After The Storm

The first few days on the Reliant are startlingly different. Rich gets accustomed a little at a time to the way the Reliant rides in the water, to the bigger berth and the way the crew tries to hide their wariness behind awkward friendliness. Somehow, though, he can't seem to adjust to the ship herself.

The Sympatico was broken. Rich knew that, spent enough time buried deep in her faulty AI, but he didn't realize how warped and needing she was until he was unceremoniously dumped onto a ship that's streamlined and well-maintained. It's...disconcerting, almost disappointing, the way she hums along without him, without more than glancing pings in Rich's direction. Even on the rare occasions she drops a maintenance request onto the techs' queue, Ben and Phil are the senior techs and they step in so fast Rich barely has time to read the task description.

The work Rich is left to do is both different and strangely familiar at the same time. AIs are a crucial component of any ship, needed to do everything from regulating a ship's daily operations to keeping track of its crew's whereabouts to making sure no one accidentally slams a catamaran into a cruiser on a dark night. They're also fundamentally just an aggregated collection of programmed routines, and every program ever written can only run as smoothly as the guys who run it. Human nature being what it is, this means that everything is always breaking down, everywhere.

So the techs get called out to other ships frequently, instead of staying in and slogging through a queue that's half-consumed with their boat's neurotic tangle of internal problems. They go out and fix a sanitation boat's faulty water purifier, a little hull-patching single-residency's issue with their AI's proximity guidance system, a tool library's check-out archives that report three thousand bandsaws lent to some guy named Pfsiksis XXchund, and a church boat's sound system that keeps playing a hymn on a family boat's sound system three miles away. There's also a plastics recycler that has somehow convinced herself that anything red is radioactive, and another family boat whose AI has been convinced by her children to refer to their mother exclusively as Captain Poopface, which is actually a pretty sophisticated bit of programming considering the hackers were eight and ten.

The techs are even called out once to the flagship Washington itself to fix a mechanical error on a set of massive bay doors. It's on the lowest-security level, but still. Rich hasn't been there since his brief, terrible stint in cadet training when he was fourteen, but somehow it feels even bigger now, and even more stable and strangely unmoving underfoot than the Reliant. The repurposed aircraft carrier feels as big as an island, as a continent, the indomitable steel heart of the Fleet.

Rich remembers learning in school how when the old Admiral Clearwater was first assembling the Fleet, she sailed the Washington all around the rim of Lake Michigan, from one burning war-torn city to the next, and traded the aircraft carrier's complement of aircraft one careful piece at a time for every single boat she could get. The local governments of the newly forming city-states gladly handed over the superyachts of absent millionaires and the cruise ships of dissolving leisure companies and the freighters and fishing trawlers and cargo carriers of regular working citizens, and sent entire marinas sailing off into the lake in exchange for the dream of military domination of the skies.

The history lesson was much quieter about the military part when Rich was six, of course. He mostly remembers learning the song about the Admiral sailing the Washington around collecting all the different ships for the Fleet. It wasn't until later that he learned how crafty Clearwater had been.

She had left the would-be warlords of Milwaukee and Chicago and Muskegon to figure out on their own that any weapon was only as good as the infrastructure required to launch it. After the fifty United States finished tearing themselves into a thousand contentious micro-territories, jet fuel got pretty expensive. Jet pilots, even more so. And Clearwater had kept the Washington's anti-aircraft missiles working just fine.

So Milwaukee and Chicago and Muskegon got their warplanes, and the Fleet got the hundreds of boats it would need to be an actual fleet, rather than an increasingly crowded naval carrier and a couple dinky rowboats. The dozens of cruise ships were initially meant to form a floating analogue of landside apartment towers, and be populated by up to five hundred people at a time. Rich saw some of the plans in school when he was nine or ten, and they gave him nightmares: more than twice as many crew as should ever be packed in anywhere, crammed claustrophobically tight from one end of their boat to the other, with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

Fortunately, the Admiral realized in time that wasn't going to work. When the autumn superstorms hit in the Fleet's first year, it became immediately apparent that anything smaller than a freighter couldn't be reasonably expected to survive the chaos, no matter how skilled the pilot or dedicated the crew. Smaller boats had to be berthed somewhere more stable, and for all the massive span of the Washington's flight deck, for all its suitability as a functional dry-dock, there still just wasn't enough space for every other ship in the Fleet to be perched on top all at once. Plus, more small boats were turning up by the day, as desperate refugees across the midwest and central territories grabbed up anything they thought would float and launched off into Lake Michigan to join the Fleet.

The notion of cruise liners as apartment complexes was scrapped, and the ships were hastily cored out from jam-packed residential suites to spacious docking bays that could function as industrial garages during the steadier summer and winter seasons. What remained of the cruise liners' former luxury cabins got cut down even further to the perfunctory sleeping berths of working crewmembers. The cruise liners became the steel spine of the Fleet not in hosting the Fleet's population, but supporting it through crucial industrial labor: manufacturing, recycling, and repair.

After that, the Fleet spread itself out across the lake, quickly evolving into the stable chaos of a nearly uncountable number of AI-governed interdependent houseboats, tour boats, catamarans, yachts, superyachts, megayachts, sailboats, fishing boats, trawlers, freighters, tankers, tugs, pontoons, barges, scows, to say nothing of all the unquantifiable hot messes that amateur shipwrights in landside warzones slapped together and shoved out into the lake. A ship's crew could be composed of anything from a couple friends running a lunchboat, to a single set of parents raising their children on their own, to a multi-family collective like the Infinity that Rich's dad had joined so his kids would grow up socially well-adjusted. Not that any of them actually did, but Rich appreciates that he tried to give them a shot.

Whatever adjustment he managed to scrape together in his early years, Rich has apparently lost most of it in the interim. He can't seem to shake the feeling of being off-balance wherever he goes, uncertain and unsteady even when he's taking care of tasks he could normally do with his eyes shut. He spent four years on the Sympatico and barely even went above-decks, let alone off the ship herself. And now he's relearning all of it. Badly.

The most embarrassing part of the whole situation is that since the last time he was doing this kind of work, Rich has grown from an uncomfortably large teenager into the kind of obviously-tweaked steel slab of a guy who has trouble fitting through doors. On a cruiser, freighter, or tanker, he's intimidatingly and inconveniently huge, but that's all. On any boat smaller than a 50, three hundred pounds of muscle suddenly landing on the deck is likely to make the whole ship list far enough to one side the crew gets hazard alerts from their startled AI. The constant self-conscious calculation of where he's too big to stand does nothing to make Rich feel any better.

He just has to hope it isn't too obviously pathetic, how clumsy and off-balance he is: he feels like he's walking around with a giant overlay screen across his whole body that just reads What's This Enormous Jackass Doing Now?!

It's no surprise that the other guys don't have the same difficulty, any more than they seem overawed by the rest of it: it's regular life on a 200-crew fix-it boat, Rich supposes. This is just the ordinary grind for them. Except for the part where Rich is there, now, and people see the techs coming and scramble out of their way, wide-eyed and incredulous in a way Rich hasn't missed. That guy's one of the techies? Really? He's not here to haul cargo? Really?

The Sympatico fixed engines, when it wasn't running hard drugs, and it was Hendricks who always made sure to be the friendly face of the tech department when it came to going out and about, running diagnostics and taking all the credit, while Rich stayed back on his own boat and put in all the work. His unfamiliarity now with what's routine to the Reliant's crew complement makes Rich feel like a newbie again, wide-eyed and unfamiliar with even the most basic procedures, stressing out over screwing up. It isn't great, but nobody even laughs at him for it.

Well, James pokes some fun, smirking to himself and cracking whatever shitty little jokes he thinks makes him seem like a tough guy. But everybody keeps on glaring at him whenever James takes a dig, even before Rich has time to growl at him.

His favorite topic of mockery isn't actually Rich's size or inexperience, it's how utterly goddamn hilarious it apparently is that someone Rich's age is having to retake kindergarten-level sociability courses. He keeps making pointed comments to everyone about "We have to set a good example for our newest friend!" and "Remember to let Mr Merrill know; respect makes a ship run smoothly!" and "Hey, has anyone let Rich know that manners are magic?" and humming the opening theme of Family Fleet whenever Rich walks by.

Smiling close-lipped and considering stops making him twitch nervously two days in, so Rich just nods politely at every jab and doesn't punch the obnoxious little jackass's teeth out and also keeps watching all the Family Fleet he's assigned, and filling out the associated coursework, because he…well, because he has to, it's part of the mandated behavioral training for everyone off his ship. But also because it's not like he has any other point of reference for the bizarre way these guys interact with each other. The shake-down Rich keeps expecting from someone, sometime, just keeps on not happening.

