THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"Mkay," you smile, and pet the brick before snuggling it under your chin. "Nice brick." You're just going to have a little nap. Just until your head stops spinning so much. Just... a few minutes...

 

- TWO WEEKS LATER -

Things have been going unnervingly smoothly for far too long.

Your party princess act, far from making you the laughingstock of the ship, earned you a reputation as the 'work hard play hard' type, and when you asked for volunteers to build a climbing wall during rec time you got more offers than you could use. Your lusus is deservedly popular with the other lusii, due to his tolerance of little critters climbing all over him, his willingness to give fly rides to anything under 40 kilos that can cling to his talon, and his ability to pick a troublemaker up by the wing or tail or hind leg and stuff it in a recycling bin to think about what it did without actually injuring it. Your 'back yard' is a bit of a zoo these days.

That's okay; you didn't expect to have it to yourself much longer. You're in the process of expanding downwards, creating a library area below your living space, but even so you don't take up a tenth of the available space along the sides of your dad's flight enclosure. One of the unsavory types you invited for your casino scheme is going to need even more lusus room than your dad -- that's part of why he's so unpopular with the brass, although to be honest his personality is a much bigger part -- so you plan to set him up next door, so to speak.

He should be coming in on tonight's freighter, along with at least some of the great whack of supplies you ordered on your own account. You told him that making sure your shipment arrives safe is the cost of his passage -- you signed him on as a contractor and had the navy pick up the bill -- so you have high hopes.

Staying out of the way of the deck crew as the freighter docks and starts to unload takes some willpower. You want to go elbowing in there and see what Her Imperious Condescension got you for Twelfth Perigee's. But you have to consult with the freighter's skipper and purser, sign off on repairs and refueling, and argue about restocking. ("If we had fifteen cases of soup to give you, Skipper, would you be delivering twenty cases of soup to us this very moment?" "Well, you've got twenty cases now." "And two hundred mouths to feed, which means four hundred boots you'll be tasting in the back of your throat if you try to steal their alem-bedt noodles, Skipper. I swear I'll anounce it over the intercom if you lay a frond on that soup." "Whoa, no need to get salty, Chief!" "That's Commander to you. Sorry, I just get emotional about soup. We all. Get emotional. About soup." "Okay, okay, we'll restock at the next station, sheesh.")

Aspera has just arrived to take over bluster duties when you spot a familiar silhouette dragging a duffle bag down the docking tunnel. Backswept, branching horns like a cross between yours and Aspera's; herdbeast-boy hat with silver conchos on the band; boots with pointy silver whatsits on the toes; too-tight jeans; shortish, messy ponytail; mechanical right arm, lacquered red; t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, advertising some kind of liquor he thinks he's well hard for drinking. And undulating out of the freighter behind him, the biggest lusus you have ever personally met.



He takes off his hat and waves it in greeting. "Double Deuce!" he hollers. He has no concept of an indoor voice, never had.

You can't let him outdo you, so you greet him in your best battlefield bellow: "Waffle!"

And then you charge at each other for an absolutely dignity-free hug bump. Because when you have laid down cover fire for a guy while he was taking a shit, you have no secrets from each other.

 

You blink over at the troll Kadros is unexpectedly, inexplicably rubbing himself all over— you didn't think he actually had any friends, especially not casually-attired, fun-looking friends.

"Kadros!" you yell. "I didn't think you actually had any friends! What the devil's going on, is this one of your robots?"

 

You hook your arm around your friend's neck and haul him over to do the introductions. "Captain Erskin Aspera, Gunnery Sergeant Zulong Murfey."

Murfey takes his hat off and holds it over his heart as he looks Aspera up and down. "Damn, sir, you fine."

You put Murfey in a headlock and try to choke him out.

((murfey: a bit shorter and stockier than bel, though still built like an underwear model. pretty dang hot. full of grins and sass. cobalt. there is probably a big hovering question of WHY IS A COBALT A NONCOM so the very fact of his rank is a sign he's a bad baby.))

