
“Mm‑hmm.” Andar nodded, antennae bobbing. “Training syrups. We use them to test whether new medtechs can identify flavor profiles under pressure. Turns out most species can’t. Sentients are very suggestible.”
Willimington stared at the vial. “So this is…?”
“Simple syrup,” Andar said. “With lemon. I added the heart sticker so no one would confuse it with the anti‑nausea tonics. Those cause spontaneous poetry recitation in some species.”
The medical AI chimed again.
“Correction: No unknown substance detected. Emotional instability remains probable.”
Willimington felt heat creep up his neck. “Ah.”
Andar tilted his head — or whatever the Xyrillian equivalent of tilting one’s head was. “Why did you drink it?”
Willimington considered inventing a scientific justification. He considered pretending he’d been testing viscosity in microgravity. But the lemon taste lingered, and the absurdity of the moment made honesty feel like the least humiliating option available.
“I thought it might help me say something I’ve been avoiding,” he said.
Andar’s antennae perked. Not in surprise — more like someone who had been waiting for this moment with the serene patience of a being who lived in four dimensions.
“Well,” Andar said, leaning against the counter in a way that suggested he was trying very hard to mimic human posture, “you’re definitely not modulated. So whatever you say next is probably the real you.”
Willimington exhaled. “I like you,” he said. “More than I’ve been willing to admit.”
Andar’s facial plates shifted into what the ship’s database optimistically labeled “encouraging warmth.” “Good,” he said. “Because I have been attempting to determine the appropriate moment to express similar sentiments.”
Before Willimington could respond, the medical AI chimed again, louder this time.
“Alert: Crew members exhibiting signs of mutual attraction. Initiating Proximity Protocol.”
A metal partition began descending from the ceiling with the slow inevitability of bad decisions.
Willimington groaned. “Not this again.”
Andar floated upward to avoid being bisected. “Doctor, perhaps we should step aside.”
“I’m trying,” Willimington said, shuffling sideways as the partition clanged to the floor. “Why does the AI think romance is a containment hazard?”
“Clarification,” the AI replied. “Romance is not a hazard. The paperwork is.”
Andar’s antennae twitched sympathetically. “It is a very long form.”
Willimington pinched the bridge of his nose. “I confess one thing, and suddenly we’re in administrative lockdown.”
“Correction,” the AI said. “You confessed after ingesting an unverified substance. This constitutes a dual‑violation event. Please remain still while I generate the appropriate documentation.”
A printer in the corner began spitting out forms at a speed that suggested deep resentment.
Andar drifted closer — carefully, so as not to trigger another protocol. “Doctor… Willimington… perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere the AI cannot hear us.”
The AI chimed.
“I can hear you everywhere.”
Willimington sighed. “Of course you can.”
Andar offered a hand — or the Xyrillian equivalent of one. “Come. The hydroponics bay is shielded. The AI cannot monitor emotional fluctuations there.”
“I can still hear you,” the AI said, sounding offended.
Willimington took Andar’s hand anyway. “Let’s go before it starts printing the long forms.”
As they slipped out of sickbay, the AI called after them:
“Reminder: Hydration is advised. Also, please stop drinking mislabeled syrups.”
Willimington didn’t look back. “I make no promises.”
And somewhere behind them, the printer jammed — loudly, catastrophically — as if the universe itself had decided that was enough bureaucracy for one night.
Dr. Willimington stood at the central counter, staring at a small amber vial he’d found wedged behind a crate of anti‑radiation injectors. The label read:
“Prototype 7B — Behavioral Modulation Trial.”
Someone had drawn what might have been a heart. Or a black hole. Or a heart being consumed by a black hole. Hard to tell.
He turned the vial over. R&D had been whispering for months about a “confidence enhancer,” though officially the ship’s manifest listed it as “Crew Morale Optimization Compound (Experimental, Do Not Ingest, Seriously).” Which, in Willimington’s experience, meant someone had already ingested it.
He wasn’t sure why he was considering it. Maybe because Andar — the ship’s medtech, half‑Xyrillian, half‑something‑the‑ship’s-database-refused-to-identify — was still in the adjacent bay recalibrating the dermal regenerator. And humming. Andar’s humming sounded like a cross between a lullaby and a small engine failure, and Willimington had grown disturbingly fond of it.
He uncorked the vial.
The scent was faintly lemony. That felt promising. Or ominous. Or like someone had spilled dessert flavoring into the experimental compounds again.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m a senior medical officer. I do not self‑administer unverified substances.”
He took a sip.