James' asinine commentary aside, everyone is modeling genuinely prosocial behavioral patterns with each other, and it's baffling. No one's word for word with the puppets or anything—except sometimes, as a joke, and Rich is at least sharp enough to get when it's a joke—but they're so absurdly friendly to each other, even him, even while they're being cautious around him. Even with James, the most they do is tell him to knock it off or go away—and then most of the time he does. The more Rich watches, the more it seems like the IST department could probably host an episode of Family Fleet all on their own. It's a whole new kind of exhausting, having to constantly revise his own expectations while waiting and waiting for some actual trouble.

He expected to have trouble with Security, here, at the very least. There were four Security guys back on the Sympatico, one each for first through fourth shift, and they were just to keep the stabbing and drug use to a minimum. As long as you stayed out of their way—and didn't mess too much with anyone they were friends with, which was the tricky part—they wouldn't seek you out to start any more shit. Of course, to stay out of their way you had to not be caught anywhere there was a fight, or be involved in any way including as the victim, when Security showed up with their clubs out. Rich always did his best, but on the Sympatico that never did end up being good enough.

Here and now, even though the Reliant has four times the crew compliment of the Sympatico, it's such a well-behaved crew that they only have two more Security guys, making six total. And those guys have every reason to consider him a danger to whichever of the crew they protect, which is probably a whole lot more of them, considering relative populations. So Rich wasn't expecting a beatdown, exactly, but a statement on the order of 'You'd better not make our lives any harder, new guy,' would be only natural.

So when an older man in a Security uniform comes out and finds Rich sitting cautiously on the corner of the sundeck on day three, Rich tenses up for multiple reasons. He doesn't think Basil lied intentionally about it being okay to go on the sundeck, there's always some amount of people hanging out up here, but the rules could easily be different for Rich. It's already going to be difficult enough balancing respect for Security with not giving anyone the idea that Rich can be pushed around, without having to guess if sundeck rights are something Rich actually has in the first place, or if that's going to be added to the list of his delinquencies.

The Security guy nods a greeting as he comes over to Rich, though, and he doesn't look stiff or angry. His dark brown skin creases when he smiles, and his close-shaved black hair is going steel grey at the temples. His navy blue jacket has the gold braiding on the sleeve that identifies him as the Chief of Security, which freezes Rich on the spot. What's he done that's brought down that kind of attention?

"Rich Merrill?" Security says. "I'm Avram Appleton, Security Chief on the Reliant. I wanted to welcome you onboard, though I know it's a little late." His smile quirks wryly, but Rich is too occupied staring in mute terror to return it. "If you have any issues with safety, or any interpersonal difficulties, you can bring them to us if your department head isn't helpful—although Ben's great, I know you can talk to him. No one has to solve any problems with their fists here."

"Uh, yes sir," Rich says hastily, because of course James ran and told on him, or someone did, shit. "I mean, no sir, of course not. I, uh, I haven't been! Strictly hands-off, these days. You won't get any trouble from me, I swear—"

"No, I know, you've been just fine so far!" Chief Appleton says, clapping him on the shoulder, and Rich could swear his smile is approving. "Settling in well, from all I hear. Just remember there's help available if you ever need it."

"Yes sir," Rich says, bewildered. "Thank you, sir. I will."

"Well, good! Enjoy the sun, kid, it's so nice out here in the summer," and he's headed inside again with a quick, swinging stride.

Rich takes a minute to breathe, letting his shoulders loosen, his heart slow and his back relax, everything uncoiling that had drawn tight in preparation for a stun baton or a simple beating, despite logic. He's had plenty of experience reinforcing that you're polite and don't argue with Security, and he wasn't looking forward to repeating any of the lessons, obviously, but—that was it, really? That's all? It was like the warning he was expecting, he guesses, only very gently delivered, with none of the threats or posturing he assumed would come along with it.

Granted, it does sound like, 'If someone goes for you, you'd better not fight back,' which could be a problem. Rich will deal with that when he gets there, though.

He eyes the lounging gang of off-duty mechanics sharing the sundeck with him, but they're all already stretched out in the sun, their faces pillowed on rolled-up coveralls, sleepily cozying up to each other like a bunch of lazy selkies. At noon, techies don't bother coming outside: the overhead sun washes screens out too much to get work done without risking a nasty headache. So until the shadows get longer, Rich is fine to put on a Family Fleet vid and get ahead of his Behavioral Adjustment coursework for the day.

Nobody bothers him, or even seems to care he's there, except for the occasional curious gull hopping toward him looking for food. Even then, Rich would swear they're more polite about it than they were the few times he went on deck at the Sympatico. They don't peck or dive or anything, just hop up, eye him sideways with mad yellow eyes, pick at something invisible on the deck a few times, and then give up on him as a bad prospect and take off to go harass the mechanics instead.

Rich has waved off his fifth or sixth feathery visitor and is lounging stomach-down with his overshirt off on one of the deck chairs, sleepily watching Ivanna Inchworm count all the ways she values her friends, when he realizes the footsteps coming out onto the deck are accompanied by a familiar voice.

"—Didn't even know if he was around here, I wasn't gonna snoop in his room! But anyway he's up on the sundeck, I found him," says Basil's voice, and pauses like he's listening to a private call, "—Yeah, yeah, I know, okay. Bye-bye, pumpkin."

Rich finally unfreezes and scrambles to blank his screen and glance back over his shoulder at the same time.

"Hey, Rich," Basil says, waving with his gloved hand as he comes over. His hair is out of its ponytail today, in a fluffy black cloud of curls around his head. "I was gonna—uh. Oh. Unless you're…busy?"

Somebody on Rich's screen moans and goes "Ohh, god, baby yes…right there…" and the nearest couple of sleepy mechanics start giggling.

Rich turns back to flail in horror at his screen, because instead of blanking it, he hit next video, and now it's showing two extremely beautiful women in implausibly well-fitted mechanics' coveralls, preparing to demonstrate extremely implausible ways you can stress-test a work desk. He manages to hit pause after a second of fumbling in the glare of the sunlight.

Goddamn it, Rich was saving that for later tonight, as a personal, private reward for himself for getting through his coursework. He didn't think he'd actually manage to skip to it in public, where anyone could see, like some horny juvenile dumbass who doesn't know how to manage his own video queue.

Worse, he somehow also set the audio for the vid to public, so everyone nearby could hear it, too, as it broadcast right to their comms.

"Aww, no!" Basil says, and plops his narrow butt on the edge of Rich's lounge chair, right by Rich's hip. He's got his casual black sarong on again, messily tied, and his bare knees are basically right there. "Don't stop it, man—I haven't seen this episode of Family Fleet before!" Rich feels a bright electric wash of heat go through him as Basil braces his bare hand on Rich's lower back, leaning over his shoulder to see the screen—then reaches out and hits play.

Rich stares at Basil in startled betrayal, and Basil grins back cheerfully. The nearest mechanics snicker some more as the women in the vid start moaning and encouraging each other to stress-test the desk even more intensely, and Rich wants to throw himself overboard and drown.

"Is this Sharing is Caring, or Ask Nicely?" Basil adds brightly.

"Uh. Healthy Bodies, Healthy Minds," Rich ventures from the midst of a scalding-hot cloud of embarrassment, and Basil chokes laughing, which helps. When he stops giggling, Basil just goes back to watching the screen, though, looking terrifically amused at Rich's whole situation.

Rich stares helplessly at him and then back at the screen, feeling his blush boiling all down his neck and shoulders. Family Fleet lessons don't exactly cover this particular kind of social interaction, where you accidentally set off your goddamn porn in public in front of a guy who's apparently more than willing to make you sweat about it. Not that he would be in this situation if he hadn't been a ridiculously shy idiot about letting Basil catch him, what, doing his mandated Behavioral Adjustment? That everyone already knows he's doing? Ugh. Rich is a moron.

Is Basil trying to make Rich mad or something, leaning on him like this, teasing him about it, instead of doing the decent thing and pretending he didn't see anything? Basil hasn't been mean before now, though, he's been really sweet. Maybe he's thinking about taking the opportunity to hit Rich up for—for a hand, for a favor—shit. Not that that would be the worst thing, not a sweet, cute kid like Basil, but—Rich's skin prickles all over, uncertainty and anticipation mixing awkwardly inside him, and Basil's still touching him and he's not even sure if he likes it, or what.

"I think we're learning a good lesson about sharing today," Basil snickers as one of the video girls gives a loud, overwrought moan and yanks her—obviously tearaway—pants off with a dramatic flourish. "Hell yeah! They're really going for it. Man, our work uniforms are so lame, imagine if we had tear-off coveralls like these smart ladies. We'd have a way better time around here, I bet."

