Metal Hearts

Chapter One - Uncertain Loyalties

Danby crossed the bridge of ISS Polyphemus with far more than her usual energy, her body impacting the neighbour couch like an assault. The alternate seat taken by necessity. Marco had the use of the preferred platform until his shift’s end. The grunt let go when posterior met cushion the only apology she was likely to give. The nestling in afterward like insolence owing to the squirming, and was capped by a chirrup of irritation when the comfort she arrived at wasn’t as good as what was sought after.

Marco, unaware what might be bothering his shipmate, made soft his breathing while listening to, but not turning to see, what she did. Danby became as quiet as the surroundings. Quieter, for the ticks, clicks and hums of a starship in operation only parodied silence. Full silence was a dreadful thing, unless a ship be safely berthed in harbour or the wrecker’s yard.

Marco was not surprised Danby was upset. Agitation seemed her normal condition, which he might have tried teasing her out of, except that every overture he’d tried along the way to now had been ignored or firmly rebuffed.

The long suffering chief, and only, ship’s technician sighed. Through a sideways glance he noted knotted arms, next the rigid features atop their stern embrace. Angry she had to be about something. A masculine article left in feminine territory. Washing machine lid left open, or left closed. Crumbs on console, table, or deck. Fingerprints, pocket lint, nose pickings. Something minor, done in ignorance or by accident, no intent of causing umbrage, and yet such was the result.

A larger breath than normal he took. The time was nigh for his change of watch recitation, a requisite of watch routine. By his console squatted the imaging helmet and gloves he’d used during the forward half of his shift. A sandwich wrapper was in his pocket. The canteen he’d used was already returned to its receptacle.

His gaze did not focus on any image, graph, block of text, or the woman sitting next to him. The contents of every screen, and her looks, he knew well enough already. Orbit is solid at seven-fifty kilometres, he began. Planet dawn, His gaze grazed the crescent of grey-brown hemisphere in the forward viewport, confirming gossamers of pearl-white cirrus lacing a bath of oyster blue, "was a little under two hours, fourteen minutes ago.

The orbitals are experiencing no difficulties. There’s a chance of a, ah . . . hum. What he’d meant as a sociable look stubbed its toe on an incongruous thing. A ribbon, brilliant blue, large as his fist, nestled against the back of Danby’s head. A–a dust storm is, ah, expected within, ah, the next eight hours, but that’s hardly extra–extraordinary. She’d done something also to make the decoration more. Groomed her hair beyond the usual wash, dry and comb; the painful brush cut she’d come aboard with having grown out enough to allow for sweet alterations.

Marco stared with wonder at the voluptuous object as his tongue stumbled through a new tangle of consonant knots. Ah, in, er . . .

Danby still had not released the steel about her chest. Her gaze stayed with the text scrolling in the screen ahead of her seat. The rest of what Marco felt obligated to say got delivered in a rush. In short, the planet’s still where it is, we’re still where we are, and I’ve nothing else to report other than I think it’ll take a while for the numbness to leave my butt. How’s your day going?

Stick it, Pacini. Chin dimple so faint that it appeared pencil smudge, eyes pale blue, a minute scar hovered over her left brow—legacy of imperfect healing—and sweet flare to nostrils. Her cheeks were a trifle gaunt owing to a rigid regimen of diet and exercise. The café au lait tan she’d arrived with was faded to pink. Freckles in their legions grazed in those far lighter pastures. Standing, Danby was a trifle above the average in terms of female height, topping Marco’s own level by several centimetres. Her body with little extra. An adulthood spent mainly in three quarters SG ( Standard Gravity ) had been kind to her physique, especially her breasts.

Owing to the lighting—his shift the third, the graveyard watch, when ship’s operations matched the motions of a sleeping cat—Marco had not noticed the additional softness which scowling could not overwhelm. None of her embellishments were meant for him; however, he concluded after a little extra thought.

After many weeks of isolation, Marco Pacini was quite he was come to know each and every one of his crewmates’s likes and dislikes, and that better relationships with either were unlikely. The necessities of shipboard routine had left them with but snippets of time to acquaint themselves better with each other. So they stayed strangers; the two of them seeming to prefer the condition. Marco, having long since put the stop to his discontent, sought after companionship in other ways and other places.

He would take this latest rejection and walk away, hands in pockets, chin down, eyes averted. Except he was of a sudden inspired—perversely, his inner voice told him—to put himself in the way of breaking ice or breaking limbs. Equal chance of both.

Standing, Marco administered a pat to the back of his couch, best sited, besides the command chair on its dias, to serve watches from. That high seat always left vacant by the two of them, never by Calvert. I’ve kept our seat warm for you. Don’t forget to log in.

Since when have I forgotten to do that? Danby grumbled, her lips relaxing to reply and so far better to view. Corporal Elizabeth Leanne Danby had begun the voyage the least of the four-person security detail Polyphemus transport was allotted. For the current time she wore navy blue in lieu of olive drab. When their friends returned, she would revert back to her old status and colour.

Of course you haven’t. Her auburn, he saw, was laced with brighter parts. He was tempted to order a step up in illumination to see the laces better. Did you colour your hair?

None of your damn business. Having waited several seconds for his shape and heat to dissipate from the Scanners couch, Danby smoothly exchanged one platform for another. Elbows were set on console, cup was made of hands to plant chin on, and face was shown screen.

The bridge is yours, persisted Marco, determined not to leave until he received a sociable reply, which Danby seemed determined not to give. She gathered a breath, held it, blinked once, twice. Danby?

What is it!

I said the bridge is yours.

I heard you the first time. She maintained her straight-ahead staring, as if the sight of him was something at all costs to be avoided.

Marco realized he stayed for the ribbon, which spoke volumes when its owner would not. Inspired, he embarked upon an internal sifting of themes, lighting in short order on one he thought least unlikely to offend. It really is a shame how shorthanded we are.

Her eyes sent a single spark in his direction, and she muttered something to her reflection in the monitor. That strangled something kept him in place. There ought to have been at least one more of us. You know, for, ah, so there should be more time to, ah, get to, ah talk . . . His pause was there for Danby to insert her reply. When she didn’t, he resumed his conversational thread with: It’s a shame we don’t socialize much.

