No. Co-captain, she reminded herself.
He might easily have been another type of man, her appearance having no overt, negative effect. As it proved to be otherwise, she couldn’t help being disappointed. So, to her contingency plan.
Dominique entered a solo Officer’s Privy Cube, her flight bag still over her shoulder. With a sigh she sat down in front of the mirror, her bag plopped on the counter. She unzipped a side pouch, packed just for this eventuality, and pulled out a pair of featherweight, black carbon scissors, a Lazor and a small, ambient-light-powered electric trimmer. She set them on the counter and stashed her duffel above the door, out of the way of falling hair and water.
Dominique removed her clothing and sat naked before her reflection. She looked at her face, framed by her gently curling locks of gold and amber hair. She couldn’t watch as she cut it all off. “Obscure,” she said, and her reflection quickly went from sharp definition to blurred movement. Setting her intention with a deep breath, she went to work with the scissors, progressing quickly to the trimmer. Finally, she stood, brushing golden locks from her lap and breasts, trying not to think about it.
“Clean,” she spoke to the air and was answered by a breeze that emanated from a vent at the rear of the counter and blew the remaining trimmings to the floor. A stronger gust came next from under the door, as she packed away the scissors and trimmer. Alternately, she lifted each foot so that all the blonde hair she had prized, rolled on the breeze into an opening opposite the entrance. The receptacle snapped closed with a finality. Any remaining debris would be handled in the sanitation cycle after she left the privy.
“Shower.” She thought her voice sounded different, less commanding.
The toilet slid into the wall to expose a drain as the water came on. She stepped into the flow with the Lazor in hand, and said, “Soap, warmer.” The water turned pastel pink and it warmed by a couple of degrees C.
With her eyes closed against the soap, she felt for the sundries shelf and set the Lazor down. Dominique ran a hand over her scalp, feeling stubby, chopped hairs. With both hands, she massaged gently down her neck then around to her face. She rubbed her body down from head to toe in the slippery, pink rain.
With over an hour until her meeting with Bartell, there was time to linger a bit, so she took advantage of the last alone moments that she’d have for some time. “Needle,” she said, and was rewarded with a stimulating, pinpoint-sharp spray of the silky water. Dominique played with its effects on sensitive spots. She directed the waist-high jet nozzle and vocalized her pleasure with soft sounds. Satisfied, she finally let the water scrub her back for a time as she recovered. “Clear, gentle.” She rinsed the soap out of her eyes, wiping them clear, and picked up the Lazor. With soap still on her scalp, she slowly stroked the lase-blade across it in rows. The device hissed in the water as it slid easily. Eventually she brought her skin to a delicate smoothness. With the little bit of soap remaining on her left hand, she soaped below her navel and finished her shaving.
“Done,” she said, and the flow cut off; the toilet slid back into place over the drain. “Dry. Mirror mode.”
Warm-air streams played over her exquisite nudity. In place of the retracted counter, a full-length mirror was quickly clearing. A directional vent blew warm air at the base of the mirror, so starting from her feet, the foggy curtain lifted. She wiggled her toes as her shapely legs were revealed, coming together at her yoni. Her patch of light pubic hair was close cut, with a small V-shape that she’d shaved into the top, arrowing down. Her belly-button was framed nicely between her pubic hair and ribs. The lower swell of her full breasts revealed, moving up to nipples, her cleavage opening up toward the gentle slopes of her delicate throat.
Dominique had resisted the urge bend down and peek at the reflection of her naked scalp. She had never seen herself without hair, and was ready to burst with anticipation. She already missed seeing it lying wet across her shoulders as her chin came into view.
Her jaw line stood out stronger than she could have imagined. Thankfully, her ears were small and close to her head. Actually quite cute… a bit elfin. Then she stared into her own twinkling green eyes in the midst of this unframed, slightly less familiar face. Finally, her entire reflection was clear.