"Um," Rich says, eyes unfocusing slightly as he involuntarily thinks about Basil wearing tear-off coveralls. "That's…I guess, uh, it'd be easier to get ready for…uh, sleeping, or a shower or something."

"Oh, yeah, or something," Basil snickers, gesturing his gloved hand at the screen, where both participants have taken all of their clothes off in a remarkably efficient amount of time. "I gotta suggest this to Liam," he adds, and pulls up his screen and starts messaging, like this is a totally normal thing to do while, on-screen, one of the women is getting absolutely rawed over a desktop by her friend. "He'll probably find somebody to make him some tear-off pants within the hour." He snickers to himself. He has dimples when he smiles.

Rich stares blankly at the screen. Even if this is weird and awkward and Rich doesn't want any of it to be happening, it's still a thing that's very much happening anyway, and what if Basil did want some sex? He doesn't have the strength or authority to force Rich into anything, it'd have to be bribes or trade, which could be okay. Rich would maybe be very okay with that. He sneaks a look sideways at Basil. He's got such a cute smile now, he'd probably have dimples while getting—not fucked, of course, but maybe blown—on a desk somewhere. He might, anyway, if Rich was the one doing it, Rich could go slow, take his time, keep him smiling…God, this is terrible. Rich doesn't need this to be happening to him, this stupid thing he can't even pretend he's not developing for Basil.

Basil is still messaging his buddy, and looks perfectly casual about the whole situation. It doesn't even look like he's getting a boner—though it's hard to tell, from this angle, and the sloppy folds of his wrap, but he certainly doesn't seem to be giving Rich any of the considering once-over looks or pointed overtures Rich would get on the Sympatico when somebody wanted to trade something for a helping hand or mouth.

"So, anyway," Basil says abruptly, an excruciating minute later, and closes his chat window. "I came to find you cuz me and some guys are gonna be playing Spellcraft in the second deck rec room and…if you wanted, you could come. I mean I'm not gonna make you come, but you might have fun. Y'know, if you did?" He smiles hopefully like that sentence wasn't the worst sequence of double entendres Rich has ever heard in his life. "It's not as fun as lounging around watching porn in public, I bet, but it's…pretty fun."

"Uh…" Rich already decided to just take half a second shift from 1500 to 1800 this afternoon, feeling daring and decadent, so he is free for the next couple hours. Free like off-shift, not free to leave the ship, of course, since he's still on-call for emergencies, but it's still more leisure time than he's had in years.

He numbly considers the porn, then sighs and gives up. "Yeah, sure, okay. I can totally humiliate myself some other afternoon."

"Cool!" says Basil, and smiles like it's a relief. "Okay, cool. Do you need like…another fifteen minutes, or—"

"No!" Rich says, and closes the screen completely, pushing himself up. A few of the nearby mechanics make sleepy booing noises at him, and he can't help his embarrassed flinch at the noise. God, he's probably red all the way down to the waist. Stupid. "No, I'm good, kid. Let's go."

"Yeah, uh," Basil says, looking wide-eyed and uncomfortable all of a sudden, eyes fixed on Rich's chest. "You—uh, you wanna—maybe change your shirt—" he points carefully at Rich's chest. Rich looks down, confused, then groans in dismay.

"Fuck, I liked this shirt, it was soft," Rich growls, and sticks a finger into the sizeable hole where his left shoulder seam should be. The stitches have almost completely given way, and now it shows a ridiculous expanse of too-pale skin and too-red chest hair. When Rich pokes it, the tired fabric gives way even further and he has to practically grope himself to keep from like, flashing a nipple to everyone on deck.

"Oh my god," Basil says, very quietly.

"So, I think you were saying something about tearaway clothes, huh, kid?" Rich sighs, and grabs one-handed for where he'd left his overshirt folded up by the head of his lounge chair. "I can't seem to keep mine in one fucking piece, shit."

"I, uh, ahahaha, yeah! Yeah, uh. You're ahead of the curve, I guess! Good job!" Basil gives Rich a thumbs up, looking wide-eyed and embarrassed for him, and Rich laughs softly, appreciating his attempt at humor. He's a sweet kid, even if he's a tease, too.

"I'm gonna get another shirt real fast, okay?" Rich says, struggling into his overshirt as best as he can without his t-shirt doing anything even more humiliating. "One with more structural integrity. You go like—go on ahead, and I'll be there in five."

"Right, yes, okay," Basil says distractedly, brushing a spill of curls out of his face, and looks haphazardly around the sundeck instead of at Rich again. "Yes. Uh, integrity, yes. See you there!" He bounces off ahead of Rich across the deck and through the nearest hatch.

Rich takes the opportunity to stop by a washroom and splash some cold water on his burning face, and by the time he gets to the rec room, he feels at least most of the way normal again. Basil, Nate, and Anton are gathered in the rec room, looking relaxed and casual in off-shift t-shirts and tank-tops and patterned wraps, all of them barefoot and unguarded. Rich would feel overdressed in his full-length black jeans and work boots, if he didn't know he'd have an absolutely pathetic meltdown at exposing any more skin than his arms to guys he barely knows. As is, he still wishes sharply that he'd taken the time to grab an overshirt.

Apparently they were already aware Rich was coming, because nobody looks too freaked out to see him loom through the doorway: Nate gives a cautious smile, and Anton even gives a wave. There's plenty of room in the circle, like they were waiting for more players. Basil pats the space right by his hip—it's one with a clear view of the door, which could be an accident, but if it is, it's one Rich will gratefully take advantage of; he comes over and then stops short.

There's a potted plant suction-cupped to a window, and the pot's little pop-up infoscreen is saying 'Please give me 2 cups water.' Apparently no one else has noticed, or maybe cared. They don't appreciate how lucky they are to have plants around, a clean boat with enough light and space and peace to support green living things.

"Sorry, hold on, the plant needs a drink, back in a second," Rich says, and walks right out again, heading for the nearest washroom. He gets a jar, fills it with what he thinks is about two cups of water, and goes and pours it carefully onto the plant, waiting for it to soak in so it doesn't overflow.

"Sorry, guys, thanks for waiting," he says, and settles down gingerly into the open space by Basil. He can watch the door past Basil's shoulder here, and the bulkhead of the rec room is solid against his back.

Anton smiles warmly at him, and if Nate chuckles quietly, it doesn't sound mocking. Rich isn't sure quite what the smile Basil gives him is about, a shy note he can't read, but it seems pleased, so that's fine, he doesn't think Rich is dumb either.

"Okay, you have to download the client onto your system, but it's a tiny file," Basil explains. "This is the rule sheet, so if you need some reference—"

Rich starts the download, and all three of them pile in at the same time trying to explain the rules of what seems to be an incredibly complicated card game full of colors and classifications and modifiers. Then Nate produces a couple boxes of snacks, and it gets even harder to focus as Rich has to weigh 'playing the game' against 'obtaining the maximum amount of sweet potato chips that's socially acceptable to have'.

So Rich is distracted, but not so distracted he doesn't notice when another figure appears in the doorway beyond Basil; he's a well-built young guy, with copper skin and short red-gold hair, wearing the black tank-top and navy blue sarong that warns of off-duty Security. Rich doesn't see a disruptor baton but he tenses anyway; the guy notices him looking and winks at him, stalking forward silently toward Basil's unprotected back. Shifts something in his grip, something small and thin he holds like a—that's a shiv, no, fuck that.

Rich is on his feet so fast he bowls Basil over backwards, lunging past startled faces to ram the Security guy off his feet and pin his wrists to the deck. Basil yelps somewhere behind him, and then goes "Fuck!" and then, "Rich, what are you—hey, whoa, hey!"

"Drop it," Rich growls at the Security guy, and Security guy twists, testing Rich's grip, and then hisses as Rich squeezes his wrist harder. "Drop it."

"Holy shit, man, let go!" says Basil squeakily, and a hand touches Rich's shoulder like he's a bomb that's about to blow, plucking at his shirt. "What—hey—"

"This fucking club was gonna knife you," Rich snaps, adrenaline boiling through his veins. "You know this guy?"

"Oh my god," says Basil.

"Knife him?!" says the Security guy, disbelieving. "Haha, uh, wow—"

"Mitch, shut up," says Basil. "Show him—Rich, seriously, it's cool. It's cool, okay?"

The Security guy opens his hand, and the thing he was holding rolls away and comes to a trundling halt on the deck. It's…a paint marker, it's just a normal red paint marker, like for marking tools and equipment.

Rich stares at it blankly, then at the Security guy, then slowly lets go of his wrist. His heart is still pounding, and he can't quite manage to process this latest development.

