At First Blush

The spaceport speakers buzzed. “Attention all passengers,” a voice spoke in the intergalactic lingua franca, “flight 1643 for Te’elu has been cancelled and will be postponed to the next cycle. I repeat—”

Irkul’s chromatophores went haywire. Their skin rippled camouflage brown, to deimatic red, to a distressed blue; eyestalks turned in their direction, but Irkul couldn’t control the response, an embarrassing inheritance from their sea-dwelling ancestors.

“No, no, no,” they muttered as they made for the spaceline booth, gills flapping. “Excuse me.” The attendant’s telescopic eyes swiveled towards them. “I have to leave today. Are there really no other flights?”

The attendant gestured at their holo-screen: a star map appeared, glowing curves linking the station to neighbouring systems. “Well,” they said, spooling through options. “The only available itinerary would add two connections and take…considerably longer.”

“How much longer?” Irkul asked, chromatophores flaring blue and green.

“Without the gravity assist, you’re looking at an additional forty-seven years of travel. However, we do have a cryo-sleep add-on for the low price of 14,449 intergalactic credits.”

Irkul’s reflection turned grayish in the booth window. They muttered their thanks, dragging themself away with the holo-voucher they received for their trouble—a mere 10% discount on the overpriced spaceport hotel rooms.

“Hey,” someone called out. “Hey, you. You all right?”

Irkul turned. A small, beige alien was looking up at them. “Me?”

“Yes, you. It’s bad news when Khelor start flashing like a nightclub, right?” Irkul turned a violent shade of pink, and the alien let out a startling barking noise Irkul’s translator tagged as an expression of mirth. “Not gonna squirt ink all over, I hope?”

“Khelor don’t squirt ink.” Irkul earned another bark. “What do you want?”

The alien’s fleshy pink lips covered their teeth. Their features were freakishly mobile. “Sorry, just trying to make you laugh. You look so stressed out.”

“Yes, well. I was supposed to be on that flight that was cancelled just now.”

“Me too. I get it. Want to try the other spacelines? Probably cheaper than a cryo-sleep add-on.” One of their eyes twitched shut. The translator couldn’t explain that one. “Unless you’d rather have a drink at the spaceport bar?”

Irkul sighed. At least their skin had settled back into its normal turquoise now. “Let’s try the other spacelines.” They followed the beige alien along the torus of the station’s centrifuge, and watched their purple crest bob in the artificial gravity. “I’m…I’m Irkul, by the way.”

The alien bared their teeth again, but Irkul expected it this time. “I’m Bowie. Nice to meet you, Irkul.” The two of them stood in line at the booth of the next spaceline. “So, does it mean anything when a Khelor’s skin changes colour? Can you control it?”

“More or less. White or gray denotes sickness or distress; blue is sorrow or fear, and red is aggression or attraction to a potential mate.” Their skin flushed pink at that. Bowie watched in fascination, which only made Irkul even pinker. “We use it to add layers or subtext to communication, but some responses are involuntarily. What about you?” they asked. “Did you choose to be beige?”

Another quacking noise. “I most definitely did not choose to be beige,” Bowie said, then pulled up their sleeves. Colourful images adorned their forelimbs, though these were static, unlike the blooming shapes of Irkul’s own skin. “I did choose these, though.”

“Are those…flora?”

“From Earth, yes. My home planet. So I can remember it while I’m away.”

Irkul’s gills ruffled excitedly. They wanted to inquire about Earth’s plants, but something in Bowie’s voice had changed: it was lower, more subdued, and the wash of pink faded from Irkul’s skin.

Then it was their turn at the booth. Still no luck. Irkul and Bowie made their way to the next spaceline booth, and waited beneath the milky swaths of the nebula on the spaceport displays. “Have you been away from Earth for long?” Irkul tried.

“A few months now. I’m headed to Te’elu on an alliance-sponsored visa. Had to leave because of the climate crisis and resource scarcity. You know, the usual. You?”

“Just returning home from field work on Nepheron.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

“I’m a xeno-botanist. Actually…you like plants, right?” Irkul produced an alliance-approved container from their luggage. Iridescent veins webbed the leaves, coalescing into small buds that looked like jeweled raindrops. “This is one of the specimens I collected. Probably looks nothing like Earth’s, though,” they added, embarrassed.

“May I?” Bowie asked. They studied the artificial mist collecting on the plant and refracting its iridescence. They smiled again, but it was a small, wobbly thing this time; their eyes turned watery, which Irkul’s translator tagged as an expression of sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” Irkul stammered. “Did I…did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all. Thank you.” Irkul’s skin rippled green for relief, then pink as warmth unexpectedly rose through them. They returned the plant to their luggage while Bowie discreetly wiped their eyes on their sleeve. “Is that why you need to go home? To keep this plant safe?”

“Oh, no. It has everything it needs for the foreseeable future. I’m just…well, I hate flying. I couldn’t stand the thought of being stuck here for a whole cycle.” Irkul expected that bark again, but Bowie smiled, eyes still gleaming. “You know,” Irkul said, gills rippling nervously, “you’re the one squirting all over, it turns out.”

There. Bowie burst out laughing, and a satisfied green washed over Irkul’s skin. The attendant called out to them; Bowie walked over to the booth, still making gleeful hiccuping noises as they dabbed their eyes, while Irkul puzzled over their feelings. They felt the same way they did in the field when they found a rare specimen: elated, excited, strangely protective.

Bowie waved them over, grinning. “Hear that, Irkul? They have a direct flight to Te’elu leaving in an hour for 795 creds. You’d be home tomorrow.” Irkul’s chromatophores turned blue, betraying them. Bowie blinked. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not coming?”

Bowie again had that teary smile Irkul’s translator confusingly tagged as both happy and sad. “I can’t afford a new ticket. Happy to help you home, though.”

Indecision splotched Irkul’s skin. The booth attendant waved their antennae impatiently. “Are you taking that seat or not? I don’t have all cycle.”

“Thank you, but I changed my mind.”

Bowie’s eyes and mouth now formed three perfect os as Irkul turned away from the counter. “You’re not going?”

“I suppose I’m not in that much of a hurry anymore.” To Irkul’s surprise, Bowie’s cheeks glowed bright pink. “You can change colours, too?” they blurted. “What does it mean?”

Bowie rubbed their cheeks and stuck out the tip of their tongue. “Aw, shit. Well, the same as you, I suppose. Not the aggression, the…the other thing.”

Attraction to a potential mate. Irkul’s skin flushed pink and merry yellow. “Do you still want that drink at the spaceport bar?”

Bowie’s smile stretched even wider. “Yes. Let’s.”

© 2025 Madi Haab

Madi Haab (she/her) is a queer neurodivergent writer of Moroccan descent from Tiohtià:ke/Montréal. She draws inspiration from her mixed cultural heritage and identities to explore the liminal and interstitial. She holds a certificate in creative writing, and her work has received honourable mentions from the 2023 Penguin Random House Student Award for Fiction and 2024 Janice Colbert Poetry Award. Her short fiction has appeared in Augur Magazine, Haven Speculative, and Hexagon Magazine, while her nonfiction has appeared in Brins d’éternité. Find her at madihaab.com or on Bluesky @madihaab.