Either of them with him. They two, as he, spent most of the time alone, which he’d discovered through impossible to resist observation—don’t call it spying. Which is okay. We don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to.

Danby shifted her attention to the grand view forward, and its crescent of pale green, grey and brown planet, next to the twinkling in the satellite status screen, next to the scans again.

With so much time on my hands I’ve been hitting the manuals hard, Marco continued. I’m doing my upgrades in System Electricals and Small Craft Maintenance.

Exams, both oral and written, were required to confirm a level of competence for the purposes of advancement and pay increases, and were available through simulations. A representative image of a master tech, a sim geist, administered the evaluations.

Applicants were allowed three tries to achieve the minimum standard of eighty-five percent understanding and proficiency, with progressively longer prep times mandated between an unsuccessful test and the next. Marco had never failed to pass on a first attempt.

I’ve been through the sim library ten different ways for things to try. How’s about you? Just the other day I found what could be an interesting experience. You start on a tropical island. I’ve only done the preview. Haven’t examined the specs, so I don’t know how large or detailed it is. Pirates and cannibals maybe? Not my usual thing. All the same it appeals to me. Maybe you wanna try it? I could pass along the code if you’d like?

During his most recent sweep for ungainly, unacceptable, incomplete, and out of date files to delete, Marco had failed to come across the island sim. Grace periods on personal installs were usual, during which their owners indulged themselves in exclusive play. Sims were expensive to buy. Those who could afford them, typically preferred to play out a sim to the end before inviting in the herd.

A high quality sim of a sudden available for general use had been a welcome surprise. Something gifted, he supposed, by Calvert.

Plenty of low quality stuff came in through the civvie channels and were screened for worms and viruses during the buffering process. Passed files afterward stayed in quarantine until they could be tested for appeal or usefulness, usually by Polyphemus, before being made available for general use.

Since taking over all matters technical, Marco had deleted hundreds of low appeal sims, besides tuned the filters to keep out others of their tribe. He might have blocked non-authorized receipts entirely except for the occasional good game and travel demos, newsreels and holo-movie trailers, which personnel in isolated stations especially appreciated for their novelty and the escapes from the tedium of day by day routines.

You must do workout sims. Me too. Run, hike, climb. I wrestle. He paused again for a feminine reply or reaction until confirming none was forthcoming. Can’t get enough of that . . . stuff. Danby drummed her fingers on the mildly canted surface before her.

You ever do historicals? You probably don’t, er. He hadn’t meant to infer she hadn’t the smarts to appreciate the most sophisticated programs in the simulations library. Her gaze stayed with the screen before her. Most people think historicals are a waste of time. I’ve come across some pretty good ones. He’d sampled near everything the library had. There’s biases of course sometimes, which I like to fix.

To reprogram a sim in order to produce an outcome that didn’t appear the creation of an idiot child was well beyond the capability of most nuts and bolts technicians. A great deal of creative thinking and advanced programming skill was required, the best results merging seamlessly with the original work.

"Most sim creators want to install a certain outcome, no matter what’s true or not. I’ve noticed sometimes, after a great beginning, a storyline just falls flat.

"I played Admiral Tunbridge at the Battle of Saint San Coeur. Thanks to the tweak I put in, I avoided sending the 46th Light Cruiser Squadron in to be slaughtered, and so I had a viable covering force when I needed one. I still didn’t win, but I did manage to extricate my cripples without the rebs capturing most of them.

I, ah, changed the outcome. His modest grin received a sideways ‘oh, really’ look. Every sim should permit alternative endings. Win the battle, instead of lose it. It no longer mattered that Danby refused to participate. He warmed to his topic all by himself. I’m gonna tune the base sets next. So, during the Hyacinth Conference, if I tell Director Stanley he’s a fool not to press for a revision of the Dolman Accord, he’ll respond with better than a blank stare.

Elizabeth Danby had put up with all the male static she could stand. To convey the biggest hint possible she wanted to be alone, she swivelled her chair to face the exit, thus putting the ribbon she’d entirely forgotten about between the two of them. Until he left, she was tuning the annoying gadfly of a tech out. Anything more he had to say was for the walls and furniture.

As for Ensign Juliana Marie Calvert, she’d be watching her step around that energetic bit of fluff from now on. Calvert had her doing things she would never have thought of doing. She’d have to figure out a way to deflect whatever else Calvert had in mind. Politely, firmly, carefully. Calvert was Commanding Officer This Vessel and a tip top in naval society—no less than the Grand Admiral’s niece! The lowly watched their step when the high and mighty got weird ideas in their heads. What the hell? Danby whirled about, catching Marco in the act. Eyes closed, hovering directly over her , a half smile on his lips. He breathed her in!

Their gazes connected. You! she spat. You— he replied. Since he had indulged in an unwarranted, uninvited, untoward invasion of her privacy, Danby leapt up from her chair and with one shove put him on his ass.

The cretin gazed up, eyes wide. Danby felt her pulse elevate and breathing turn ragged. Her thoughts were in turmoil. The warmth in her loins flooded her middle along its way to her cheeks. The runt turning me on? Not happening! This is not about to be a thing. She’d heard all she cared for concerning a certain Marco Salvatore Pacini. Lady’s man. Smooth talker. Adorable mutt.

Marco’s own thinking and reactions to stimuli had produced a tenting of fabric over his groin.

Get up, she growled. Get out!

Give a hand up?

Get your own self up. That damned bulge snagged her attention, and so she put her gaze right the hell away from it.

He pushed himself up and right into her space. Danby retreated to avoid contact, bumped the backs of her knees against her couch, and abruptly sat. She had then to decide whether or not to resume the physical, and moral, high ground by standing. She was right where she was supposed to be, however, so maybe he’d catch the hint to be the same and be gone.

I ought to monitor the orbitals a bit longer, Marco said.

You do, She pierced him with her fiercest blue-fire glare, and I’ll toss you out on your head.

You can try. Imagining more manhandling had evoked in him another noticeable response. Her mood and posture were far too serious. The last thing he wanted was to antagonize either of his crewmates. I was only kidding, he said, palms foremost in a fending off gesture. If you want me to go, I’ll go.

That’s what I want.