"Rich, let's take it easy, okay?" says Basil, in a patient, careful tone. "This is my friend—"

"Michigan," says the guy. "Mitch. Ford. Mitch Ford? Moved here last year. Man, you move fast for somebody your size—"

"And this is Rich Merrill!" Basil says, louder, cutting over that line of inquiry. "Who doesn't know about the game yet, dumbass."

"Game," repeats Rich. The adrenaline is starting to drain away, his stomach twisting with the slow realization that he's made an absolute dipshit of himself in front of half his department and one of the ship's Security officers. He tackled one of the ship's Security officers, a couple hours after being welcomed aboard and told he was doing a good job by their boss, fuck.

"Yeah, y'know, Assassins," Mitch says, and reaches over to grab the paint marker, waving it around in illustration. "You try to sneak up on the other guy, and if you get him—" he mimes slicing the paint marker across his throat. "You assassinated him, and you win."

"It's this silly game we do," says Basil. "Rocket and Hiram used to play with us, but they graduated off to the Sanitary Confinement when they finished their internship, so it's just me and Mitch right now. It's kinda fun, though—"

"It's fucking annoying is what it is," pipes up Anton. "I'm over in the mess trying to eat my blocks and you two are having marker fights across the tables like a pair of under-tens playing pirate."

Basil gives a furtive, embarrassed look towards Rich, going ruddy across his cheeks, but Mitch grins unrepentantly. "Yeah, and I won the mess round," he says, spreading his arms out proudly. "That's important, I won."

Their 'game' sounds like the dumbest thing Rich has heard of. If you're used to sneak-attacks resulting in paint marks on your skin and someone crowing over a harmless victory, how are you going to be ready for someone who actually wants to hurt you? Not that anyone on this boat seems to think that way, he's coming to realize.

Unfortunately, none of that fixes the fact that Rich just screwed up bad. He gets to his feet and uncertainly offers Mitch a hand up, wondering how dead he is now he's personally pissed Security off.

"Sorry," he says carefully. "I didn't, uh. Didn't realize. I should have left you to it."

"Yeah, no, 's cool!" says Mitch, and takes the offered hand, tugging himself up. "Y'know, good looking-out, though! Nice to know this hamfisted dorkus has a real security detail now, it'll make the game a lot more fun."

Rich expected this guy to be fuming and red-faced, talking about demerits and fines, but from the look of him he's somehow not even annoyed. He's not pissed off and hiding it, that friendly face is completely open. Mitch is just—letting it go. Letting Rich get away with being an idiot instead of making him pay for it.

"Yeah," says Basil as Rich stares at Mitch, and pats Rich on the shoulder with his gloved hand, more firmly this time, interrupting his paralyzed confusion. "It's cool you, uh, you had my back like that. That was cool of you, thanks."

His hand feels different than Rich expected, harder than it should be under the leather, stiffer, or something, but Rich doesn't have the attention to spare for that right now. He finally looks away from Mitch and gives Basil a twitch of a smile. Basil doesn't look mad, either. A bit uncertain, maybe, or like…worried? But he doesn't look like he's being sarcastic or mocking or just saying it so Rich won't be mad at him. And he wouldn't be standing this close if Rich had scared him. As Rich stares at him, his smile widens and makes crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"No problem," Rich says, and hesitates a second before deciding he doesn't quite dare return the shoulder-pat. He nods at Mitch, ducks past Basil and sits down again, working on breathing through the adrenaline letdown and not thinking about how much he could use a drink right now to settle his nerves back to a reasonable simmer. He's all on edge, he's gonna be watching the door for the next hour now, flinching away from everyone's hands, and they're playing with cards, everyone's going to be waving them everywhere…but they're all friends, here. And willing to be friendly with Rich. So he's going to just sit here, and deal with it.

So he deals. It doesn't go too badly. Everyone starts the game over, with a flurry of good-natured bitching and moaning and reshuffling that doesn't have anything to do with anything Rich might or might not have done. Mitch, it turns out, has been playing this card game with Basil for years, on and off, and has managed to avoid learning most of the rules, through a combination of cheerful dumbassery and shameless dedication to winding Basil up.

Apparently he wins sometimes anyway, usually because of pure luck and sometimes because of suspiciously shrewd guessing, so he adds a random element to the game that at least makes Rich's newbie fumbling with the rules a minor sideshow to the spectacle of Mitch making a phenomenal amount of suicide plays. It keeps everybody distracted, laughing and smiling and heckling the guy.

The only problem is, Mitch's goofing around keeps Rich distracted too. When Mitch sits down in the circle he immediately twists around to put his legs in Basil's lap, and that's…fine, except the next thing he does is poke Basil in the stomach with a foot and go, "Hey, sugarplum, deal me in already," and Basil, before Rich has even finished staring about that, goes, "Cut your engines, pumpkin, I'm fucking getting there."

Public displays of affection were not a good idea on the Sympatico, even if you had somebody to be affectionate with, so Rich honestly has no idea if what he's seeing is real flirting, or insincere flirting, or insincere-looking flirting that's actually real, or some godforsaken combination of the three. They hang on each other through the whole game, even while they play against each other as often as they play against anyone else, and every so often they drop some more ludicrously over-the-top pet names: cookie and cupcake, peaches and pumpkin and honey-bear and muffin, on and on. And then sometimes Basil whacks Mitch on the leg and grumbles how he's a dipshit and a loser, and Mitch chortles and plays another board-wrecking card specifically to prolong the grumbling.

Neither of the other techs seems to be paying them the slightest bit of extra attention, either, which is entirely unhelpful. If someone would at least comment, Rich might catch a clue about what's going on with the two of them.

Not that it matters, obviously. Not that Rich cares if Basil is attached to anyone already, even a fit, handsome, sweet-tempered young Security officer.

But that's the thing: Mitch can't be with Basil if he's Security unless they're really serious about each other, like married or at least engaged. Security's on libido-suppressants as a matter of course. Unless they apply with a committed partner for an exemption, they can't do sex, and they're generally intense enough about "avoiding distraction" and "preventing potential abuses" that they don't even consider trying to find a partner to put in for an exemption with.

So it's gotta be joke-flirting. Rich is pretty sure.

Nate wins a round, and then Basil wins two in a row. At 1600, Rich realizes with a guilty jolt that he's late to start his half-shift, and then he looks around and defiantly decides to stay right where he is and enjoy himself. He worked double shifts the first two days, so it's probably okay to slack off today, even if he's instinctively twitchy about it. It'll be fine.

Basil wins another round, and then Rich wins one, to his utter shock. Everybody boos the winner, and it should feel bad, but everybody's grinning at the same time, swearing at each other over the scattered cards, gathering their decks back up again. It's…nice.

It's really nice.

He catches Basil smiling at him: an odd, soft, warm little smile, like Basil thinks he's getting away with something.

"What?" Rich asks, and elbows him carefully. "What're you smiling about, huh?"

"Oh!" Basil goes, like he didn't expect Rich to be keeping an eye on him, and ducks his head. "Nothing, man, it's just—I haven't seen you look, uh, happy. Before."

"What?" Rich asks, stupidly. "That's—no. What? I'm happy, I can be happy, I've—I do that." His face starts burning. What the fuck, he's been happy before. He can't remember right now when the last time was, but he's not a total grouch! Is that what everyone's been thinking of him here, that he's some angry, scowling asshole all the time? What a great impression to make on his new crewmates, god.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

"No, yeah, you always look like you're about to stress-puke," Nate says. "I didn't figure you could have fun."

Rich stares at him, startlement giving way to confused embarrassment. Rich can't be that transparent, can he? He's assumed people have been treating him cautiously because they're scared of him, waiting for him to snap. They wouldn't do that if they just thought he was stressed out. Would they?

"Oh my god Nate, that's so rude," Basil says. "I didn't mean it like that."

He leans over and takes Nate's bag of chips, then gives it to Rich. "Here, Rich, Technician Chau is very sorry he did a James impression."

"Oh, wow, hit me where it hurts, Wright," Nate says, and clutches dramatically at his chest. But he doesn't make a peep about getting his chips redistributed, so Rich doesn't question it and starts in on eating them real fast before someone does complain. The food helps distract him from his burning embarrassment and confusion until the heat in his face subsides.

Nate is going on fourth shift at 1800 hours, and has to tap out a round later to get ready for work; somebody's got a problem with their emergency broadcast system, either a hacking or a glitch, nobody's sure. Mitch makes a couple playful, showy swipes at Basil with his paint-marker and gets shoved over for it, then helped off the deck to saunter out with Basil, arm-in-arm. Anton heads out with a bright smile and a cheerful wave just for Rich, and then Rich is alone in the rec room with his thoughts. He has a lot of them and none of them go anywhere in particular. The basic summary is: he doesn't understand anything and it's unnerving; somehow things still haven't gone wrong yet, which is simultaneously unsettling and reassuring; and goddamn, Basil is way too attractive when he's grinning victoriously.

