THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"Aright, aright," you grumble. Leaning on each other, you struggle upright and manage to lurch the few meters to the respiteblock and tumble each other into the recuperacoon. The slime stings on your scrapes for a moment, then soothes, and you're fading fast.

"We stick together," you say sternly while you can still talk. "From now on. No more... like... lone heroics. Either 'f us."

 

"Bite my entire ass," you tell him, already half asleep.

 

"Wasn't asking permission," you mutter. He doesn't reply, and you don't know if he heard it. Oh well. He'll work it out. For now, sleep is the important thing.

 

A night and a half later, you're strolling off to Whitey's to check up on everything. Bel's been scraped off with a lot of logic, a screaming row, and a spot of masterful emotional blackmail from Galley. Coordinating your actions against Ironfist effectively means not having Bel charge into a neutral mauling-free zone and start shit, so he's off with your Helmsman coordinating the wargames while you go investigate Whitey's casino for the first time.

It's pretty. Very ornate. This one small section of the ship is probably twice as expensive as all stuff in all the rest of the ship put together— in one strategic agreement, you have gone from Captaining a respectable midsize carrier to presiding over the operation of an absurdly spacious pleasure barge. You are extremely glad to have thought to do a little makeup before showing up here, and be wearing an extremely fresh, crisp version of your regular uniform. You didn't want to give Ironfist any ideas about availability, but work shorts and dirty knees would not be fitting for this particular environment.

You meander interestedly along a spiraling stairway: it looks like he's taken over three floors, at least.

 

"My dear Captain! I'm so happy you've come!" You stride toward him with your arms out, not as if demanding a hug but just as a theatrical expression of enthusiasm. Your makeup is a little smudged and your shawl is torn, but you look like the Empress's dressmaker compared to Erskin, poor pet. He's a tapestry of bruises. "Please, let me show you around. I'm so proud of what we've built here."

 

You're concerned: his pretty shawl's tucked a bit inelegantly to hide a claw tear, and he doesn't seem like the sort of chap to wear out his clothes like you tend to. You touch his elbow in cautious sympathy.

"Yes, by all means— it's genuinely lovely. Where'd you ship the fish in from? I don't recognize half these species."

 

"Oh, all over. My favorite is this way." You escort him along, showing off your aquaria and basking in his approval, until a waiter brings a pair of drinks -- champagne for you, and a gravity sling for Erskin, because your spying research informs you he had one at Murfey's and liked it. Then you steer him to a comfortable and fairly private little upholstered grotto and sit down.

"Our honored guests are in one of my back rooms," you inform him, "sampling a new kind of candy. I've had to hire a few of the sturdier escorts to keep them company, or they wouldn't have let me get back to work." You absently re-tuck your shawl to make sure the snag is hidden. You haven't had time to go change. "I'm so sorry I didn't take them off your hands sooner. Your poor eye. You shouldn't have to put up with that from landdwellers."

 

You smile shyly. You're damn tired of everyone making such a big deal over such a temporary inconvenience, but his concern still makes you feel warm and small and a trifle giddy.

"Well, blood doesn't always trump politics, you know. But here, look— the inestimable sergeant Pancho we brought in has this clever biotech, should fix me up in a snap." You flip your eyepatch up and point at your scaffolded eye, which you know from much interested mirror-looking-in is still a ghostly white.

 

You gasp with delight. "How clever! What will they think of next?"

Once he's smoothed the eyepatch back down, you hook your arm through his and lean in conspiratorially. "That selfsame charming Sergeant sent me a message yesternight. Apparently the terms of our hospitality have changed somewhat? I thought I ought to check with you personally before I, say, allow anyone to overindulge in sweets."

 

Oh. He smells good. You say as smoothly as you are able, "Y-yes, actually, it's a bit of a traditional agreement on carriers: the guests don't wear out their welcome, and their hosts wave them farewell with the same population they docked. I had a talk with Kadros and we agreed that it wouldn't hurt to remind this lot of their manners. Discreetly, mind you. And don't touch Ironfist, please, we're all fucking dead if that bastard bites it."

 

You smile fondly. He's so cute when he's being responsible. "What if he simply develops an expensive new habit, would that be all right?"

 

You grin. "Bankrupt him."

 

"Darling," you purr, eyes alight, "I would be ecstatic." You toast the idea, and drink.

"Would you like to try some candy yourself? Only, do be careful not to overdo it, a little goes a long way and it can easily become a lifestyle."

 

"I get the idea that you're not talking about fancy chocolates," you say warily. You finish off your drink and fidget with the glass. "What does it do? Only, I wouldn't want to leave you with—" you remember that he has actual guards to protect him, here, and has been fine without you until now "—er, a mess?"

 

You chuckle. "Sorry, being cagey is a habit. There's no reason not to tell you. I've discovered an absolutely lovely new drug. Alien in origin, so as long as I protect my source, I've got a nice little monopoly. It doesn't do anything to the aliens, but to us, well, it's like you're suddenly in pale with all the galaxy. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. You crave sensory stimulus -- I've left our guests with a variety of snacks and toys, some fabric samples and bits of fur -- last I saw Ironfist he was rubbing a dead hopbeast on his face."

 

You have to laugh. "I might have to skip the dead hopbeast segment of tonight's entertainment, I'm tremendously sorry." You think you'd like to keep your head— and your feet— a trifle longer, so you delay with, "Do you think you could tour me back to the aquarium with those curly-finned alien fish? I really want to hear how you got fan-trap coral to grow right on top of whipfang rocks. I'd have bet my other leg they'd just eat each other."

You try to take another drink, frown, and waggle it at him. "I wouldn't say no to another of these, by the way, it's superb."

 

"Instantly, darling." You beckon for a waiter -- there's always one about when you're entertaining, that's a standing order. Just far enough that your conversations are private, but close enough to practically teleport to your side when someone needs refreshments.

Drinks obtained, you show Erskin back to the aquarium he mentioned, and the two of you talk aquaculture for a blissful half hour. It's not even one of the things you studied up on just because he's interested; it's genuinely a shared hobby. After all -- "Look, there goes my lusus!" you point out as a pale, kite-shaped form flits among the artificial reefs in the biggest habitat. "My private quarters are upstairs, level with the top of the tank. When we shut down for the day, when there are no ships docked, I get in and swim with him. would you like to join me some time?"

 

How strange, that your lusus has a lusus. Also that he's a troll and not your lusus. Your lusus died and came back as a bunch of baby lusii's mother. You regard the beautiful white manta skimming along with some confusion, and help yourself to another drink. "I— sure, as you like, though you'll have to let me return the favor, and come by my tidepool sometime. Even if it's nothing like as beautiful as this."

 

"So much of this is showing off -- it's flash for the sake of flash, isn't it? A place like this, it's all image. I've heard a little about your tidepool, it sounds tremendously cozy and comfortable. I can't wait to try it out."

 

You stammer out something sufficiently proud. He takes you along to another beautiful vantage point to admire another clever bit of biological engineering, his palm a cool comfort on the small of your back. You have another drink and feel less confused and upset at how he smells.

Then one of Ironfist's fellows comes reeling out of an alcove, giggling. She's shadowed by security staff, big stern looking blue-greens that aren't anywhere big enough or stern enough or close enough. You are rigid with loathing and when she takes a lecherous swipe at your lusus, you don't think. You taste blood and bring your steel-core canekind down on her forearm in a whistling arc that snaps the bones. In your head, Whitey is something valiant but very small, and you get him shoved in his proper place behind you before swinging again, breaking a rib, and again—