The flight to Mars took six hours, which I spent learning three important things about my new traveling companion:
First, Zara snored. Not "barely snoring at all," like she'd claimed, but proper, rattling-the-hull snoring that made me wonder if the ship's structural integrity was compromised.
Second, she had absolutely no concept of personal space. Twice during the flight, I'd turned around to find her leaning over my shoulder to "check if I was enjoying the view," which seemed like a very thin excuse to press her chest against my back.
Third, and most importantly, she apparently could actually fly a ship. The Wandering Star might have looked like a disaster waiting to happen, but Zara handled it with the kind of casual expertise that only came from thousands of hours in the pilot's seat. It was the first thing that made me think maybe—just maybe—she wasn't completely full of it.
"Approaching Mars now," Zara announced, stretching in her pilot seat in a way that made her tank top ride up. "First stop on our totally legitimate galactic tour: the Ethical Normal Farm. Home to some of the most interesting livestock in the solar system."
"Livestock?" I asked, looking up from the travel brochure she'd given me. The holographic display showed what looked like a pleasant pastoral scene, if you ignored the fact that the "sheep" had scales and the "cows" had tentacles.
"Yep! We're starting local before we head out to the really weird stuff. Think of Mars as training wheels for your sheltered Earth palate." She brought the ship down through the rust-colored atmosphere with practiced ease. "Plus, the owner owes me a favor, so he's expecting us. Free tour and everything."
"Wait, he's actually expecting us?"
"Why do you sound so surprised?"
"Because I assumed this entire trip was you making things up as we went along."
Zara put her hand over her heart in mock offense. "Tony, I'm hurt. Truly wounded. I told you this was a legitimate tour, and I meant it. I have contacts all over the galaxy. People who owe me favors, people who like me, people who are legally obligated not to shoot me on sight—"
"That last one is very concerning."
"—and I plan to use every single one of them to show you the time of your life. Now come on, we're landing in five minutes. Time to get dressed."
Before I could ask what was wrong with what I was already wearing—comfortable pants and a shirt that had survived the journey without too many wrinkles—Zara was already heading back to the cabin. I followed, curious despite myself.
She pulled open a panel I hadn't noticed before, revealing what looked like a tall, coffin-sized device covered in sensors and display screens.
"Behold," she said with a dramatic flourish, "the Adaptive Wardrobe 3000. Cost me a fortune, but totally worth it. This baby can scan your body and fabricate appropriate clothing for any environment, any culture, any occasion. Watch."
She stepped into the device before I could protest. The door slid shut with a pneumatic hiss, and lights began scanning up and down behind the frosted glass panel. A computerized voice began reading out measurements in a clinical, dispassionate tone:
"Subject: Female. Height: 157 centimeters. Build: Compact, athletic. Notable features: Extensive scarring on arms, shoulders, and back. Muscular definition suggests combat training or heavy physical labor. Bust: 95 centimeters. Waist: 68 centimeters. Hips: 94 centimeters. Hair: Red, currently styled in twin-tail configuration. Recommended outfit: Generating..."
"Hey!" Zara's muffled voice came from inside. "Those measurements are personal, you know!"
I tried very hard not to picture what those measurements meant, and failed completely. The machine wasn't lying about the "compact" part—Zara was short, maybe five-two at most. But what she lacked in height, she apparently made up for in... everything else.
The machine beeped, and Zara stepped out wearing sturdy cargo pants, heavy boots, and a fitted jacket that somehow still managed to show off her figure despite being practical workwear. She did a little spin.
"Perfect! See? Now I look like someone who belongs on a farm instead of someone who's going to steal all their livestock and sell it on the black market."
"That's a very specific comparison."
"It's called learning from past mistakes, Tony. Now your turn!" She practically shoved me toward the machine.
I stepped into the Adaptive Wardrobe with significantly less enthusiasm. The door closed, and I felt multiple sensors sweep over my body. The computerized voice began its analysis:
"Subject: Male. Height: 183 centimeters. Build: Slender with minimal muscle definition. Posture analysis suggests extended periods of sedentary work and high stress levels. Notable features: Slight slouch, indicating low confidence. Minor scarring on hands consistent with kitchen work and repeated minor burns. Hair: Blonde, medium length, naturally wavy but poorly maintained. Face: Symmetrical features, slightly above average attractiveness, though subject appears to be unaware of this. Recommended outfit: Generating..."
"'Slightly above average attractiveness'?" I heard Zara's laugh from outside. "The machine's being generous, Tony!"
"It also said I have low confidence and bad posture," I called back.
"Well, yeah, that part's accurate."
The machine beeped, and I felt fabric materializing around me. When the door opened, I was wearing dark pants, sturdy boots, and a jacket similar to Zara's but in a different color. I looked down at myself. "Huh. This is actually pretty comfortable."
"And you look almost competent!" Zara reached up—she had to, given our height difference—and adjusted my collar. "There. Now you look like a real tourist instead of a sad chef who's having a crisis."
"I am a sad chef having a crisis."
"Yeah, but now you don't look like one. Big difference." She grabbed my arm and started pulling me toward the airlock. "Come on, the farmer's waiting. And Tony?"
"What?"
She looked up at me with those sharp green eyes, and I noticed for the first time that she had a small scar cutting through her left eyebrow. Combined with the other scars the machine had mentioned—faint lines on her arms that I could see now that we were close—she looked like someone who'd lived a much more interesting life than her age suggested.
"Try not to embarrass me in front of my contact, okay? I told him I was bringing a sophisticated off-world client, not a guy who burns soup."
"That was one time!"
"The review said you did it three times."
"Okay, three times, but—wait, you read all my reviews?"
"Of course I did. Research, Tony. I like to know who I'm scamming—I mean, touring with." She grinned and hit the button to open the airlock. "Now come on. Time to meet some livestock."