All right.

All right. Danby resumed her screens. A gunshot gone off next to her ear could not budge her now.

Let her stew, Marco decided. He’d done all he could to initiate a rapport. He would have gasped if he’d been any more blue in thought or between the legs. Eight weeks of ‘hi and how ya doing?’ had gotten him nowhere. How could he unfreeze what was determined not to be unfrozen? Another two months and the current duty cycle would end. Right after he’d put in for a transfer. He’d no objection how their absent captain, Senior Lieutenant Charles Hutchinson, ran the ship. Hutch was an upright guy, but the only way he was going to get over his current funk was through some radical changes in his location and the scenery.

It was time he quit screwing around and decided what to do for the rest of his career. A Weapons chair would be fine. Captain Thorpe had offered him officer territory—no thanks. He’d done with a tight-ass attitude back when he was a kid. He was far too old to ply that spade again.

Julie Calvert was sixteen. He was twenty-seven. By the time he made lieutenant, he’d be in his mid-thirties. By twenty Captain Calvert would command a classy little frigate, a competent second in command at her elbow to do all her grunt work and make sure she didn’t crash the boat. Hers would be a meteoric rise through the ranks. His would dead end in short order. Command of an aging transport plying a dick route A to B and back to A again. Stick that. He’d no interest in being a transport jockey.

It wasn’t fair. Her kind getting all the breaks, going from one sweet posting to the next, nothing much to do past shifting herself out of bed in the mornings along her way to ‘greatness’. His kind toiling in the shadows.

Are you still here? Danby asked.

Just leaving. The lift doors parted at his approach. Had he gained anything with his obstinacy? Probably not. He had his sims and a tube of lotion whenever his animal urges grew too strong. By the way, he threw over his shoulder, I really like what that ribbon does for your hair.

Her startled gasp stopped him cold. Polyphemus, owing to a whim of her designers, was equipped with transparent lift plates instead of enclosed cars—innovation that took getting used to. Looking down or up, from the very top or the very bottom of a transport well, one tended to pine for an opaque box to ride in. Marco stepped back from the lift aperture, and the vacuum seal doors slid along their rails back together. He’d the command chair on its dias between them and either Secondary Systems Access and Monitoring or Comm/Scan and Weaps/Tactical to crouch behind.

Danby, cat-quick, sprang up and tore at the ribbon behind her head.

Astonishment filled him up. She’d forgotten she wore it! Calvert must have attached the thing—for the ribbon to finish so neat would have defeated ordinary, blind effort. Danby didn’t seem to care if she injured the scrap of cloth while tearing it off.

Marco felt the voyeur as his crewmate plucked and pinched. The pretty ribbon separated and was hurled to the deck. He had little choice about what he might do next. Approaching the lift triggered its aperture to open. He’d poised himself facing inward should she happen to glance his way and, coincidentally, to view her reaction, which was comical. Stumble, hop into her seat and exhibit the sort of industry that might fool a rookie fresh in the boat but no one else.

Forgot something. He came down past the command chair. Apple. Except no apple was there to pluck from the top of the console, the most likely place for there to be one. Marco guessed Danby remained too discombobulated to notice an absence of fruit.

You’re not supposed to eat in here. Danby’s face stayed tucked inside a cradle of arms, back arched and breasts protested the snugness of her ship suit with bulging. The discarded ribbon lay near where Marco stood.

"Oh, I don’t eat in here, Marco replied as he feigned disinterest to the puddle of colour by his feet. But I do eat in here."

Is that supposed to be funny? was her muffled reply.

No. But unless either one of you is willing to sub so’s I can grab a bite when I need to, I don’t see any help for it.

Humph.

You can’t tell me the bulges in your pockets aren’t snacks.

I don’t get crumbs over anything. I eat above the step.

I don’t either. Leave crumbs, I mean. I eat right in that seat. Our circumstances warrant it.

Her answering snort was flavoured derisive.

Really, Corporal Danby, if you’ve something you’d like to say, then you ought to come right out and say it.

Her head came up, dressed in pretty blushes. Her mouth opened and closed again. She’d neglected to turn up the bridge lights, an omission in her regular routine for which he assumed his lingering was responsible. Calvert liked midnight levels during her shift; Danby preferred a well lit working space.

Danby curled her lip at her reflection in the scan monitor. Next she snarled soundlessly to it. You drop this? He picked the ribbon up, and slipped into the couch next to hers. Again she would not look at him, not even sideways. Her features reconfigured themselves so tight, they resembled the surface of a mask rather than the skin of a face.

He offered the ribbon. Here, ah—

Don’t want it. Blush darkened. Lip was bitten into. Marco tucked what would become a keepsake into his pocket. Why are you still here? Danby demanded of the space in front of her nose.

Saucily, he replied, Forgot my apple. He’d have nothing but an empty hand to show if she challenged his assertion. Have it if you want.

No. Go away.

No problem. Just came back for my apple. See you later, huh?

Sure. He’d the impression she would have sung an aria if she thought the screeching would drive him away. And so Marco Salvatore Pacini left the bridge of the transport ship ISS Polyphemus in far better fettle than had he done so at his regular time and pace. He was very nearly convinced, travelling his usual route down to his compartment, that Danby might just have undergone a softening of attitude.

As the lift disc delivered him to Crew Deck Upper, Marco was humming to himself. He might have made a louder, happier noise except Calvert was unlikely to appreciate his jarring her from sleep. Each of them had become considerate of the others’s sleep intervals, especially now that wholesome rest was so hard come by.

How he longed for an honest night’s rest! If he was doomed to wander that damned nightmare for evermore, he’d force alterations in: light for dark, warm for cold, cherubs for monsters.

With the nighttime light setting in effect all corners were shadow-splashed. Marco padded along, the near new carpeting especially kind to his barely insulated feet. The yellow and black stripes of an emergency hatch marked where cross corridors met. His quarters were ahead, next to last before the canary yellow and black aperture that linked Crew Deck Upper to Secondary Engineering via the Secondary Engineering Access corridor. He was about to pass through the junction when he detected a soft commotion.

