Pictures used: #1, #2, #7, #9, #11

(Some mature things in short, not graphic)

Gallifax Ren slowly spins her whiskey. A classy drink shipped from the inner sol. The type people buy to celebrate. She glares at its smooth bronze surface before lifting it to her lips. On cue, Thread synchs up like a corset. The whole of her torso sucks in towards a point behind her bellybutton. She shoves her whiskey away and the pressure immediately relaxes.

"You're a disgrace." Brakes slams his empty shot glass on the counter. "C'mon, slide it over here."

She pushes her whiskey towards him. "Gives me the shits anyway."

He snorts and throws her drink back like it's nothing. "Speaking of the shits...." 


"Brakes, if you bring up your ass drama one more time—"

"But it's still happening."

"For fuck's sake." Gallifax leans her elbows on the bar. "You eat that fruit strip I gave you?"

"Kind've."

"So, no."

"No."

She shakes her head. "Stop fucking robots, then."

"First of all, xe's an advanced silicone-based organism."

"Uh-huh."

"Secondly, xer programming accommodates human anatomy."

They sit in silence for ten seconds.

"It's not weird," Brakes says.

"No, of course not."

He squints at her. "You're a meat mechanic, you're not allowed to judge me."

"Hold on to that dream, boyo. If a squat bot doesn't have credentials, don't fuck it."

"Creds cost too much. And xey keep records."

"Then don't come crying to me when your colon is prolapsed down around your ankles."

Brakes grimaces. "You owe me a drink just for that."

"And that is my cue to leave." Gallifax slaps him on the back and stands up. When she turns, the door slides open to reveal several humanoid silhouettes. "Oh, shit."

"What?" He looks up at her, then follows her line of sight. "Oh, shit."

The silhouettes stride in with nearly identical body language: tense, rigid, one notch shy of confrontational. Though many of the bar's patrons aren't human or versed in human customs, the hostile energy needs no translation. Everyone keeps their faces or anatomical equivalents averted as the marines step inside. Their indigo tactical suits gleam like beetle shells as they sit down. Thread stills under her skin in a way that communicates intense listening.

"We're gonna be late," Gallifax grouses and walks outside. "Don't be long."

Every eye in the room watches her leave. The sudden brilliance of sunlight nearly blinds her and sends Thread prickling under every inch of her skin. The combined sensation is alien and unpleasant.

Brakes follows her out an acceptable 77 seconds after. He exhales heavily and they share a look that needs no explanation. Local law is one thing. The tall, moderately proportioned soldiers from their inner solar system are quite another. Out here, they only come from one place: the Exclusion Zone.

Denebola smoulders at its zenith while the translucent crescent of gas giant A-66495C hovers near the horizon. Their star is an ill-tempered Delta Scuti type that fluctuates every few hours and puts the entire spaceport on hold. Gallifax watches ground crews perform maintenance checks at a relatively sedate pace. Nobody's leaving for another two hours. Without any plan, she starts walking and Brakes follows without a peep. They're not the only ones. If crews have eyes, they wander. If they have limbs, they keep them tight to their bodies. Nobody's happy.

Every ilk and era of spacecraft is represented. Most are Terran, but she spots several of Ry'knr and Archuraei manufacture. Although Ry'knr live closer to the Denebola system, humans seem to get everywhere. They're the great generalists in this arm of the galaxy (to the irritation of neighbouring species.) Maybe that's why she's threaded up like a puppet. It's easier to parasitize an animal known for its plasticity.

Thread's tenterhooks suddenly curl under the muscles of her face and cause her orbicularis oris to contract. She grinds her heel against her mouth and the sensation stops.

The spaceport is coded by magnetic force, sound, colour, and light across the spectrum to cater to different species. Gallifax follows the Terran light-line through a maze of platforms. When she looks up, a familiar shape glints in the distance: a silver, stubby-winged shuttle that sports the United Sol System insignia. People crowd around its open hatch.

Brakes suddenly leans close. "I see bars and stars."

"It's Admiral Skorda."

"Great," he mutters. "Daddy's here to stomp our balls."

She exhales sharply. "Shut up and look impressed."

"Impressed? I could take that Earth-born fuck in a fair—"

"Pretend."

He makes a disgusted sound, but doesn't argue. There isn't going to be a fair anything when dealing with the Sol military. They should know. They both served in it.

As they walk closer, bits of conversation are audible. Captain Skorda Jr stands facing his father in a civilian uniform that looks drab compared to navy greys. His eyes flicker over them and then back to the admiral. 

"We agreed to an escort, nothing more."

"Your science vessel has no meaningful countermeasures," Admiral Skorda replies. "If you still want to study Regulus D, you'll do so with an escort and appropriate personnel onboard."

Jr nods, jaw tight. "I understand."

His words are courteous, but his tone says Fuck you. Admiral Skorda regards his son without expression before he suddenly glances at Gallifax and Brakes.

"Part of your crew?"

"Gallifax Ren is our medical officer and Bracken Smith is one of the security consultants."

"Ex-military."

"Experienced."

"Well," his father says, "we'll see."