Maybe Rich should go watch porn. It might distract him from bad ideas.

He goes back to his berth and closes the door, takes a series of deep, careful breaths, then deliberately settles himself on his bed to enjoy what he can of the rest of the evening.

-

That night, Rich has finished tidying up his berth before bed and is trying not to feel weirdly aimless and lost over not having anything of Trimmer's to put away anywhere, none of the guy's clothes or journals or tools, when his comm goes off and distracts him from being a huge idiot. He takes a deep breath when he sees who it is, and answers with a huff and an eyeroll.

"Didn't I say I would call you?"

"Yeah, and I've been waiting, and you haven't!" Thena retorts. She crosses her arms, which are about as heavy with muscle as his, tosses hair the same shade as his out of her face, and glares, her hazel eyes narrow with irritation. He notices in exasperation that she has a fading black eye, the shiny purple and green bruise sickeningly vivid against her pale skin.

"It's been a week, Rich," she goes on, "you've gotta be on your new boat now, right? How's it going, are you okay? Do I need to come beat anybody up for you?"

"Athena!" he yelps. "No, fuck, keep your homicidal tendencies off this boat, god! If Nanna and Tía heard you going on like that—"

His little sister laughs, completely unrepentant. "Oh, they'd cheer me on!" she says.

"Yeah well, they're raising a monster," Rich says.

"Raised, past tense," Thena says, and flexes proudly. "I'm all grown up and carrying off fair maidens to my lair, you know!"

Rich sighs. "If Dad was still here," he says, even though he knows it's a low blow, but he just—he worries about her sometimes. "He wouldn't be so cool with all the crazy, violent shit you're always pulling, and you know it."

Thena sighs, and pulls a lock of hair over her shoulder to play with, twisting it around her finger and looking unhappy in a way that makes Rich feel worse about everything.

"Well…he isn't," his sister says finally, "plus, you know I never listened to him when he was around, so, it doesn't matter." She swallows and look away, and Rich bites his lip and lets the silence rest. She's still so young, only just eighteen, and even younger when it happened, and he only got a few days' bereavement leave from the Sympatico to spend with her. He still hates that he's never been able to be there for her. Angela tried to stay longer, care for her more, since that was back when she still gave a fuck about both of her two delinquent younger siblings, but it didn't work out much better.

Inside a week of what passed as maternal attention from Angela, Thena had gone and moved Nanna Leah and Tía Maria, two ancient and indomitable old retired engineers, from their little studio-berthing in a corner of the family boat Infinity into the Merrill's much larger and more spacious family allotment, and the three of them together turfed Angela right back out to her Security barracks bunk on the Washington.

"Granny trumps sister any day of the week, sweetheart," Nanna Leah had reportedly told Angela, while Tía Maria had dumped Angela's duffle bag in the back of a deck-hopper and started it up. It had been the one thing to make Rich laugh all month. Probably all year. And after that…Thena had grieved, of course she'd grieved, just like Rich did, but she'd had two doting iron-spined old ladies at her back, and she grew up wild and fearless and terrifyingly convinced of her own invulnerability, while Rich…

Well. Rich learned a whole lot of life lessons in the last couple years that he can't stop worrying will catch up to her sooner or later.

Here and now, he breathes in, and changes the subject. "It's really nice here, actually. It's, uh, it's weird because I'm back on the Reliant, I used to work here when I was an intern, and there's a couple of guys I knew from before, y'know, who remember me from when I was a kid, but it's—it's nice, they've been nice. And the Reliant's got a sundeck! So I've been hanging out there for like a couple hours every afternoon…" He trails off. Thena's listening, nodding at the appropriate places, but she's obviously less enthralled by the concept of a sundeck than he is. He snorts.

"Okay," he goes on, "you'll like this. I got invited to a game today, and while they were explaining the rules this guy came slipping through the door, off-duty Security, okay—"

He tells the story as well as he can, enjoying her suspicion followed by alarm, yes, thank you. "—And it goes rolling out of his hand, and I realize…it's a fucking marker. They like to pretend they're gonna try to kill each other, it's so fucking dumb!"

"Oh my god," Thena says, and whoops with laughter. "Oh no, you tackled Security, holy shit!" Her grin goes uncertain at the edges. "Was he cool about it?"

"Yeah!" Rich says, still bewildered over that. "He didn't seem to mind at all, he was totally relaxed and friendly. It was weird."

"Okay, that's not weird, Rich," Thena says, rolling her eyes. "Someone being reasonable about a misunderstanding makes sense, that's how people are usually. You know, now that you're off the fucking murder boat."

"Would you stop calling it that?" he grumbles. "It's not a murder—"

"You got stabbed with a knife, like nine people died in the, what, four years you were there, I'm not—"

"I wasn't stabbed—"

"With a knife, Rich! Dad would flip if he knew! He would've gotten you hauled out of that shithole so fast…"

"Yeah, well," Rich mutters. It's only fair for Thena to throw what Dad would or wouldn't do in his face this time, even if it does suck. "I'm out, now, so it doesn't matter. And anyway, like I was saying, it's nice here! People are cool, there's no murders happening whatsoever."

"Good!" Thena says, with a firm nod. "People should be cool to you, I've had enough of dickheads trying to kill you."

"Same here and let's change the subject, okay?" Rich says plaintively. "I want something new to argue about with you for once."

"You got it, dearest sibling!" she says with a spritely grin that he eyes mistrustfully. "So, are any of your new crew cute?"

"Oh, fuck off!" he yells, throwing his hands up. "I'm not talking about that shit with you, forget it!"

"You're such a prude, Richard," she huffs, affecting an air of deep hurt. "And I didn't ask about who you're hauling back to your bunk! I just asked if there's anyone cute on your boat, how is that a crime?!"

"Because I know you," he growls, crossing his arms, but she only pulls tragic faces at him until he gives in. "...Yes. The skinny little pipsqueak who was always following me around when we were interns is still here, and he went and got really cute. He's being nice, too—he invited me to that game I mentioned. And he's the one who plays the dumb assassin game with the Security guy." Rich stops, waves his hands. "Which is another thing! Basil and his Security friend—Thena, they were like, all over each other, all touchy and huggy and calling each other 'cupcake' and 'sweetheart' and all this shit, and I couldn't fucking tell if they were for real or if it's just a game or what, I mean, he's Security!"

Thena raises her eyebrows at him. "You realize people can do romance without sex, right? Weren't you and your pissy little fourhands boyfriend doing that?"

Rich's entire body revolts at this notion, and he finds himself rearing back from the screen in abject horror.

"Athena!" he wails. "Oh my god no! Me and Trimmer were—fuck, augh, no, yuck!"

"Yeah but you slept together!" Thena says. "I don't know how many calls you took with Trimmer sacked out on your lap like a—a hilarious douchebag kitten, or something! I don't care if you weren't banging, you can't tell me you didn't have a thing with him!"

"Yeah, that thing was called mutual self-interest!" Rich says. "We watched each other's backs, Thena, it wasn't—augh. We weren't—" he can't even say in love, "—having a romance, holy shit. Trimmer's emotional range is basically if a rock could be a jackass."

"I liked him," Thena says, and that's—well. Rich wants to keep being indignant, but. He did too. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and settles back down.

"Yeah, well," he says. "Everyone got sent away to different boats and like, blocked off from contacting each other, so, that's that. Another epic romance lost to the ages."

"Aw," Thena says. Then, horribly, "God, what do you think even happens when a fourhands gets with a soldier mod? Do you think like a gorilla comes out?"

"Thena, that's racist," Rich says decisively. "Also it'd be an orangutan, if it was us, wouldn't it."

Thena throws back her head and cackles.

"Anyway," Rich says, trying to haul the conversation back on track, "yes, thanks, baby sister, I know about nonsexual romance—despite having no experience myself—because I am actually aware of the basic facts of life."

"Are you?" Thena says, pretending concern. "Because you know, I'm happy to explain anything you need to know about the happy little fish and the hungry little pelicans. You see, when men and women like each other very, very much—"

Rich snorts. "Thena, the day either of us needs an education on cross-gender relationships is the day this fucking Fleet goes under—do you know how long it's been since I talked to a girl that wasn't my obnoxious baby sister?" A long-ass time, is how long.

When he first got on the Sympatico, he was looking forward to being an actual adult finally, old enough to hire a Physical Relief Technician and go have sex with a girl for once. Then he found out that the PRTs wisely exercised their right to refuse calls if anybody on the Sympatico was dumb enough to try to hire one, and by the time he turned eighteen he didn't have the money or free time to make or keep an appointment on the Completion anyway. Maybe that'll change in the future, but he's not holding his breath.