The Master and Commander of ISS Polyphemus was not dressed to match her lofty status. Milk white, diaphanous silk fluttered about a periwinkle blue peignoir. Her legs were encased in sheer covers, also white.On her feet were high heel slippers of matching periwinkle with ping pong poms. Discovering him in her path, Calvert abruptly stopped and then fumbled with her flimsy coat to make a better grip of it.

Good morning, Ensign Calvert. Her scent was a fruit and flower mix of body wash and perfume. Plain, unscented soap and shampoo were the norm for space flight, being unlikely to offend olfactory organs grown sensitive to brisk stimuli.

She did not return the courtesy, instead she embraced herself harder in an effort to keep her wrapper under control. Juliana Marie Calvert was four months and three weeks shy of her seventeenth birthday. Her father, Eliot George Calvert, commanded the dreadnaught ISS Nostradamus. Her uncle was none other than Grand Admiral John Barry Richardson, Commander in Chief this Imperial Navy. Her aunt, Antonia Olivia Richardson, was Deputy Director of the Imperial Advisory Council. And her grandfather, Philip Henry Richardson, was a long-sitting justice for the Imperial Supreme Court.

The Family Richardson had the distinction of being the most powerful family in the Imperium. Its single offspring was navy royalty, society darling and heir to immense fortune all in one small package. Also snob and brat and, at present, intensely annoyed to discover her technician where and when she hadn’t expected him.

You’re late off watch, Technician. Were there problems? The query delivered, despite youth and diminutive size, with high polish. Julie Calvert’s unaltered height was several centimetres less than Marco’s. In heels it stood near equal with his.

No, sir, Marco replied cheerfully, showing his nonexistent apple. I went back for my apple.

Calvert was unamused. Her eyes were bright blue. Her hands and feet although small were fine-boned and artfully cast. You know you’re not supposed to eat up there.

I beg pardon, sir? If such was the hard and fast rule, she should inform Danby before the marine munched on any of the snacks she’d carried up in her pockets.

You heard me. Calvert’s hair made darts at her cheeks. Her natural shade was honey blond. At present it was the colour of ripe cherries. A shade he might have liked except for its silver dapple. And yet the combination was far more pleasing to view than the neon blues, greens, reds and oranges she’d tried along the way to her cherries. Marco’s buoyant mood dissipated. He sensed an edict about to be imposed. I was under the impression that since there’s no possibility of relief, that it was all right to snack.

Your impression is wrong. A snub nose was flanked by cherub cheeks that delightfully dimpled when their owner smiled, which was rarely. From now on you will conform your dining habits to times before and after watch. Understood? Eight hours was a long while to go without something in his stomach. Pacini? was coupled to the authoritative toe-tap meant to attract his drifted attention.

Should he mention Danby’s trifling with the rule? Calvert took snacks into the bridge as often as either of them. He’d cleaned up crumbs plenty of times, and once the aftermath of a spectacular indiscretion. The issue of whether or not food might be consumed within the bridge prompted him to bring up another matter whose boundaries had never been clearly defined. "Sir, begging your pardon, but I’ve been wondering what ought to happen when I’m the one needs to use the head?" He spelled Calvert once each watch so she could relieve herself. She’d issued him with a memo saddling him with the obligation. He’d managed so far to avoid an emergency while on his own, yet there had been times when he could have used a break if only to walk out the kinks accumulated from long sitting.

Calvert’s smile revealed perfectly sized and aligned teeth.  If you have to urinate you could use a bottle or something.

Sir? A gulp was added.

She was imagining him attempting to defecate into a bottle, was about to voice an undignified giggle, and covered her mouth with her hand instead.

But you and Danby—I spell the two of you all the time.

That’s different. We couldn’t possibly do it up there. Calvert realized she couldn’t be serious about the bottle. The bridge surveillance system documented everything. Charles Hutchinson would be bound to be displeased to discover she’d given Pacini leave to urinate into a bottle while on watch duty. Still, if he really had to, Pacini ought to be able to disguise what he was doing. It would be very difficult for her or Danby to do the same.

Yet I’m supposed to.

Calvert huffed her breath. Why did he bitch about toilet matters? He could hold it. Males could hold it while females couldn’t—a physiological, gender related feature of the human anatomy. He’d managed all right so far. She put up her brow before delivering her ace-in-the-hole argument; one which could not fail to score a hit. You know we’re shorthanded. What else can you expect?

Marco vented as much disgust as was possible within a single snort. He had hoped for sympathy despite time and time again she’d demonstrated where he was concerned she had none to give. Danby ... He’d been about to voice a complaint about the liberty the third member of their crew routinely took, and then decided he wouldn’t.

Danby what?

Nothing.

Calvert twitched an itch from her nose which she would rather have scratched. You volunteered to stay. You could have gone with the rest.

No. Somebody had to mind the ship. Somebody who knew how the inside of a comm console was supposed to work, he could have added. Hutch had called him in before anyone else, to say, that of everyone under his command, he trusted Marco Salvatore Pacini most to look after his ship while he was away. Marco had figured plenty of slack time, sack time and sim time. He hadn’t even minded that Calvert was put in charge, despite he’d known what a slack-ass, back stabber, and schemer she was.

What the hell do you think I’m doing, Mister! Calvert’s protest had in it a full shade more of anger than she’d displayed the moment before. He had a nerve talking to her in such a way. She was the goddamn captain! He was a lousy crewman.

What did she do? Marco was thinking, besides stand a watch? He’d made all the orbital adjustments, checked and documented dispatches, reviewed and logged survey results, programmed the menials, restocked the galley, and even stacked dishes. Every little thing that needed doing, he did.

Well? Calvert gave the carpet another authoritative tap of her foot. As a consequence her robe parted to reveal a thinly wrapped breast and its standing nipple.

The sight of a nipple pumped a litre of blood straight into Marco’s brain and into that other part of him simultaneously. He inhaled his next breath through a fog and hardly saw how pinched with anger her features had become. The disagreement over duties, or argument to call it what it was, had been a long time simmering. Calvert had acted from the start as though the ship was hers to do with as she pleased, and he the slave to do her bidding. Not enough, you—

How dare you! She didn’t step forward, merely seemed to. Julie Calvert had the ability to appear larger than herself when needful. She was the niece of the Grand Admiral after all. I do as much as you. Petulance peppered her reply. I have the far greater responsibility.

