THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

You're already shaking your head. "No, no. Our helmsman will have a grand-mal screaming meltdown over un-inspected cargo, much less from off-record ships. He wouldn't go for it before and certainly won't now, after that plague ship caused such a ruckus. Wouldn't be surprised to hear he's been taking shots at anything larger than a micrometeor out there. It'd be a hard sell for Security, too, honestly.

"Your intermediary's got to have data feed— a fairly broad-spectrum one— patched through to our resident Captain Killer or there's no way we can make it work. A manual override of Galley's fairly justified paranoia would have to be thorough enough to basically slag him, and I prefer not to have this ship steered about by a vegetable."

You look to Bel. "Do you have anyone you think Galley wouldn't mind working with, and who wouldn't mind working with him? Bear in mind, he tolerates Lainey's Intelligence Division* more than he lets on."

(*arguus)

 

"Hmm. Fionne, maybe, he's a sweetheart. You're not trading in livestock, are you, Whitey?"

"Fionne is that goofball who collects animals? He's all right. There's not enough money in animals to make them worth the cargo space, he'll find nothing to upset him. But I'm concerned, Captain; the reason I don't want any of you inspecting my cargo is because it would be too easy for someone to make you tell. You've got so very much to lose. A helmsman, well -- someone of sufficient rank simply has to order him to spill the beans, right?"

 

So much to lose. Ha! As if you haven't been paddling away like mad not to lose it!

"That's funny," you drawl, elbow propped on the back of your chair, "I was just telling Kadros about this on the way here. I'm immune to mental surveillance or coercion, Lord Dasyat. The part of my mental anatomy overlapping the collective unconscious was, hm, cauterized? when I was still on planet, due to an ill-planned encounter with The Emissary that turned out to be a bit of a win, long-term. As for Enkidi Galgal, you can just look him up: he has personally dispatched five or six commanding officers, and any number of lesser annoyances. If either of us could have been subverted by the regular means, we certainly would have been."

 

"Forgive me, Captain, but I must assume that if someone threatened your matesprit, for instance, you would give up my secrets with very little hesitation. Nor would I blame you for doing so. As for Galgal, of course I know about the Captain-Killer, but --"

"If you can say 'but', you don't know him," you interrupt. "If some Fleet authority tried to make him do anything he didn't want to do, he'd fry 'em. He's not a slave. You know what, why don't we get him in on this conversation? Since I'm pretty sure he's been listening the whole time." You set your phone on the table. "What do you think, Galley, could you inspect Whitey's contraband for dangers to this ship and crew without giving us up to the Admiralty?"

 

"Are you out of your blithering crapsack mind? You want me to do illegal things? I already sold the lot of you shameful bastards out thirty-five minutes ago."

There's a long, heavy pause, then Galley cuts back in with, "Hahaha, just kidding, sorry Bel. Shit, yeah, let's be pirates!"

Erskin interrupts: "No piracy, Galley. We discussed this."

"We discussed how you couldn't find your ass if you had a locater shoved up your fancy little highblood sphincter," Galley says, "And fifteen maps introduced to your—"

"—technically," Erskin overrides him, "We'd be smugglers. I think."

There's a contemplative pause. Galley even plays a burst of elevator music.

"Welllll, it's not as cool as pirates," he finally, grudgingly, says. "So there better be some good fucking shit in whatever mystery crates I let aboard, like, laser guns. Really big laser guns. The laser guns that go on tanks. The laser guns that go on tanks while some shirtless sweaty blueblood rides around on the shaft waving a sword around. I need a picture of Bel doing that pose, like in the Conscription Poster*."

Erskin looks interestedly at Lord Dasyat. "I wouldn't mind that either," he says mildly.

(*Conscription Poster #396582b, 'Drive Closer, I Want To Hit Them With My Sword')

 

"I am making a mental note to add those to my stock at the first opportunity," Whitey says smoothly.

"Only for you guys," you grin, shaking your head. You really would ride a laser cannon waving a sword for these doofuses, you love them that much. It's ridiculous.

 

You do your best to repress your smile— smooth and dangerous criminals probably do not beam soppily at their kismeses— and turn back to Whitey. "Are there any particular measures you'd like us to take, to guarantee the, hm, inviolability of your operations? Or demonstrations. You could give Galley an order, perhaps."