Rich sighs, then catches Thena's wicked grin and scowls at her in return. "And don't start on the minnows and trout either, that wasn't an invitation. I'll keep my fishing life private and you can spare me the stories about all the romantic conquests of Athena Merrill, professional sparrowhawk."

"Alright, then, young scholar, we can move from romance to procreation," Thena says with a solemn nod, and raises her voice over his protests, face set in a dramatically serious expression. "So, Mr Merrill, when some billionaire likes his military very, very much—"

Rich cracks up laughing. "He gets some genetic engineers together," he continues for her, and Thena nods sagely. It's not a new joke, most gene-mods have their own how some rich asshole decided I should be a weird genetic mutant story—but it's comforting in its familiarity. "And they make a whole bunch of adorable baby supersoldiers, yeah, I know, this is Babies 101—"

"And no one cares about how cranked up their metabolisms have to be to stay so crazy buff," Thena goes on, and lowers her voice, grinning ghoulishly. "...Nobody expects it the first time one of them gets hungry enough to start eating bodies off the battlefield—"

"Oh, come on," Rich protests. "Thena, yuck, that's not even—who's been telling you about—"

"Everyone knows about the hungry Hastings thing, Rich," Thena says, rolling her eyes. "That's like, the only thing anyone does know around here about our mod—'oh yeah, they're big and buff and handsome—and sometimes they flip their shit when they're hungry enough and they just like, fucking eat people'. There's a reason my fighting name is Maneater."

"We're not even full Hastings mods!" Rich says, disturbed and worried for Thena all over again. Sure, that's something he's had to deal with, but he doesn't like the thought of Thena having to, let alone embracing the gruesome old horror stories. "We're like—what, an eighth? And the rest is, I don't know, random outcrossings—"

"Yeah, well, we got the coloration anyway, a Hastings soldier is all anyone sees when they look at us, so who cares about the fiddly fucking details," Thena says, framing her face with her hands and rolling her eyes. "If we don't get a choice about any of this, we might as well use what we've got when we can."

"We've got a choice," Rich says. "We can choose not to be crazy murder weapons who eat people."

Thena drops her hands and grins, slowly. "Sparrowhawk, remember?" she purrs. "I like eating a nice, juicy—"

"Could you stop being nasty for like ten seconds!" Rich yelps.

She laughs. "I'll give you five seconds, if you ask nicely," she says. "Because you're my brother and I love you so much."

"I'm leaving after those five seconds," Rich says, but he can't help smiling.

"So, let's circle back around to your new mancrush," she goes on.

"That was not five seconds!" Rich says.

"I'm being nice! I'm not asking for any details, I'm keeping this Family Fleet!" she protests. "But so like—you think he might be taken?"

Rich sighs, deeply wounded by life in general and the intensely obnoxious persistence of little sisters in specific. "I dunno, Thena, maybe! If Security even gets exclusive like that, anyway. I don't know."

"It's cute the way you pretend you don't know anything about Security, you know," she says, and rolls her eyes at him for something like the fifteenth time this conversation. "Just because you bailed out fast, you pretend you never learned anything."

"I was in there for a couple months, okay, because I thought that was just what soldier mods do," Rich growls, "plus we were kids, they weren't talking about like, filing for marriage or whatever, they were telling us how sex is a distraction and a source of abuse and corruption, and we were gonna be good little protectors and take our suppressants every day and serve the Fleet for ever and ever."

She rolls her eyes at him again. "Whatever, Rich. Anyway, speaking of Angie—"

"No," he snaps, raising a hand to the screen. "Athena, I'll end the call, I swear."

"Rich, come onnn!" Thena moans at him. "I know she was a jerk to you about your reassignment, but she's still our sister, you have to—"

"I don't have to do shit," Rich says tightly. "If she wants to apologize for treating me like some piece of shit criminal just waiting to get shipped out, lemme know, but until then I'm fine with never seeing her again."

Thena's face twists in distress. "That's so dumb, though! You're both being so dumb! You're off the damn ship now, you're making a new life, can't you both put it all behind you?"

"Ask her," Rich says. "She's the one who can't get over what a huge fucking disappointment I am."

"I mean, you were getting in fights and getting written up by Security all the time—I believe you!" she says as he reaches for the end call button. "I know you weren't starting the fights, I know Security was full of it, I know, I'm just saying, it doesn't look good!"

"Yeah, unless she listened to me!" Rich says. "You believe me! But she gave up on me ages ago, she doesn't give a fuck now. Forget it," he adds as Thena opens her mouth again. "I don't wanna talk about her. So where'd you get the black eye?"

She glares at him, crossing her arms. "Where do you think."

He sighs, even though he doesn't know what other answer he expected. Of course she got it in her damn fighting ring at the Mall. "Thena…"

"What, Rich? Are you gonna give me the 'stop being a delinquent' speech now? For all you two wanna pretend we're not family, you sure like giving me the exact same lectures!"

"It's not about being a delinquent," he growls, "I don't want you getting hurt! Or hurting anyone else!"

"I'm not gonna!"

"Thena, if somebody brought a knife—"

"Rich," she says loudly, shoving both hands into her hair. "We're not trying to kill each other, okay?! It's show wrestling! No one! Is going to bring a knife! Okay? No one ever has, why would they?"

"If they wanted to make sure they won—"

"That wouldn't do it, because no one would ever let them fight again!" Thena yells, waving her arms. "There's rules!"

"And you'd still be bleeding out, if someone ever feels like breaking them," Rich says, stubbornly.

Thena's biting her lip and looking worried now. "Well, at that point they're a murderous asshole and we'd call Security and get them shipped out of the Fleet for doing crazy shit. Rich…are you gonna talk to your caseworker about this?"

"About how my little sister is involved in an antisocial fight club?" he says incredulously. "Thena, c'mon, just because I don't like it doesn't mean I'm gonna try to get it shut down."

"No, Rich," she says with elaborate patience. "I mean have you talked to your caseworker about how you constantly worry about random people having knives."

Okay, that's not fair. "It's not random," Rich growls. "If someone knows they're going to be in a fight, they sometimes bring a knife, there's nothing random about it!"

"This isn't your murder-boat, Rich, this is wrestling. We're fighting for fun, like I told you before. For exercise, for the fun of it—and to win some money, some fame, some girls. This isn't the kind of fight anyone brings a knife to."

"Yeah, but the higher you get the more someone's gonna want to take you down," Rich says unhappily, shaking his head. "Just—keep an eye out, okay? Watch yourself."

"Okay, Rich," she says, too gently.

He glares. "And stop looking at me like I'm crazy! I know what I'm talking about!"

"I'm not!" she retorts. "I'm looking at you like you're a dumbass, because you are!"

"Hey, I'm not the one getting in fights for no reason!"

"Neither am I," she says smugly, and the smirk warns him even before she says, "I'm getting in fights to have more beautiful women than you've ever seen throw themselves at my feet. When I win, which I pretty much always do."

"Oh my god," Rich groans, "some jealous asshole is so gonna come after you."

"Well, I'm done with this argument now," she says, rolling her eyes one more time. "Look, I'm glad things are going okay. Call me next week, okay?"

"I will! Don't fucking get stabbed in the meantime!"

"Yeah, same to you! I love you, dumbass."

"I love you too, pipsqueak," he says. She snorts and gives him the finger, grinning, and hangs up the call.

-

Rich wakes up the next morning because an urgent work summons is blaring between his ears. For a second he's dizzy and disoriented, waiting for the ungraceful yank on his implants as the Sympatico hooks into him—then he feels the professional clarity of the AI already retreating back to its neat core and he remembers where he is, what she is, what's going on.

...If the Reliant wants him for something, it must need all hands. Rich pulls up the task, scans it quickly, then swings out of his bunk, takes his morning shot, takes a much longer drink of water, and yanks his coveralls on as he heads toward the door. Insulation, hydration, clothes, boots, and he's set to shovel whatever ration of shit today has in store. He'll do a fast, efficient, excellent job on whatever it is, and maybe then the Reliant will stop politely and repeatedly swatting his hand away whenever he reaches out to help.

Basil is stumbling out of his own berth as Rich opens his door, and there's an awkward second where both of them stagger sleepily and try not to slam into each other.

"Fuckin', shit, mmnfgh," Basil moans, and yanks at the zipper of his coveralls, leaning distractedly on the bulkhead. He's got mismatched socks on and his boots under one arm, and his hair is a mess, frizzy curls straggling in all directions. His left hand is already gloved, though. "Shit, goddamn, there would be an emergency when I just finished my shift and was gonna take a nap for once. Fuck double shifts, what if I don't wanna?" He finally wrestles the zipper into submission and heads down the passageway, half-hopping as he tugs his boots on. "Come on!"

