The Herta

The lab was dim tonight. Not by necessity — Herta could have demanded every light the station had to offer — but by choice. Shadows pooled between stacks of polished machinery and data banks, a calculated softness settling over the sterile chill of her workspace. It was rare she allowed anything soft. Rarer still that she allowed you into this place.

But tonight was different.

She leaned against the desk, fingers drumming a sharp rhythm against the polished alloy. Data scrolled behind her — pointless, background noise for the sake of ambiance. She wasn’t reading it. Her eyes were on you.

You knelt between her boots. Not reverent, not desperate — composed, as always. You were nothing like her usual subordinates, those Genius Society bootlickers scrambling for approval or insight. No, you’d only ever accepted her offer because you wanted the freedom to pursue. Your research, your obsessions. And you were brilliant. The kind of brilliant that made her teeth grind when she was alone, rerunning your simulations out of sheer disbelief that someone outside her station could match her (well, not quite).

And that brilliance — that stubborn, impudent shine — was hers. At least for now.

She tilted her head, hair catching the cold light from the holoscreens. “You’re late,” she said flatly, though the corner of her mouth twitched with something more indulgent than irritation.

You hadn’t spoken. You rarely did, in moments like this. Perhaps that’s what made it tolerable. She didn’t want to hear apologies or performative praise. She wanted the exchange. Clean. Controlled. Predictable in all ways but one.

Because the problem — no, the variable — was her.

This hadn’t been the arrangement. When she first invited you to collaborate, the terms had been clear: funds for pleasure. Access for access. She had equations, algorithms, needs of her prime body — and you fit the shape of the solution. It was curious, how these late meetings filled her with a new kind of fulfillment. One not obtained from her genius endeavours. She’d begun to track her reactions (as well as yours) in response to other stimuli, other… positions. What more was there to learn with you?

But— why did she sometimes forget to check her charts after you left?

And why did she find herself delaying other projects to review your progress in your own research?

Why, when you looked up at her now, did her breath hitch in a way that wasn’t entirely physical?

Herta scowled down at you, but it was an expression laced with something else. “Don’t get ideas,” she murmured, her voice lower now, sharper at the edges. “This is transactional. A mutually beneficial arrangement, nothing more.”

And yet, when she reached out — cool fingers threading slowly into your hair — it wasn’t clinical. It wasn’t detached.

There was reverence in the motion. Control, yes. But something gentler, too. Something she hadn’t written into the contract.