I fixed that console when you wrecked it. She gaped at him. She’d been damned stupid to set her coffee where it could spill; he’d been in the midst of a faulty light element replacement and had unsealed the console to do it.

Are you going to keep throwing that in my face!

He’d never mentioned the incident. Now was well after the event. Nor had she. Not even to thank him. Her beverage spilling reminded him of something else. You could get your own stores out of the officers’ supply.

That’s not my job.

It’s not mine either. She had goaded him into drawing every delicacy from the junior officers’ joint stock until practically none were left. Just how was Calvert planning to explain what had happened to her messmates’s fruits and desserts when they returned?

I’m captain. A captain doesn’t draw her own viands, nor prepare her own meals.

When was she going to be practical? He would have complained by long distance long ago, but hadn’t wanted to snitch. Nor make her own bed, nor clean her toilet either?

Calvert’s lips assumed a configuration like stone and every bit as obdurate. You ... I don’t ...

Another of those memos she loved to key required he supervise the cleaning of her quarters once every three days. He hadn’t complained because he didn’t spend above twenty minutes each time, and menials did the tidying, scrubbing and polishing. All he did was set them to work. Yet those twenty minutes came out of his off duty time, and he had a right to resent their loss.

He’s being a prick, Calvert decided. Complaints with no merit. The things she’d asked him to do took no time at all. You would have had to supervise the cleaning no matter who’d been left in charge, she countered.

What about your shower drain? The contents of which he had to deal with by hand.

Whuh-what? You duh-duh-dint ‘spect muh-muh-me to duh-damn duh-duh-dit!

He stared open-mouthed, amazed and highly amused. The perfect Julie Marie Calvert stuttered! Ensign Perfect not so perfect after all! His gasp of amusement pulsed all the way to her cheek and, because its contact so much offended her, she absolutely had to slap him.

The blow surprised girl as much as it did man. She blushed crimson and tried again to discipline her gown, which could not be comprehending its proper function, revealing one moment what it concealed the next. I didn’t mean to do that, she said carefully so her pronunciation should have no fault in it.

Marco thought otherwise. He was entitled to redress. Theirs was the modern navy. No officer struck an enlisted man provoked or otherwise. The incident demanded an apology. Morale of the crew, half of which he was in just himself, was going to suffer as a consequence if she wouldn’t say she was sorry.

Savouring the burn in his cheek, Marco mentally calculated the compensation he was entitled to. At the least Calvert had earned a reprimand to be inserted by Polyphemus into her career jacket. He would record his account of the incident, or not, depending on her response. He set his brow to a challenging posture. She must be more considerate of his time and needs. He would transmit the particulars to Hutch otherwise. She had struck him, she must apologize, she had no choice. Marco crossed his arms in anticipation of satisfaction and, perhaps, useful change.

Don’t think this lets you off the hook for anything, she said uneasily and took in part of her lower lip to suck.

You hit me for no reason.

I didn’t hit you. She would deny it. This to be her strategy. To admit the incident took place would be embarrassing to herself personally and detrimental to ship’s discipline in general. No witnesses had been present, and no record of the blow existed as there were no recording devices in this part of the ship. His word against hers. She hadn’t struck him. He had imagined it, no matter the reciprocal blow warmed her hand still. She hadn’t meant to hit him. Her hand slipped. A moment of passion. These were justifications in themselves.

You ... Marco began as he recognized intransigence in her looks and triumph in her eyes. Calvert supposed she held the upper hand. He knew as well as she no video or audio capture of the event had taken place. She could continue to insist she hadn’t struck him except for the one, unequivocal piece of evidence verifying she had.

He snorted, which triggered her squint to appear. I’ll just take an impression of the mark. Sir, should you need me at any time within the next twenty minutes you’ll find me in med lab. Her palm print, unique and unmistakable as hers and no other’s, along with the transfer of DNA got through contact, would condemn her quite.

Oh, she went, reconsidering options while parts of her warmed or cooled and her confidence drained away. Damn him. It had been wrong, Calvert realized, to deny what she had done. She was sorry for it. She ought not to have struck him. An impetuous act and mistake. She’d striven hard to fit her role of Commander this Ship. To lie was dishonourable. Calvert directed her gaze to a spot behind him, head height, and said: I apologize, Technician Pacini. I hadn’t meant to strike you. It was, ah, a spontaneous act.

Still trying to weasel out of admitting guilt, but he’d allow it. They weren’t square yet though. Apology accepted. Now about the division of labour—

I refuse to be blackmailed. She would be careful about what she said and did for as long as it took her imprint to leave his face.

She accused him of extortion? Sir, all I’m after is fairness.

You’ve been getting that all along. I haven’t asked you to do anything unreasonable.

My taking food on the bridge?

I’ll think about it.

And relief? Why not we spell our relief person at mid watch for say twenty minutes? Both women slept before their watch duty. He slept after his owing to the obligation Calvert had saddled him with.

If it’s possible. I can’t promise anything. Calvert felt she had responded reasonably to each of his requests. That she intended not to change her position he would learn in due course of time and when it’s too late for him to do anything about it! She almost grinned. She’d a juicy revenge planned, if he only knew.

Did he not have the run of the ship? Hadn’t he all the sim time he could handle? He’d certainly taken advantage of his opportunities. He had absolutely nothing to complain about. The little things extra she asked for and rules she imposed were in order that necessary things got done.

Julie Calvert recalled the sly looks directed her way, her roommates predicting what would happen after they’d gone. They’d crooned over Pacini. She’d not be able to resist his puppy charms. That had been the greatest joke of all. Who had those idiots thought they were talking to? She’d no more interest in Marco Pacini than was he a bug for her to squish. Squaring her shoulders and thrusting herself upright exploited the height advantage her heels supplied. "Keep this in mind, Tech Pacini, Polyphemus is my command. You are under my orders until we’re relieved." She remained boss no matter what.

Well then, thank you, sir. He turned to resume the path he’d started before.

Whuh-whuh-where are yuh-yuh-you guh-guh-going nuh-nuh-nuh-now?

She had to know what he aimed himself at, and might do when he got there. Good night, Ensign, he called over his shoulder, not letting himself see her expression and so not letting her see his either.