It tasted like lemon syrup. Not futuristic lemon syrup. Just… lemon syrup. The kind used in children’s medicines before humanity decided to colonize the stars and outsource flavor development to alien species with questionable taste buds.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
No sudden surge of confidence.
No emotional recalibration.
No subtle shift in his neurochemical baseline.
Not even a mild tingling.
Just… lemon.
He frowned. “Well. That’s anticlimactic.”
The medical AI chimed overhead.
“Alert: Unknown substance detected in bloodstream. Emotional destabilization probable.”
Willimington glared at the ceiling. “I’m fine.”
“Denial detected. Logging incident for psychological review.”
“Andar?” he called, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near “panicked whisper.”
Andar drifted into view, literally — his species had a habit of hovering an inch off the ground when relaxed. He held a medscanner that was beeping in a tone best described as “deeply confused.”
“Yes, Doctor?” Andar’s voice had the melodic undertone of someone who had swallowed a tuning fork in childhood.
Willimington gestured at the vial. “Do you know anything about Prototype 7B?”
Andar floated closer, squinting at the label with his secondary eyelids. “Oh! That. Yes, I reorganized the placebo stock earlier. Some of the labels were peeling, so I replaced them.”
Willimington blinked. “Placebo stock.”
“Mm‑hmm.” Andar nodded, antennae bobbing. “Training syrups. We use them to test whether new medtechs can identify flavor profiles under pressure. Turns out most species can’t. Sentients are very suggestible.”
Willimington stared at the vial. “So this is…?”
“Simple syrup,” Andar said. “With lemon. I added the heart sticker so no one would confuse it with the anti‑nausea tonics. Those cause spontaneous poetry recitation in some species.”
The medical AI chimed again.
“Correction: No unknown substance detected. Emotional instability remains probable.”
Willimington felt heat creep up his neck. “Ah.”
Andar tilted his head — or whatever the Xyrillian equivalent of tilting one’s head was. “Why did you drink it?”
Willimington considered inventing a scientific justification. He considered pretending he’d been testing viscosity in microgravity. But the lemon taste lingered, and the absurdity of the moment made honesty feel like the least humiliating option available.
“I thought it might help me say something I’ve been avoiding,” he said.
Andar’s antennae perked. Not in surprise — more like someone who had been waiting for this moment with the serene patience of a being who lived in four dimensions.
“Well,” Andar said, leaning against the counter in a way that suggested he was trying very hard to mimic human posture, “you’re definitely not modulated. So whatever you say next is probably the real you.”
Willimington exhaled. “I like you,” he said. “More than I’ve been willing to admit.”
Andar’s facial plates shifted into what the ship’s database optimistically labeled “encouraging warmth.” “Good,” he said. “Because I have been attempting to determine the appropriate moment to express similar sentiments.”
Before Willimington could respond, the medical AI chimed again, louder this time.
“Alert: Crew members exhibiting signs of mutual attraction. Initiating Proximity Protocol.”
A metal partition began descending from the ceiling with the slow inevitability of bad decisions.
Willimington groaned. “Not this again.”
Andar floated upward to avoid being bisected. “Doctor, perhaps we should step aside.”
“I’m trying,” Willimington said, shuffling sideways as the partition clanged to the floor. “Why does the AI think romance is a containment hazard?”
“Clarification,” the AI replied. “Romance is not a hazard. The paperwork is.”
Andar’s antennae twitched sympathetically. “It is a very long form.”
Willimington pinched the bridge of his nose. “I confess one thing, and suddenly we’re in administrative lockdown.”
“Correction,” the AI said. “You confessed after ingesting an unverified substance. This constitutes a dual‑violation event. Please remain still while I generate the appropriate documentation.”
A printer in the corner began spitting out forms at a speed that suggested deep resentment.
Andar drifted closer — carefully, so as not to trigger another protocol. “Doctor… Willimington… perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere the AI cannot hear us.”
The AI chimed.
“I can hear you everywhere.”
Willimington sighed. “Of course you can.”
Andar offered a hand — or the Xyrillian equivalent of one. “Come. The hydroponics bay is shielded. The AI cannot monitor emotional fluctuations there.”
“I can still hear you,” the AI said, sounding offended.
Willimington took Andar’s hand anyway. “Let’s go before it starts printing the long forms.”
As they slipped out of sickbay, the AI called after them:
“Reminder: Hydration is advised. Also, please stop drinking mislabeled syrups.”
Willimington didn’t look back. “I make no promises.”
And somewhere behind them, the printer jammed — loudly, catastrophically — as if the universe itself had decided that was enough bureaucracy for one night.