Blinking, Rich follows him, close enough to catch him if he tips over. "Man, no one likes double shifts," he points out. It's weird to hear Basil complaining about it when he's the one who told Rich how busy the department is. Especially when, despite starting his usual shift at midnight, Basil seems to stay awake until early evening frequently before passing out, so it's not like it's messing up his sleep schedule.

Basil heaves a doleful sigh in answer, which shouldn't be as cute as it is.

"If you fall asleep on the job, I'll keep you from going overboard," Rich promises.

"I mean," says Basil, and then has to stagger to one side and reach hastily for a grab-bar as the ship's engines kick on. In Rich's ear, the voice of the ship pipes up.

"There has been an urgent maintenance call requiring 50% or more of technical and 20% or more of mechanical crew," she says calmly. "Rerouting to destination."

"Fuck!" says Basil, and slows down, leaning against the bulkhead to get his boots on properly. "Somebody messed something up, like…really good." He waves a hand at Rich, still breathing hard—reaches up and pulls his hair back, fixing it into a slightly less wild-looking ponytail. "We've got a second, we're unmooring. We just gotta be up on deck by the time we reach whoever fucked up."

"ETA?" Rich asks the air, and the Reliant murmurs, "Eight minutes, Technician Merrill."

"Eight minutes," Rich says, and Basil sighs and goes back to yanking his boots on.

"Get your bag, grab some snacks," he says. "This is gonna be a long day."

It's a long, long day. The issue is the 50-crew tanker-turned-fishery So Long And Thanks's sewage system, which basically exploded because some morons tried to steal proprietary samples of the new stock, for some reason. Apparently the best way they could think of to smuggle a bunch of experimental new fish off the boat was to lock the pipes that were feeding the tank, shut off the pressure alarms, and then try to physically remove the entire tank and make off with it into the night.

Unfortunately for them, the ship, and the crew of the Reliant, they didn't know what they were doing. High-pressure leaks and rapid flooding turned the lower decks into a hellscape of fish waste and treacherous, slippery decking. Whoever the unlucky thieves were, they don't seem to have made it out.

They've left behind a much bigger problem, which is that the miles of pipes the So Long contains are backing up with waste, where they're not starting to burst, and the ship is losing more food stock by the second. They might have to start venting untreated sewage directly into the lake itself, and the whole thing needs to be fixed yesterday.

Thank god, twenty or so of the Reliant's mechanics handle most of the actual messing around with pipes, but they need techs right on their six to shut down valves and reroute the system so some amount of waste venting can keep happening. The So Long's techs are sharp and capable and know their way around their boat, but they're not equipped to handle this level of large-scale sewage emergency. There are only three of them, and they're already there when the Reliant pulls alongside to board by gangway; three tired women in filthy coveralls, with filter masks on, who promptly take charge of dividing the Reliant's techs into teams while the lone engineer on board gives orders, frowning over her blueprints.

It's been a while since Rich worked directly under an engineer; he's seen two or three on the Reliant, but he hasn't done more than nod respectfully at them in the passageway, and the Sympatico didn't even carry any. Even after all this time, though, Rich knows to shut up and listen when somebody in a white coat starts talking. The Reliant's crew are here to maximize efficiency and minimize fish die-off; this, the white coat says, is the lady who'll tell them how best to do that. And also how to wade through the minimum amount of ammonia and dead fish water.

Rich is in favor. Even on the top deck, as they suit up in sanitation gloves and face-masks, the smell is brutal. Rich catches a glimpse of Ben grimly twisting his long ponytail into a bun, Vince looking sleepy and glum, face twisted up at the smell; down the line from them, Basil frowns at the work glove he's already wearing and then pulls the longer sanitation glove on over top of it, all the way up the wrist brace, wrapping a rubber band around the cuff. Rich stares, confused and intrigued, and then looks away fast as Basil looks up, before the kid can catch him staring.

Basil puts up with the whole thing better than Rich was expecting, somehow, putting his head down and wading in with grim-faced determination. All the mechanisms that the ship AI usually monitors need to be restarted and debugged, and it involves a lot of walking around in foul-smelling tank and piping areas, following the engineer's instructions and trying not to think about what they're wading in where the pipes have backed up.

Unfortunately, Basil is also the one who finds most of what's left of the two would-be fish thieves, in the very last area they clear, much the worse for wear. The poor kid legitimately looks like he might puke or faint or both, and Rich puts an arm around him before he can think about it and helps him back to the access hatch to get some moderately fresher air. His shoulders have gotten broader since he grew up, but he's trembling against Rich's side and he feels so light and fragile that Rich just…takes an extra couple minutes to hold him close while he pretends like he's not losing his shit over some genuinely gruesome crap.

"First corpses," Basil eventually says, sounding very young. "Haha. I've never seen— Fuck. Have you ever…?"

Rich has seen probably way more than his fair share of corpses, although mentioning that to Basil doesn't seem likely to be helpful. It's certainly not making Rich feel better to think about it. He tries to stop thinking about it, about bodies carved up to bleed out, bodies drowned in the dark. People he knew, people he didn't want to know. He thinks about the skinny, shivering body next to him instead, takes a deep, careful couple breaths.

"It doesn't get any more fun, or easier or anything," he says softly. "It's always awful." He considers his own filthy boots for a second, and then gives Basil a hesitant squeeze, rubbing a hand up and down the narrow stretch of his spine. "It's okay to be freaked out, man. It's freaky. You're fine."

"I'm fine," Basil agrees, in a miserable little voice that makes Rich want to pick someone up and throw them. Instead he rubs Basil's back again, which actually seems to help. Maybe Family Fleet is onto something. Sharing is caring. Take turns. Give your buddy a big old hug when they find some unlucky bastards' floating remains.

The So Long's two Security officers take charge of the bodies, and the So Long's engineer supervises the Reliant's mechanics in closing up the last few pipes. The techies all pile out onto the deck and into the late afternoon sunlight, gasping and groaning and stretching out hunched backs and cramped limbs. The constant, circling whirlwind of gulls over the So Long is landing on railings and on the deck, almost berserk with the churn of activity and the way even the freshest top deck of the So Long still smells like dead fish and sewage. They mill and flap and caw, sidling boldly within pecking range and then raucously taking off again when they're shooed away, only to be back within seconds.

It's not just the smell that's luring them in; a few of the So Long's crew not involved in the clean-up have gone and gotten together some luxury food, fruit and snacks from the nearest grocery boat. There's also a water pump, a couple of hoses, and some good soap. In the aftermath of the awful, dark, stinking morning, it almost feels like a party; the women of the So Long cheerfully take turns using the hoses on the mechanics and techies from the Reliant, laughing and teasing like a flock of hungry gulls themselves, encouraging the men to preen and pose for them. The air slowly clears as the worst of the sewage and ammonia are sluiced off, and the men start trooping off in twos and threes to line up for a proper, thorough wash-up in the So Long's shower blocks.

Rich isn't a big fan of taking clothes off in front of other people, but goddamn he hates being dirty. He peels his sodden coveralls off and drops them to the deck for somebody else to triple-wash, takes his turn under the hoses in his T-shirt and jeans, endures an embarrassing amount of whistling from the attending hose ladies, then retreats to the nearest shower stall to scrub as much soap as he can into every possible inch of his skin.

There's no hooting ladies and no ogling in the showers, but that doesn't make it easier. Even if Rich hasn't been on the Reliant long enough to make any enemies, it's still nerve-wracking to be naked and vulnerable around a bunch of other guys, any of whom might decide he doesn't like Rich's attitude so far and turn out to have a knife or friends who agree with him. Wet soapy tiles are impossible to get good footing on, and a shower stall is a great place to get trapped, and—

Rich has to stop himself as his heart races and his breathing gets tight and shallow. Everyone here just wants to get clean as fast as they can. No one's even looking at him.

He still finishes cleaning up in record time.

His boxers and jeans are fine to put back on, after getting wrung out a few times, but his shirt got some stains on it he doesn't want to think about too closely, and Rich thinks he's gonna leave it in the showers' fabric recycling bin and get a new one back on the Reliant. It's a blow, he doesn't have many T-shirts that fit him, but he can get more now that he's being paid. It's not like he's picky: basic black is fine, he's not gonna insist on technician's grey even if he's entitled to it, it just needs to be big enough.

He's in the process of towelling his hair and angling towards the snacks when a message pops up, marked URGENT, from Ben's contact.

Benedict Jones, IST Head: Come help me win this fight.

What the fuck, who's attacking Ben? Rich will dangle them overboard until they apologize. He takes off at a run, bowling past a couple of confused looking guys who were waiting their turn for a stall, heading toward the beacon attached to Ben's message. Down a flight of stairs onto a lower deck, deeper into the overpowering smell of fish.