Calvert stared after her technician until he disappeared, her emotions in flux. Horace Hilton cuh-cuh. Stop, close her eyes. She’d begun too fast and speed was the villain. Horace Hilton canned consommé into puh-penny puh-puh-packets—shit, oh shit!She’d thought to be cured. The last slip months—no, more than a year ago. She only stammered when upset. Damn you, Pacini. Damn you to icy black hell.

Marco travelled only a little way toward med lab before turning back. He wasn’t going to make an issue of a mere slap, nor hold a grudge, though Calvert might. He’d discovered how Julie Calvert managed to terrorize her roommates without being caught. A mechanical accomplice, whom she’d consigned, when not in use, to a remote spot in the duct work.

Her roommates stayed ignorant of who had arranged their accidents for them, despite everyone else being certain who must be the culprit. Hutchinson had to have known who was Princess of Shenanigans, which made his decision to leave Calvert in charge of the ship an even more dubious one.

What had they done to trigger her ire? Not much, Marco supposed. Calvert seemed annoyed by very little things. Certainly she was wired differently than all the other officers he’d known.

After a minute of lift travel he returned to Crew Deck Upper. He jogged silently past the junction where he and Calvert had their confrontation. His cabin lay ahead and to the left. Along the way he saw Danby’s hatch was open as if for inspection. After a hesitation, he stepped inside. Drawers, cupboards, and lockers neatly closed. Bunks stripped to mattress covers. Posters gone from walls. Everything neat, bare and honest. He opened the nearest locker and found it empty. As was the one across the way. As were the cupboards and Danby’s small desk.

Moved, he murmured. His was the cabin after hers. He’d been looking forward to their next encounter. That they were no longer neighbours would make occasions for social interaction harder to orchestrate.

Sit on his bunk, undo laces, loosen sneakers, and kick the foot covers off. Moved, damn it. He flopped backwards onto his bunk.

Chapter Two - Regimen

Chimes announced the Change of Watch Interval. Marco lingered abed, eyes half open. Dread stayed with him. It was not the vividness of the dream that bothered him. Rather it was the feeling he’d been given something to do that couldn’t be done asleep or awake. Something as crucial as saving a life. Whose, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps his own? His thinking stayed muddled, although he’d the feeling matters would come clear eventually.

What the hell? he wondered aloud. He’d awakened feeling not in the least heroic. If one of them was going to be a hero, it would be Danby. The marine had all the muscles in this family. Grinning, he swept aside blankets. A minute later he was padding along the corridor, smiling to lights at daytime levels. Hearing lift doors open ahead, Marco slowed to a walk. Danby emerged from the lift well. He waited for her at the junction, on his side of the emergency bulkhead. Good morning, Corporal. His greeting cheerful in both form and delivery.

Morning, Pacini? Danby stifled a yawn behind the palm of her hand. It’s afternoon by my clock.

Morning by mine. His Watch Third extended from twenty-four hundred to eight hundred hours ship’s time. It was now a little past sixteen hundred hours. No matter, morning to him was when he emerged from sleep.

If you say so. Danby stepped past him to go to her cabin, now down the same corridor where Calvert had hers. By the way, unless you checked already, you’ve a new memo in your queue. We now do mid watch reliefs.

Oh? he went, his smile gone even broader.

We relieve each other in reverse. I relieve Ensign Calvert. You relieve me. She relieves you. The two of you discussed the matter last night?

Well, I’ll be damned. A result well worth a slap.

To my way of thinking, we ought to have be doing reliefs all along.

She decided to be reasonable after all, he couldn’t help but say.

Danby’s reaction surprised and pleased him. A tired smile.

I was curious . . . Marco called after her. Restraint, and caution, kept him from commenting on her hair colour, revealed in full light as a rich chestnut.

Danby looked back over her shoulder, hand on hip. About what?

Why you moved?

That’s none of your business.

Sure, you’re right, he said, backing away. Forget I asked. It seemed as though Danby might be about to say something else, but then continued on her way.

An hour later Marco was regretting his decision to try the next level. The first new more powerful adversary, a Negro his own height, but ten kilos heavier and intensely muscled, had seized his right wrist, forced it behind his back, and was levering his other wrist to the same place. To counter the move, the snugly built tech braced his bare toes into the mat and strained as hard as he could. He managed to check the arm capture, but only temporarily. Next both his wrists were pinned and he was about to be flung to the mat.

Program end, he gasped. Adversary gone. Varnished pine walls and dark blue mat next gone in an extra eye-blink of time.

Pale blue with granite grey gird lines were now. An instant of instability was endured before the null field adjusted to keep him from falling. What next? Climb? Sky dive? Stalk? Surf? Maybe sail. He might assume the skin of his favourite pseudonym, Carl ‘Cat’ Walker, Captain of ISS Storm, and set off to combat outlaws in the Maor te Pleiasis Sphere of Operations.

To allow him and his fellow Polyphemuses unsupervised play, he’d jimmied the protocols. It was tricky to suit up without aid, but they managed. Polyphemus monitored their activities and a red icon would appear and a chime sound within the bridge should a session go awry. No problems thus far. With just the three of them, and four booths, the opportunities for fantasy pursuits seemed limitless. If only he hadn’t had to work, eat or sleep!

Marco grinned behind his snug fitting mask. Plentiful fun day after day was making up for the perverse whimsy of an adolescent commander. He could endure as much as she dished out, as long as he had his sims to blunt the edges with.

Polyphemus, let’s try that tropic sim again. Ah, les-see, The list before his eyes was wall-sized and in decimetre-high, bright blue letters. Blinking progressed the menu, code four-four-two-seven-alpha-romeo-nine-ess. Sky, sand, surf and a little way off a hut cobbled together out of bamboo, palm fronds, and drift wood.

The hut was nicely rendered, picturesque, but too fragile unless it was meant only to be seen and never used. The shelter nestled cosily among palms.Hot—too hot! Polyphemus in her zeal to please, or from referencing a preset, had cranked the booth heat to an uncomfortable level. Step back the temp, can’t you! The temperature softened to what a city punk could tolerate. Let’s have an offshore breeze, make it a cool one.

