THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

CH: * Good idea. Will do.

You poke at the terminal a little more, rummage up a cable and connect your phone to it so you can use some of your own software. You explain, "I'm going to put together some documentation for you. A new identity. So you don't have to hide from the crew. Gimme your vitals -- height, weight, hemochrome number?"

On the blank ID form, you type: Lycaon Pictus.

 

The brownblood whines fearfully, hugging the wall, but he gives his information. Now that someone's commanding him, he doesn't seem to be able to leave, however anxious he is.

 

He looks terrified in the picture you make him hold still for; you do a little editing to make him look calmer, and also make his eyes not purple. Getting it look like the picture was not, in fact, taken in a dark, unused cargo bay results in the whole being kind of overexposed and washed out, but that's fine, ID pictures are supposed to be terrible. The terminal's ancient printer grinds complainingly, and the laminating comes out streaked, but on a ship like this, and with Galley backing it, it should pass. You hand it to him with a congratulatory air.

"There you go. You're a new troll, and Galley will vouch for you. The clowns can't find you now."

 

"They can't....? They-- you-- I'm... I'm free?" Lycaon looks at his little card. "This is me?"

His face crumples up and he grabs Bel, but not to attack. Instead he wraps the smaller troll in his arms and bawls into his shoulder, sweeps of exhaustion and terror and grief coming loose all at once.

 

You pat his back awkwardly, and let him hug it out. "Yeah, that's you, you're Sunslammer crew now. You can stay." After a few minutes you gently try to detach him. "Galley said I should make one for myself, too, because I'm too young to be here. I gotta type."

 

It takes awhile for Bel to break free: the brownblood is clumsy but very big and very clingy. Eventually Lycaon settles on holding Bel's elbow and hovering against his shoulder while he types.

"You're a kid...?" he asks, hoarse and tentative. "You're just a little kid? How d'you know all this stuff?"

 

"A little kid?" You snort. "I'm only a sweep short of ascension, friend. I'm not a pupa." You name yourself Hanbel Chania and back up to the nearest wall for a selfie. "Anyway, like I said, I'm a warp accident. The helmsman was going through a tricky patch and my alternate self touched him and got zapped with some kind of -- I don't know, he explained it but I didn't understand the explanation. In any case, the me that belongs here is like five sweeps older. Apparently the difference is pretty obvious. So I have to fly under the radar for a week or two, until Galley can swap us back."

The question of what your other self might be getting up to right now recurs to you, and you chuckle. "Oh man, I bet big me is giving my quadrants such a hard time."

 

"Oh... okay?" Lycaon clearly understands even less than Bel. "Everything's a miracle, I guess." He tries to hug Bel again now that he's not typing.

((bel can make him take them back to the nearest inhabited zone))

 

With a sense of bemused surrender, you give him a proper hug, with encouraging back-thumping. The printer complains and spits out your new ID. You catch it and tuck it in your pocket, other arm still around Lycaon.

"Now that we're officially allowed to be here, let's go find some food that isn't freeze-dried lasagne."

 

"The Messiahs can't see me anymore, right? I'm not the guy they were watching...?" Lycaon asks. "Like, you made them look somewhere else?" He follows Bel, interweaving their fingers in a tight handhold. Now that he's found someone in the galaxy to protect him, he's not letting that guy go.

 

Treading carefully, you try to navigate his mental landscape as best you can: "Well, they'd be looking for a Punchline, and you're Lycaon Pictus. They don't know that guy. And they'd be looking for someone lost from a clownship, but you're a member of the Sunslammer's crew. You're one of Galley's people, not theirs."

Now that you've reached an area where the lights work, you're starting to recognize the way you came in. You regret leaving the cart down there. This is one hell of a big ship.

 

"They don't know me," he repeats, almost reverently, though he flinches and drags his feet when he has to cross into the lighted hall. "They don't know me. They won't ever take me back, I'm gone, I'm gone for real..." he sniffles, starting to cry again, but doesn't slow Bel down any more. He doesn't seem to have any idea more than Bel where they are or where they should go, though.

 

You try to follow the smell of food, but due to vagaries of air circulation, this is not straightforward. Instead of a cafeteria, you find a park. An absurd, beautiful park with a reed-edged pond and a canopy of dwarf nut trees.

"Why is there a park on this ship? Is that allowed?" You have to touch one of the trees to be sure it's real. You can hardly see the metal sky through the leaves.

 

"Miracles," says the brownblood, and goes to kneel at the edge of the pond. A frog peers out of the water at him, and after a moment of puffing and head-tilting, projects a gametext hologram:

bring me three red rocks
and something blue
and i will have
a reward for you

 

"Is it a bot?" You poke the amphibian's nose curiously. "I guess it's part of someone's scavenger hunt game."

 

The entirely organic frog noms on Bel's finger until he removes it, then croaks and displays its quest text again.

"We should do what it says," the brownblood says anxiously. He twists his big hands together and looks at Bel for confirmation. "Right? If animals tell you what to do, you have to."

 

"We don't have to, it's clearly just a game." But you're curious, so you sort through your card catalog a bit, and produce three glossy chunks of dark-red agate, and a thumb-claw-sized tablet of azure paint. You offer these to the frog in the palm of your hand.

 

The frog contrives to look disdainful.


you won't get anywhere
with that attitude
go and find
a new latitude

 

You shoot Lycaon an incredulous look, pointing at the frog. "You see this? You see this sass? Frog asks for red rocks, I give it red rocks, it doesn't want them. I'm offended."

 

"Don't make it mad," Lycaon pleads. He makes an awkward, abortive gesture, like he wants to pull Bel away from the frog danger zone but doesn't want to make Bel mad. "We could look around...? for what it wants?"