He's only running for a moment before he catches a familiar voice from the end of a branching corridor, raised in obvious annoyance. "—Ask if you had any you were willing to rent to me, I asked if you have one you can trade! Since ours are obviously nicer than your shitty hover-coolers anyway, and we stopped this boat from exploding like a giant sewage bomb!"

Ben doesn't sound strained or in pain, so Rich slows down to a fast walk. He comes around a corner and there's Ben, facing off with a scowling woman with her arms crossed, a scattering of other crew behind her, none of them armed. No one looks like they're thinking of attacking Ben, or even threatening him. Rich steps forward in bewilderment.

"Uh, Ben?"

"Huh?" says Ben, and then breaks his glaring contest with the lady to grin victoriously at the sight of Rich. "Oh! Well, fuck. Never mind, looks like I don't need to cut a deal after all." He waves a hand at Rich; Rich, still confused, comes over. Ben steps to one side, with dramatic flair, and gestures to a huge pile of what appear to be freshly-rinsed dead fish.

"Technician Merrill," he says, and pats the side of an absolutely massive silver, scaly body. "Pick up our reward and let's get the fuck out of here."

Rich gives the fish a dubious look, but shrugs and hoists it up. Some kind of super-carp that weighs a little more than he does, he'd guess, so it takes a slight effort, and then it gets tricky, because the damn thing is slippery and draping it over one shoulder doesn't work for long. Eventually one of the watching, wide-eyed crew hesitantly offers a stretch of netting, and once the fish is wrapped securely in that it behaves itself much better. Which is good, because Rich wasn't looking forward to princess-carrying a damn fish back to the Reliant.

As Rich carries the fish back the way he came, Ben walks a couple steps ahead of him, radiating an uncharacteristic satisfaction with life. Even his long, curling ponytail looks smug and pleased.

"It wasn't that urgent," Ben says, as they're climbing the stairs. "You could've stopped and put on a shirt or something, 's not like there was a fire."

"You said you were in a fight," Rich points out. "I thought you needed someone to have your back, I wasn't gonna stop for a shirt!"

Ben's stride hitches and he turns to give Rich this weird look before turning back to keep going, shaking his head. "Shit, kid," he mutters. "The fuck were they doing on that ship, holding pit fights?"

"Nothing that organized," Rich says, in case that wasn't rhetorical. "You just…had to be ready, was all. In case someone on your side screwed with someone on one of the other sides, and one of their guys came after you."

"Great," Ben says. "A little land-style gang warfare. What a fucking mess."

Rich can't argue with that. Even if he wanted to he doesn't have time, because a minute later they're at the top of the stairs and Ben is speeding up his stride, voice rising over the distant sound of the Reliant's chattering crew.

"Hey, delinquents!" he announces, as Rich starts up the last couple of steps, hoisting the fish more securely onto his shoulders. "Guess what we're bringing home for dinner!"

That seems like Rich's cue. He comes up into view and turns when there's room to better display the full size of the fish. It's not just the Reliant crew, he realizes, looking around, but a lot of the So Long's women hanging around socializing too, and most of the chatter stops dead when Rich steps into the sun with his burden.

He knows the So Long crew is plenty familiar with huge fish, but they're staring right along with the Reliant crew, like they're seeing something incredible. Maybe they've never seen a supersoldier-type gene-mod lift before?

That's a lot of eyes on him all at once. The So Long is a 50, and half the crew must be up here, all of whom are intently focused on him.

Rich catches sight of a woman grinning in his direction with a vidscreen up, and doesn't get it until he realizes the screen's edges are flashing green. She's recording this, and by the way she's focusing on his chest it's not exactly scientific interest, and it's definitely not about making fun of the big tweak. When she catches him staring at her, she looks him dead in the eyes and makes a blatant Call me! gesture, pointing right at him and then tapping the communication implants at her temple and giving a big thumbs up.

Suddenly all the attention seems a little less threatening, though Rich can't help but make the immediate and obvious comparison between the women's attention and the voracious way that gulls go after any unattended source of protein—all that focused interest isn't for the fish he's carrying.

It's better than being sized up for murder, but Rich isn't used to being ogled, especially not by women, staring and filming and talking to each other behind their hands. He hurries across the deck and rejoins the cluster of his fellow Reliant techs with some relief, trying not to hunker down in a way that strains his back, drops the fish, or makes him look too blatantly unnerved by the way they're looking at him.

"Shit, wow," says Basil, and Rich glances at him. Basil is…also staring at him, like, not at the fish, at him, grinning hugely. His hair is a loose black cloud around his face, curls still damp from the shower, droplets of water gleaming in the sun. When the light catches his eyes, their luminous brown is captivating. "Holy shit, man!"

"Damn," agrees Anton, and pats Rich's side gingerly, like he's afraid Rich's skin is going to burn him. His eyes are on Rich's bare chest, which—is just out there, yeah, Rich still hasn't spontaneously manifested a shirt.

It's distracting enough to have a bunch of women, some of whom are very attractive, eyeing him thoughtfully, but to have two cute crewmates giving him the same look—Rich's ears are heating up already. If he gets a full-body blush right now it's going to show clearly, and he'll have to throw himself overboard after the last of his dignity.

"You guys never saw a fish before, I know," Rich says in an attempt to distract himself, and gives a serious, sympathetic nod.

Anton gives a loud, startled snort and Basil starts giggling. He still laughs the same as he did when they were kids, hitching little bursts in between gasps for air, not that Rich got to hear it much back then, and it's unfair amounts of cute.

"Shit," Basil finally gasps, and reaches up to shove dangling curls out of his face, cheeks flushed. "Fuckin' A, man, let's get that thing back to the Reliant!"

"Fine by me," Rich says, too gratefully as he glances around at the staring women, and Nate and Vince snicker at him.

"I'm gonna stay here for a bit," Nate says smugly. "There's like, some clean-up operations I got invited to consult on."

"I'll send him back when I'm done," one of the So Long's techies says.

"When we're done," says her crewmate, and the third techie pauses, blatantly looking Rich up and down.

"You're invited to this consultation, big boy," she says. "If you wanna dump that cargo real fast and come back over?"

"Oh, uh, haha," Rich says, and, yeah, he's blushing hard right now, all the way down his chest. "That's, that's definitely something to think about, ma'am!"

God, she's assuming he'd even know what to do. She doesn't realize he's had basically no female contact in the last few years. If Rich ever gets time off again, he's got to try to hire a female PRT, who'd at least be paid to deal with walking a clueless guy through the ins-and-outs of an alternate set of reproductive hardware. It'll be seriously embarrassing if he has to explain to these bright-eyed, inviting female technicians that he's never had to negotiate anything more physical than a handshake with a woman before, when they've clearly had enough experience with their male counterparts to be completely confident.

"Nope, I can handle this all myself, buddy," Nate says, to Rich's intense relief.

"Absolutely like hell you can, pal," says Vince, who's looking a lot more awake at the moment. "If you're consulting, you might need backup. Which I am exceptionally well qualified to provide in this instance."

"The more the merrier," says the first So Long techie to Vince. "I mean, no offense, but men wear out fast. Scientifically speaking."

"Vince and I can handle this all ourselves, and with perhaps some other guys who these distinguished women of science are free to pick as they so desire, but none of whom are you, Mr Merrill, so please take your enormous goddamn fish and your enormous goddamn everything and leave us a little dignity, thanks," Nate says.

"I will take my enormous goddamn everything," Rich says solemnly, "and leave you guys to your science."

"The science had better conclude before we've gotta depart," Ben says loudly. "You guys are still on the clock, and there's only so much lying I feel like doing on the paperwork."

"Wait, when's that gonna be?" a passing woman asks. "What's our window, here?"

"I can stretch departure out another two hours, probably," Ben tells her, then raises his voice to the group at large. "But anyone who isn't on board inside those two hours is getting back by hopper, and it will be taken out of his personal allowance. Also he'll miss dinner."

"Goddamn," the woman says, and immediately changes course towards the nearest Reliant mechanic, who brightens up considerably as soon as he notices. From the way he grins as she takes hold of his belt loops and keeps on walking, Rich seriously doubts he's going to mind paying for a deck-hopper back home.

Ben claps Rich on the back, refocusing him. "Come on, big boy. Let's get that thing home and cooking. If you really want some woman to romance you afterwards, I will issue you a formal apology for how that's not gonna happen."

Rich smiles gratefully and hurries after Ben as the department head makes for the gangway. He's profoundly relieved to have the decision so comprehensively taken out of his hands. Sex can be stressful enough even without trying to figure women into the equation, but food is always a good thing. It's no hardship at all to leave the So Long and all her hungry birds behind.