Much better. He appreciated for a time the new sim’s sights, smells, and sounds. Vegetation tramped joyously beyond the shore: ferns, begonias, coral plants, bluebell. The hut, he decided, could stand a renovation. Let’s give it sturdiness. Add a veranda covered in orchids. The driftwood and bamboo shack gone and a sturdy clapboard structure satisfying his personal sense of order took its place.

Rattan chairs with foam cushions dressed in masculine oatmeal covers plus a matching love seat on cables were selected and settled in. This is nice, Marco said. Ah, seabirds.

What species? Polyphemus asked.

Gulls and pelicans. Keep the buggers out over the water so they don’t mess up my beach. The cry of gulls was an instant installation. They hovered over ungainly pelicans riding waves, and well out from shore. Marco gathered in the largest gulp of wet and salt his lungs were capable of. Even further out and up were specks representing soaring frigatebirds. Something’s missing. I need company.

Specify species, gender, age—

Homo sapiens, female. Age twenty-five Years Standard. Caucasian. Blond hair, green eyes. Regulations prohibited crew utilizing navy resources to create pornographic fantasies out of. Illegal or unsanctioned play could be identified through the coding such types of requests generated. Calvert, anytime she wished although so far she never had, might direct Polyphemus to examine his play history.

The model Polyphemus produced was pleasing to view, but generic and uninspiring. Marco knew what he really wanted. Trembling, he ordered his initial request erased. Gone in a blink was the facsimile. Access personnel records. An electric itch that started behind his ears threatened to itch worse. What he was about to ask for, he was in no wise entitled to have.

Accessed, Polyphemus responded with mock sweetness.

"Reconstruct facsimile to resemble Calvert, Juliana Marie, Commander, ISS Polyphemus." He remembered a slap and a negligee. A Julie Calvert to insult and abuse would be revenge and reward both. A few minutes of fun and banish the facsimile to the oblivion it deserved.

That which you’ve requested is disallowed owing to programming restrictions.

Marco knew of a simple way to circumvent the restrictions. Easing himself back in his seat, he amended his request to: "Reconstitute facsimile to resemble Calvert, Juliana Marie, Commander, ISS Polyphemus, one millimetre shorter."

Calvert’s slightly shorter twin appeared, in everyday naval uniform. Dress facsimile in clothing more appropriate to the environment. The uniform vanished. The 3D reproduction appeared for a moment pink-skinned nude before it was dressed in a two-piece bathing suit, sunhat, flip flops, mirrored sunglasses, and gauze shirt.

I think, Marco said, grinning ferociously, I’d like her in a transparent cape and negligee. Calvert of the night before gazed blankly ahead of itself. He did not question the verisimilitude by which her garments matched those of the night before, notwithstanding how vague had been his request. Marco settled himself better in his seat, and spoke the fatal words: Animate facsimile.

The replicated Julie blinked rapidly along her way to awareness, as though needing to assimilate a large store of data over which she had next to set parameters. Lips parted over a vague smile that during the process adjusted themselves to stern. Why are you lazing about, Pacini? Aren’t you supposed to be on watch right now?

Halt program! Polyphemus was high level AI. The ship had to be punishing him for bypassing the restrictions. Fake girl had frozen in the midst of an aggressive forward lean, the tip of a rigid index finger targeting the spot midway between his eyes. Polyphemus, dispense with Julie Calvert personality implementation. Replace with ‘girlfriend, lover’.

Changes complete. Are you sure, Marco?

Yes, he replied irritably. Anything Poly had in mind to block his intent with, Marco was confident he could counter. He was only doing this once. Five minutes of degradation and abuse and then banish the victim to pixel hell. He knew better than to saddle himself with a self-destroying addiction. Resume.

Marco, darling! Julie rushed onto the porch. Not knowing what else to do, he rose to meet her. Throwing her arms about his neck, she collided delectably, her momentum driving them back onto the seat, her strategic parts crushing his strategic parts. She kissed him with an ardour far in excess of what he ever would have anticipated, or wanted—Poly getting even again.

Julie, ah ... A mint flavoured contact, her body wrapping his like a funeral garland.

I missed you so much, Marco! My love! My everything! Julie gushed. He imagined a starved feline reacting to a beached salmon in the same manner before rending it to pieces.

It’s only been ... Her opening dialogue puzzled him until he realized girlfriend/lover had to initiate with a preset. Oh, right, yeah, I missed you too.

Will we make love? Right now? I’ve been burning for you all day, came at him in moist, panting syllables, along with a grinding of her inner thighs over his lap.

Was he about to experience a pornographic episode, his commander’s twin in the supporting role? Poly! This isn’t fair!—halt Julie construct, damn it.

You did specify—

You’re being disingenuous and you know it. Get her to cool her jets. I’m not having sex with her. That’s not what—I’ve changed my mind. He ought to have known before he started down this path, the prohibitions were in place for sound reasons. Her exuberance and fawning over him had dampened and spoiled his mood. Even though he’d her voluptuousness draped all over him, he felt no more than protective. The erection gotten from putting her in her skimpy attire had dissipated. He might have been holding his sister in his lap.

Her bright blue gaze made him especially uncomfortable. A gap of ten years in age was between them—at present the gap seemed more. He was feeling queerer by the second, but not ready to admit defeat. There has to be a way to fix this. No more messin’ around, Poly. Come on, you gotta play fair. Resume.

Oh, Marco. I love you so. She twisted over his lap while slipping the cape from her shoulders. Marco was made rigidly uncomfortable by the influence of both actions. I want you to make love to me! Right this minute! Here, right now! The robe fell. The spaghetti straps of her negligee about to follow suit.

No, ah, halt Julie construct! Marco cried as the gossamer second cover slipped and went folds about her waist, her erect nipples exclaiming to his cheeks. He swallowed painfully through the Gordian knot in his throat as he restored her garments to rights, repair he did not in the least regret. I can’t do this. Poly, cool her enthusiasm, please?

Specify parameters.

Ah, it’s dusk. We’ve been making love all day. We’re all fuh out—er tired. She just wants to talk.

Adjustments applied as specified. Resume?