 

"I say, stand down, Commander, we don't discipline anyone on this ship for stating the obvious." You whap at Kadros's shins with your cane, then flip the man's hat up with it to give it back to him.

He's got a decent handshake, for a highblood: too many blues try to impress the violets with a show-off finger-crushing session, but Murfey's evidently confident enough not to play that sort of game. You're fairly sure the way his fingertips trail across your palm as he disengages is a deliberate flirtation, though.

"Welcome aboard," you say, retreating into familiar pleasantries. "I hope you'll enjoy your stay here, Sergeant?"

 

"You can call me Gunny, sir. Or Zulong. Or bab--PFBL." He licks your hand to make you stop covering his mouth, and puts his hat back on with a flourish. "If y'all can give me a map point to my quarters I'll get outta your hair."

"Not so fast, Murf," you say. "You have to show me what you brought me."

"Oh Deuce, it's your wriggling day. Come look at this amazing shit." He grabs you and Aspera by the arms and hauls you over to the unloading zone, and shows you all the wonderful things he managed to obtain for you, as proud as if he gave birth to it all himself. To be fair, he did do a really good job. The food supplies are well before the expiration date, the tools and spare parts are new, properly made, and packed in oil, and the aquaponics gear is used but in good shape, with the fish eggs in stasis boxes rather than frozen. "You gotta send the stasis bins back, they're rented," he says apologetically. "Anyhow, last but not least -- your workbots!"

The troll-high, dun-colored plastic crates do indeed have X-550 GENERAL PURPOSE LABOR UNIT stamped on them. You beam joyfully. "Well, let's get them out and have them help unload!"

"Be my guest," Murfey, says, and hands you the key.

You unlock the padlock holding the chain that runs through the latches of the whole row of boxes, and pull the chain out with a long, celebratory rattle. A crewman hands you a small crowbar. You pop the lid.

In an explosion of packing peanuts and metallic fury, the robot bursts out and slaps you hard across the face with a rubber squeegee.

 

"I say, Sergeant Murfey, this is the best day of my life," you say, awed, and then whistle encouragingly as the Labor Unit beans Kadros a good one over the horns.

"Get him!" you yell, waving your cane in excitement. If anyone asks you, you're cheering for your first mate. Really.

 

"Ha fucking ha, Murfey!" you yell as you try to shove the inexplicably homicidal workbot off you. These things are heavy.

"I did not do this, I swear to fuck," he says. Just as you heave the damn thing aside and take its squeegee away, Murfey turns to the line of crates with widening eyes and murmurs, "Well, shit."

Lids start flying off the crates like grubcorn popping.

 

"I— oh. Hm." You skitter smartly back as the robots start to kick their way out. One's managed to open up a cut on Kadros with their metal fist, and it's not quite so funny anymore.

You pull out your phone, hit the number for intercom, and say, "Hallo, Aspera speaking. So, the good news is we've finally gotten a shipment of labor units in, and the bad news is they're apparently killbots in labor unit packaging. Please trust heavy machinery even less than usual while we sort this issue out, thanks."

You cup the phone to your shoulder. "Kadros, do you suppose we can reprogram them, or should we just toss them all back out the hatch?"

 

"Not sure. Murfey, keep 'em off me a sec and I'll find out."

"On it, Cap."

While he's wading into the fray is not the right time to correct him about your new rank, so you just leave him to it and back into a defensible corner while you get your phone out and hit speaker. "Galgal, are you seeing this nonsense?"

 

"I'd be popgrub gif-ing while seeing this nonsense, Commander," the helmsman says, "if anyone ever actually cared enough about their ship's health and wellbeing to bring me any. Can you get them to eat the Captain?"

 

"I'd rather get them to scrub filter screens. In your expert opinion, can these be reprogrammed or reverted back to their original function?"

Murfey throws you an excitedly querying look and mouths Captain Killer? at you. You point sternly at a robot trying to impale him with a pushbroom, and he turns back to the job at hand.