Despite the strange unfamiliarity of her mirror image, she found the shape of her skull interesting. Not unpleasant after all. The style was fifty years out of fashion; women just did not do this sort of thing these days. She was counting on the shock-factor with Bartell, hopefully obliterating first impressions.
For both of them.
CHAPTER 18
EVENT: DAY 7, 1130 UT
Garrison felt heavier than seemed right.
This innermost level was supposed to be half-earth gravity. He chalked this up to his state of mind.
Some time was spent perusing the PX, taking great advantage of his military credit—a requisition card that had awaited him this morning in the document slot of his Temp-Dwell. New gear and weapons lifted his mood some. More time to take his haul down, mid-shell, to a Porter-locker, where he discovered that he wasn’t listed as a co-captain on the manifest of the Quantum Butterfly. This soured his mood in a different way.
He cooled his jets with a long walk in the light gravity of the mid-shell before he headed to the mess hall fifteen minutes ahead of his meeting with Dominique. Garrison figured he ought to be hungry even though he had no appetite. His stomach was still in a clench. Just the same, he wanted to eat something before she got there.
He looked over the heads of the people seated in the cafeteria. Seemed it was the place to be on the station. The crowd milled about between packed tables but it was easy enough to scan for Dominique’s golden-blond hair. No one paid any attention to Garrison as he stood looking around. His passing gaze registered one exception: across the cafeteria he could see just the head of a young, bald man. Rather feminine. Keeping the stranger in the corner of his eye, he could see that the man had fixed him with an unwavering stare.
What’s this guy’s thing? As he scanned back again; the stranger waved at him. Ah, hell. In turn, Bartell gave the man an impatient smile and nod, looking away quickly. Then the man called out, “Hey, Captain. Captain Bartell.”
Huh? That voice? What… The man was waving Garrison to his table.
Starting slowly toward this person, scrutinizing, a spooky familiarity clubbed his brain. He stopped across the table, still at a loss, staring. “We know each other…” It was more question than statement, but hung, unfinished, as Garrison was startled to notice that the man had breasts.
“Sit down, Captain,” said Dominique.
And it all clicked into place for Garrison, like a sonic boom, his shock nearly physical, perception shaken. His mouth fell open.
“Captain Bartell, you are drawing attention. Please have a seat.”
He dropped hard into a chair. His teeth clacked with the impact. He clenched his jaw and managed to keep his mouth shut. He had no words, in any case.
“I’m sorry if I have shocked you, Captain, but you’ll grow used to it.”
Forcing a recovery, Garrison glared at several people at the next table until they turned back to their own conversations. He managed a response. “Is this something you do before every mission?” He was truly curious.
“No, this look is new for me.” She ran a hand over her hairlessness, unemotionally.
Garrison was entranced. He had the urge to reach out and stroke her beautifully smooth, gleaming scalp for himself.
“Captain. Captain Bartell?”
“What… what’s that?”
“I was saying that if you’re hungry, you might want to eat lightly.”
He banished the images that had formed. “Well, yes, of course… ah, I’ll be back.” He got up and walked toward the new-tech Repli-vends, glad for an excuse to get away.
What’s going on
here? As casual as possible, he moved toward the dispensers. He dodged around a table, and glanced back and quickly forward again. She was looking right at him—and with that same smile she had hidden back on the Bullet.
So. She shaved her head. “A new look” she says… As Garrison was deciding how to feel about this, it came to him: In fact... in fact, yes, maybe this is the answer to my problems. He might not be able to think of her as “just one of the guys,” but at least, maybe, an androgynous officer. Yes. Strictly business.
He chose a Light breakfast square from the strange vending machines and waved his acquisition chit. Subtle noises emanated from within as spinnerets assembled his request from vats of proteins and chemicals. He retrieved the package from behind the dispenser door that popped open. When he turned back toward the table she looked off to the right, he studied her profile: yes, indeed, Garrison was sure this was going to work. Without her long hair she could pass as a man, albeit a feminine one.