Galley snickers ominously.

 

"Helmsman Galgal, sing the teapot song," Whitey says promptly, in a very commanding tone.

 

One of the Inflammation Suppressant Teats in the ceiling goes tzzzt!, and with deadly precision hoses the highblood down with thick chemical foam.

 

Whitey makes a lot of sputtering noises and bolts for the bathroom.

You laugh so hard you slide off your chair onto the floor.

 

"Did I do good, daddy?" a snippet of porn plays from the phone, when you have mostly stopped convulsing.

You pat it, sniffling. "I'll send Kadros over to deliver your reward," you tell him. You boot Kadros in his big barrel-stave ribs. "No lying down on the job, Commander, thank you very much."

 

Swatting at his foot, you climb back aboard your chair just before Whitey returns, damply clean and wearing a different pair of embroidered shorts. "You could've just told me to shove it," he grumbles. "That stuff smells."

"It was an effective demonstration, you have to admit."

"I suppose I do, but ugh, it's in my hair."

You crack up again.

"Oh, shut it, Kadros."

 

"It also doubles as a demonstration of how impervious your cargo would be from unexpected conflagration," you put in. "Anyway, is there anything else? I can hook you up with the make spaces to discuss the building of your casino, itself. Generally hives, gardens, and clubhouses are put together by whomever wants to use one, but for something like a casino I should think you'd want a few engineers in on it."

You're done with your meal and want to get out of here. You're doing better tamping down on your juvenile instincts, by now, not leaning into him so much or slavering after his good regard, but it's taxing as hell and you really need a breather. And to bite Kadros a few times. Recreationally.

 

Whitey raises an eyebrow. "You still owe me for dropping everything to rush Pancho here."

"Check your balance, I transferred it already," you point out. He checks, and nods, but looks slightly affronted. You explain, "What with holding Pancho's critters hostage, I thought you might try to renegotiate."

"I never renegotiate."

"Good. Pancho already took them back anyway."

"Good riddance. That griffin pecked my lusus in the head. Rays are a cartilaginous fish, you know, he's very delicate." He stands and stretches. "Well, darlings, it's been fun, but I need a swim. Tell Lainey 'ciao' for me." He strides away, heels clicking confidently.

Once he's gone, you muse, "What do you want to bet he gets completely lost within five minutes?"

 

You laugh. "Oh, no, if he's heading directly aft he's going to hit into all the rearranged hallways from the infection, they're an absolute spaghetti right now." You feel a twinge of guilt and stomp it ruthlessly. "Well, he can always ask someone for help. Nicely. Are you done eating, or do you want—" you make an exaggerated show of counting, "—fifths?"

 

"I want to know whether I'm hauling you off for makeouts or going to deliver Galley's reward. Someone's getting snogged pretty soon, anyway."

 

You brighten. Hooray, sex! "Threesome at Galley's place?" you suggest.

"Captain, I have seen a lifetime supply of your withered cripple-glutes," Galley says, "And anyway I'm out of talking for tonight."

"You've said five sentences and most of them were insulting me."

There is a small blip from your sylladex. You take your phone out of your pocket to find it's been wiped. You scowl.

"I hate it when he does that. It's not like I don't have backups stored with Arguus. You put it back and look to Bel.

"Well, looks like you're having your wicked way with me tonight, Commander. What a tragedy."

 

You're still blushing from the concept of a threesome. "Good night, Galley," you say soppily, and put your phone away. Then you sit on Erskin's lap. "Carry me."

You fully expect him to dump you on the floor and try to run over you.

 

You dump him on the floor and try to run him over. You wouldn't have been able to maneuver the wheels, anyway, the amount he hung off both sides.

 

You scoot under the table to get away, then slide over the table like an action hero to get behind him. You try to push the chair; he tries to bite your hands. These shenanigans continue, to the indulgent annoyance of everyone you encounter, all the way back to your quarters.

A glance into the respiteblock confirms that Pancho is still in your 'cupe. Well, no need to be quiet, nothing's waking her up before she's done sleeping. You sling yourself onto the couch and take your hair down.