 

"Yyyyyyyeah," the helmsman says reluctantly, "but you'd want to get the engineers in Mechanics on it, and maybe Doumah, if you can drag him out of his hole. I don't actually want them to not be trying to kill everyone. I want them to not be not trying to kill everyone. This is the best entertainment I've had since you crashed my helmsblock to tell me my eyes were pretty, Bel."

The last bit is said significantly louder than necessary.

"You did WHAT," the Captain yells.

 

"Well, they are," you tell Aspera matter-of-factly. To Galley, you say, "I can see how this might be legitimately funny as hell, but if I get mopped to death, how am I gonna bring you that grubcorn? And whatever movie you want to go with it, I don't care if it's not on the helm-approved list, I will get it for you, cross my heart. Just help us get these bots sorted."

 

"Kadros, if you are sexually harassing my helmsman I am going to shove this cane up your nook and throw you at the nearest drone!" you snarl, upset enough that you accidentally punch through a labor unit's chest cavity and get scratches all over your wrist getting untangled again. "Hell."

Galley says smoothly, "He's been oppressing me, Captain. He's a bad man. He touches me in my no-no zones."

"Galley, shut it," you tell him. "Filing false sexual coercion reports also involves disciplinary action, you cantankerous little goblin."

The killbots have managed to flank the three of you, and most are now trotting off down the hallways, spreading out, while only a few keep you and the bluebloods busy. You pull your phone out again. Over the intercom, you say, "The Killbots are now loose. Mechanical, engineering, and, him, information manipulation, please head towards docking bay 17, thank you. Subdue and deactivate, please, no theatrics. Everyone else should probably take the night off and go somewhere with sturdy doors."

 

"I haven't been harrassing him, sir, sexually or otherwise," you grumble, then have to pause to snatch a large wrench from one of the bots, whirl and swat its head off like you're playing T-ball. The body continues trying to kill you, so you kick it toward Aspera for further dismantling. "I just chat with him sometimes. Mostly about movies and comics and who's being completely stupid and ridiculous, which, spoiler, it's usually me. One time I brought him some cake when I was drunk and told him he's pretty. Which is a verifiable fact anyway, so." Hey, this wrench is pretty great. You might need to pick up toolkind.

 

"Kadros, you are a shameful walnut and I am embarrassed to be breathing the same air. Galley looks like a halfpound of grubburger poured into a pipe!"

"Bel, make the robots eat him," the phone says. "Do it now."

 

"Yeah, I'm afraid it's become necessary. Captain? Catch." You plant your foot on a metallic backside and shove the packing-tape-wielding bot pretty much right into his arms.

Murfey whoops. "This is the best ship!"

 

The bot's small, generic horn manages to gouge you right across the cheek and you yowl with pain and outrage. "You dirtsucking bastard spawn of a malfunctioning LOAD GAPER—" You dismember it, toss the parts in the growing robot parts pile, grab another 'live' bot, and throw it bodily at the back of your treacherous Commander's head. Somewhere in the distance Galley is cackling, but right close up you want to see him bleed.

 

You were expecting this. You catch the bot and suplex it into submission. While you're snickering over that, though, a floor polisher manages to hook your legs out from under you, and then you have to focus.

It seems like just seconds later that you look around for a target and find only wreckage. Murfey is stomping the sputtering wreck of one of the bots; when you clear your throat, he turns and indignantly shows you a streak of bubbled enamel on his prosthetic arm. "That little bitch threw paint stripper on me!"

"That cad," you say solemnly.

"Fuck you, Cap, this is serious. I'mma have to redo the whole thing." He hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and looks around. You expect him to ask if life on the Sunslammer is always like this, but instead he says, "So is the helmsman pretty or not?"

"You leave him alone, you're a walking corruption." You mop blood and sweat from your face with a handkerchief. "Galgal? Any clever ideas? Or are we just going to have to wreck the lot of them?"