Page 4 of Close Encounters of the Hot Kind

"Shut up, Teletran."

"The mission parameters were quite clear. Acquire the property. Locate the weapon. Prevent catastrophic temporal interference."

I snort.

"I know the parameters."

"Then perhaps you'd care to explain why you're reviewing Miss Marella's high school yearbook photos?"

I swipe the image away.

"Background research."

"Of course. And I suppose her social media presence is vital intelligence?"

"The Grolgath weapon could level half of Chicago if activated. One wrong move and-"

"And yet you've scheduled a dinner date rather than implementing standard acquisition protocols."

The truth in Teletran's words stings. Three centuries of maintaining timeline integrity, and now I'm letting myself get distracted by a human female with fire in her eyes.

"Pull up the thermal imaging scans of the sub-basement."

The blueprints materialize in glowing blue lines. Deep beneath the pizza ovens and storage rooms, an anomalous heat signature pulses with alien energy. The Grolgath device, counting down to who knows what.

"The structural integrity of the foundation-"

"I know, Teletran. One wrong move and the whole building could collapse." The thought of Aileen being anywhere near that thing when it activates sends a chill through my scales. "We have to get her out of there."

"The mission requires-"

"The mission requires keeping humans safe. That includes her."

"Your protective instincts are showing, sir. How embarrassingly... organic of you."

I growl and swipe away the holograms.

"Just make dinner reservations. Somewhere expensive. Somewhere she can't refuse."

"Of course, sir. Shall I also compose some romantic poetry while I'm at it?"

"Teletran..."

"Perhaps a sonnet about her eyes? They do seem to have quite an effect on your higher reasoning functions."

"I swear by Ataxia's flames, one of these days I'll find where you actually live, you smug collection of circuits."

"Fascinating threat, sir. I've made reservations at Alinea for eight. I trust even your... limited cultural awareness recognizes it as Chicago's finest restaurant?"

"Perfect." My claws click against the desk as I pull up the holographic disguise options. "What's their dress code?"

"Jacket required. Though I'd suggest the full Charles Varakian business attire. The grey Armani. It complements your imaginary human eyes."

The familiar tingle of the image inducer washes over my scales. Human skin replaces crimson plates, soft and pink. I adjust the tie, studying my reflection. The face that stares back could grace any business magazine cover.

"You know, sir, there are protocols for maintaining timeline integrity that don't involve fine dining."

"Just send the car around at seven-thirty."

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