Sitting down, he mentally avoided the issue that demanded his attention: her shapeliness. He mastered his thoughts and shifted to a get-down-to-business attitude... definitely better. He continued to assure himself as he fussed with the noisy, reconvertable protein wrapper of his breakfast square.
“Okay, Captain Bartell, what kind of meeting did you have in mind?”
His resolve eroded a bit. He continued to stare at the unopened snack. Her voice, he thought, it’s not masculine at all, it’s… sultry. He didn’t want to look up. Her question repeated in his head: ‘What kind of meeting did you have in mind?’ His imagination needed a distraction and went hyperactive on her simple inquiry: was he inventing things or did he sense something unspoken in her tone? What did she suspect about his feelings? What was she really asking? Could she read how he was feeling toward her? How did she feel? His heart took up its skip-beat rhythm as he struggled to hold onto a calm façade.
She continued in his silence. “You know, Captain, you seem a bit nervous. How did you come to be involved in a BUMP mission? After all, your contempt for the Multi-Military Patrol, since your departure from the Service, is clearly outlined in your file. You’re the last person I would have expected to crew with under any circumstances.”
She waited.
Garrison didn’t want to spill his guts to this woman just now, but her comment on his attitudes only deepened the question of how much she knew about him already. He used the opportunity to turn the conversation in another direction.
“Captain Astra,” he addressed, pleased by his firm tone, “what have you been told regarding our mission?”
She contemplated him for a moment, then folded her hands on the table. “We are to skip out to the incursion site where they’ve set a beacon at the abandoned pirate ship; we search from there for its missing retro-pod. The Medallion will be onsite seventy-eight hours behind us. We will rendezvous with them when we have whatever was in the pod, or when we can definitively say what has become of the escape pod, and if anything was carried away with it.”
“Anything? Don’t you mean anyone?”
She took a breath. “No, Captain, I said what I meant. You’ll find hardcopy of our orders with further details onboard the QB1.”
“I’d like to see those orders before departure, if you don’t mind.”
She hesitated, as though she had to force her next statement. “I’ve been instructed that they will be in the Orders Locker, set to open after take-off.”
“Oh, is that how it is?” Garrison could feel his anger heating his face. Where was his so-called authority?
“Sorry, Captain Bartell, I’m not making the rules.”
“Well, dammit, don’t be sorry! I know more than you obviously think I do.” He’d had enough of her smug attitude.
“What you know doesn’t...”
“I know that we’re dealing with something very strange here, most likely alien!” He took note of a slight change in her expression: surprise.
“Please lower your voice, Captain Bartell.” A few of the nearby diners had again turned curious faces toward them.
Garrison looked around, turned back to Dominique and said brusquely, “Let’s get out of here.”
Clearly of the same mind, she followed Garrison out of the Mess, in the direction of the nearest spin-hatch, heading out toward the freefall shell to the ship docks. He assumed that she was ready to depart since she didn’t try to stop him.
He was upset that BUMP had set him up to look like a dupe in Astra’s eyes—as if he didn’t know what he would be getting into until it was too late.
Garrison had thrown in the alien thing for the drama of it. No one had said anything about aliens. Now he was wondering if that had been the best idea. Sgt. Amio was freaked out to the point of superstitiousness, but what if Astra knew exactly what they were chasing? Like maybe a scary-bad virus devouring the bodies in an awful way, so that they just looked like fetuses? He’d look stupid for making the ‘alien’ comment. Frankly, he supposed a virus could be considered an alien. But something invisible and microscopic frightened him more than the thought of a ‘big-bad-ugly’. That fear was part of the deep scar left by The Obliteration, which he shared with the rest of the human race.
He’d feel better if he could point his gun at something.
As he sought out a stairway hatch to the half-speed middle-skin, it dawned on him that when he had gotten mad at Astra, it had stabilized his run-away emotions.