Marco had abandoned all notions of revenge. The deliciously despicable things he’d intended, he couldn’t do now. He had debased her as far as he was willing. Deep shame was in him and large regret. Enough indignity had been visited upon Calvert in manifesting her dressed as she was and behaving as she did. Reeking of guilt, his cheek against hers, her arms about his shoulders, Marco clumsily caressed her back. Sharing warmth as the night cooled was his atonement. This was something he ought not to have done or even contemplated.

Hum-m-m, she purred, eyes closed, lips smiling. That was so-o-o nice.

Glad you think so. What was? he asked, smirking.

You, silly. She pinched him through his shirt. Best ever. Cupping her mouth over his right nipple, she set about saturating his shirt with her saliva.

You’re beautiful, he told her. Nothing she didn’t know already.

And you’re damned handsome.

Damned?

Aren’t we supposed to be complimenting each other right now?

Huh?

She gasped in amusement. Marco, you’re being an idiot.

I’m being a—but you can’t—Poly, halt Julie construct.

Despite how the object in his arms ought to respond, as it had, correctly, three times already, Julie said: Halt me? Construct? What are you on about, Marco? Funny, I have no recollection of what just happened. What did we do?

Polyphemus, quit clowning around.

The ship hasn’t anything to do with ... Julie pressed herself upright. The coziness of the moment was utterly exploded. Marco saw calculation of a dangerous sort percolating behind remarkably blue eyes. A different Julie Calvert, he feared, was come to occupy the body he’d created. There’s something odd going on here, she said, her gaze narrowing.

Odd? Don’t think so. A firm headshake informed her he was entirely innocent of whatever she might be about to accuse him of. Poly, I’m done. End Julie construct. Please!

What? squawked Julie. End me? And it’s Calvert, not Construct, which you damned well know. What has gotten into you, Pacini? This is—why am I wearing my nightgown?

He had to have a moment to square himself away without Julie pressing her softness against him—he’d only the side of her thigh pressing him now. Just stay right there. I’m gonna go get us a coconut.

A coconut? Julie exhibited the disdain teenagers were wont to show when they know they’re played false, by adults mistakenly supposing they’re smarter.

"Just never mind. Stay right there. I’ll be back in a jiff. Not bloody likely.

I’m ordering something else to have on. Too damned chilly in this. How did you ever talk me into doing a sim with you? she called to his back.

I, yuh, not sure. He resisted with great difficulty the urge he had to run.

Chapter Three - Probes

Calvert had completed her log entry, written in her journal, stretched a half dozen times and paced the gallery five minutes out of every hour. An hour of physical activity all told to balance with six hours of inactivity.

Had Polyphemus been underway her work day would be different. Course and speed would require periodic verification, and perhaps adjustment. Any hazards to navigation would have to be identified, typed and charted. A helmsman and scans technician, at the least, would keep her company.

Shift after boring shift the same. Calvert dismounted her chair with a hop. A next interval of stretching was due, performed with a soft grunt capping the peak of each physical expression.

While enduring her punishment at Old Boston Academy, she’d been among the oldest students there at that time. A scowl reflected in the main screen was abruptly cancelled. Bridge recorders were always active. Back to the gallery for pacing.

Most of her classmates were lieutenants by now. Everyone assigned Core Worlds would have gotten his or her first step. Do the job at the required level of proficiency. Be prompt. Don’t screw up. Hutchinson was bound to sign off on her promotion as soon as he got back. She’d done fine. She hadn’t crashed the ship into anything.

Even after her promotion she’d still be junior to Mallory and Strom though. Bitches. They’d felt it their function to tease her over everything: her mannerisms, graveyard shift duty, the dirty little jobs she as most junior officer this ship was required to supervise, the less than one quarter of their group suite she’d been allotted, the contents of her space chest, the cut of her uniforms.

They’d deserved comeuppance. Red watch cap in with dress whites. Gum on cushions. A minor catastrophe in Sub Deck B Environmental which she hadn’t the authority to deal with and they did. Hutchinson’s birthday cake.

All of her tricks took place while she was verifiably on duty or asleep. Her accomplice a clever menial named Grugg, of necessity listed in her personal inventory but not elaborated upon.

The look of dismay on Mallory’s face when she drew her trousers pink from the washer! Grugg, hidden behind a ventilation grate, had recorded the event.

She regretted Hutchinson’s cake though. If she had known for whom the confection was meant, she wouldn’t have had Grugg jimmy the oven setting. Oh, well, accidents happen.

A survey ship low on provisions had rendezvoused with Polyphemus. The confections her fellow juniors had provided themselves with, paid for out of their own pockets, got sent over by mistake—not really, only they seemed to. A mixup in lot numbers. Officially she hadn’t known a thing about it. Unofficially she’d been enjoying the fruits, and desserts, of her mischief ever since. She really had intended to send the treats across.

Calvert resumed her perch as restless as when she left it. She ought to have brought out the sweets herself. Pacini managed the food; Crew Mess Lower had been shut down since they were only three. It made sense, and was less likely to appear strange, for her to keep her distance and for him to bring out everything.

He’d better not tell. Calvert wondered whether to coax or coerce his cooperation or do nothing. The ‘do nothing’ tactic had worked so far; that is, until yesterday’s show of defiance.

According to Pacini’s personnel file, which Julie Calvert as Commander This Ship was entitled to view, his Mars Academy scores were all beneath her O. B. A. results. Not by a lot though. Lacking her genetic advantages, he must have been the hard working troll. Pacini had dropped out before his final year. She’d been Top of Class in hers. Second time around, but still ...

Pacini was a decade older, with no longevity therapy. He’d nine years of service in and not much stasis time. She’d been eighteen months ‘in the box’, most of that in transit, including several weeks ‘unassigned’. The posting she’d been promised after graduation, Centauri Prime to a brand new heavy cruiser, had been cancelled owing to her disgrace. Consequently, as soon as her redos were filed, into a box she went and shipped she was.

Nothing had been available when she arrived in Orion Prime. Rather than be unboxed, with weeks or months stumbling about with nothing to do, and be boxed again, she was kept stored. Supernumeraries, idiots and misfits got stored. Whenever asked the date of her arrival to O. P., Calvert lied about it.

Twenty-four months out of circulation, half of the time travelling at an appreciable fraction of the