They came to a hatchway that, with a gesture, opened to reveal a staircase. It descended three meters through the floor, ending a centimeter above the more slowly rotating middle level. Garrison descended to a gate at the base of the stairway gantry; the next level’s floor appeared to rapidly slide away from him. The gate opened automatically when a short section of moving walkway, built into the next deck, rotated under the stairway’s position. The walkway, which tracked slower than the deck into which it was built, served to adjust the relative-speed difference between that deck and Garrison’s stair gantry to only 5 kph. Horizontal tracking stripes on the causeway helped Garrison gauge his step as he transferred to it. He adjusted to the discrepancy with a long, then shortened stride onto the walkway. As the vacated stairs dropped away behind him, Garrison looked back into Astra’s face as she stepped off of them. Once it cleared the empty stairway, their piece of walkway slowed to a stop, decelerating them to the speed of this more slowly turning spindeck. A voice cautioned them to step off and remove luggage from the belt.
Garrison deftly corrected his step for the quarter-earth-gravity, and walked a short distance to the decelevators, the same units used for the acceleration from freefall. None were ready and waiting but the short walls of one square enclosure were folding to the deck. Two heads came into view, rising up from below—someone coming in.
It was a middle-aged man, the clerk he had seen in the supplies store. As Garrison waited, Astra stepped up next to him and settled into an easy stance in the minimal gravity. A homely young woman accompanied the clerk, she bore a strong resemblance to the man. Her face was pale, and she looked mildly ill; a newbie. She clearly had gotten a good dose of the falling-effect.
The clerk moved deliberately as he helped the woman, and moved various pieces of luggage off the platform. They paid no attention to the two waiting for their lift. Garrison’s foot tapped as he tried to bolster his anger in this period of inactivity. Finally, the inbounds were clear; Garrison pressed a foot switch on the platform, selecting their destination: dockside of the outer shell, opposite side of the station from the Bullet air lock.
Dominique maintained her silence in the decelevator. She continued to allow him to lead the way once they reached freefall. When the doors opened, he wasted no time pushing off. Sailing out, he caught one of the grip stanchions amongst a small, low forest of the semi-flexible posts. It gently moved in the direction of his momentum. The grapple guns were there but the ship’s bert
h was not far enough to bother with them.
Astra glided out of the conveyance cubicle and landed, instead, on the outside wall near Garrison. He stole a glance as she beautifully executed a slow-tuck turn, touching first with her toes, then moving into a crouch, arresting her momentum, her backside toward him.
Her position triggered an animal fire in him, and he had to remind himself that he was angry. It damped the other confusing emotions that threatened. He turned away and headed to their ship’s berth, guiding his flight with a tap or push, stanchion to stanchion.
His mind and emotions warred, and his stomach seemed the battleground. The question that occupied him: Could he stay angry with Astra for the rest of this mission?
Doubtful.
CHAPTER 19
EVENT: DAY 7, 1145 UT
She regretted the collapse of cooperation with Captain Bartell.
An unfortunate turn of circumstances.
She had indeed been under the impression that her co-captain was not fully informed of their mission details, hence the sealed orders after departure. She had thought she’d made a slip, during their mess hall conversation, when he’d confronted her with the “anyone versus anything” comment. In that instant, she thought Capt. Bartell was going to back out of the mission.
To her surprise, he had known about the strange circumstances and conjecture about an alien influence. She was relieved that BUMP had not been keeping a secret from him.
During the walk out to the ship, she pondered the question: was there something that she had not been told?
If he already had the details of the mission, then what was actually in the orders that he was to receive?
She would know soon enough in any case. Of course, they’d be on their way before that revelation, not that it made any difference for her part. She would be true to her duty without hesitation. She always had been. This question that arose in her mind, and her feeling of discomfort, was unfamiliar. And this mission was of a kind, different than any other she’d ever undertaken.
Parallel Extinction (Extinction Encounters Book 1) Page 12