"Ingrid, I'm Captain Trivera. Please enter."
Ingrid stepped into the large cabin with tense shoulders. Ang stayed just outside the door.
"Thank you, Ang, please close the hatch now."
Standing in front of the Captain's desk, Ingrid felt her guarded stance melt in the presence of a senior female leader. Even though her own mother had died when Ingrid was a girl, years of socialization in school and in the Army were not to be forgotten so easily, even on a Fuel ship.
She took a moment to size up Trivera as she stared down at her desk console. She was older, perhaps sixty, with Ingrid's height but more curves. Her hair was bone white, long and curly, quite strange for a Captain in an essentially all-male vessel. She wore a version of the Fuel Orange uniform, modified to fit her frame.
Trivera looked up to catch Ingrid's gaze. Ingrid straightened herself and saluted. Trivera gave a loose salute back.
"So you're an Officer. Ang tells me one of our men found you floating in space."
"Officer, First Rank Navigation. Stationed on the Louisa before...before she was abandoned, ma'am."
Captain Trivera beckoned her to sit down.
"Well, Ingrid, I noticed your little incident down in the Mess hall on my monitor and I feel I should say first, I apologize for the behavior of my men. They get a bit frantic toward the end of the tour." Trivera smirked, as if resisting a joke.
"No apology necessary, ma'am," Ingrid replied. "The man who did it, he...he pulled me out of space, I believe."
"His name is Ogol, and yes, he did. But you can't believe that act exonerates what he did just now, do you?"
"No, ma'am, no, but... I suppose I'm just beyond the point of caring much."
"Ah, good girl. I like to hear that. You've had quite a ride I imagine. Please, tell me your story."
"Yes, ma'am. We had a simple craft-transport mission to bring the Louisa back to Verdian station. We were operating with a skeleton crew; I was acting Captain. Our ship's engines malfunctioned on Earth time three-twenty-one-dash-four-oh-six, resulting in an oxygen leak that forced...that killed several crew members. I jettisoned into space soon after in a pressure suit and was then, as you know, retrieved from space by members of your crew."
"I see. And what of the ship's complement?"
"Just the four of us, Captain. Two of our service crew died in the initial explosion, and another member, my husband, Peter...he died of oxygen starvation shortly before I jettisoned."
"Your husband? Oh I am sorry, Ingrid."
"Thank you, ma'am." Ingrid looked down at her hands.
"It must be hard to lose a husband. Though I really wouldn't know much about it," Trivera said. She looked at Ingrid and paused, then purred, "Peter, can you please come here?"
Ingrid's eyes widened and her heart began pounding furiously. Peter? A hand pushed back the curtain that separated the bunk from the rest of the office to reveal a young brunette man, perhaps twenty five years old, naked and exceptionally well-endowed. Ingrid detected a sweetish heady scent waft into the air. Her heart slowed; she looked away in confusion. What was Trivera playing at?
"Peter, this is Officer Ingrid Rogue. Say hello."
The young boy cupped his hands over his genitals when he spoke. He made a slight bow.
"Hello, Miss Rogue."
Ingrid looked sharply at Trivera, who was smiling at her little toy.
" 'Miss' Rogue? Do you train him to say that?"
The word "Miss" was not frequently heard these days; it had assumed derogatory connotations about a century ago, when the few women who had survived the Virus were first being kidnapped, sold, and forced to procreate by patriarchists determined to keep their family line intact. They were known in the womb trafficking business as "Misses". But all that changed after the Mother's Day Rebellion of 2212.
"Ingrid, Ingrid, don't be so political," Trivera clucked with exasperation. "Before the Virus, 'Miss' was simply a title for a young woman. I like Peter to use 'Miss'. Don't you feel sexy when he says it?"
She did not. The sweet smell in the air and Trivera's surprising penchant for subjugation were making her nauseated.
"Boy, you can call me Ingrid." Peter bowed politely. "Captain Trivera, if you would be kind enough to assign me quarters. I feel the need to rest."
"Yes, let's all get comfortable, shall we? Come now, Officer Rogue, sit down over here." Trivera glided over to her bunk area. Her large bed was covered in red velvet pillows and floral pattern blankets. Ingrid was surprised at this opulence; the rest of the office was spartan.
Peter climbed on first; he was developing an erection. Ah, he's well trained, Ingrid mused. Climb into bed with her equals get hard.
Trivera climbed up next to him. "Ah, they're so virile when they're young. If they don't breathe the dual, that is. I managed to snag him when he was quite new on the ship. No dual for you!"
In front of Peter's face she dangled a thick tube that had been patched through the wall by her bunk. Her hand had absentmindedly wrapped around Peter's penis.
"It's a direct line to the vacuums. I'm guessing the last captain installed it, clever girl. We have to collect the dual off the petrene for release into space...otherwise we'd all be loony onboard, wouldn't we Peter! Ha ha! But fortunately this little tube links us right in to the discharge chamber."
Ingrid slumped in her chair. She was still floating; still alone. Peter was dead.
"Oh, my dear, please come and rest with us. Take your mind off things. I promise we will be nice. And besides, I haven't seen another woman in so long, have you?"
Ingrid lifted her head from her hands and looked at Trivera, who stared back at her directly, white curls dusting her shoulders. The last woman she'd seen was on Omen Moon five months ago, and they'd only exchanged greetings. Ingrid moved to get up. It would be a distraction, anyway.
***
The taste of dual was slightly sweet with a bitter finish. Trivera coaxed Ingrid into taking three large inhalations from the tube.
Ingrid felt a calm energy throughout her body. Colors warmed slightly, and she felt herself smiling. Her eyes were focused but wandered lazily, gazing on the throbbing red of Trivera's plush pillows, Peter's flushed skin, Trivera's startling white hair. She reached out to stroke it; the sensation did not measure up to what she felt with her eyes.
Then Peter began to massage her shoulders.
The calm bubbling energy from before elevated into extraordinary hallucinations, accompanied by a delicious warm feeling under the skin being touched. The pressure from Peter's hands seemed to deposit heat into Ingrid's muscles, relaxing them. Now Ingrid understood more precisely why all the men in the Mess seemed to enjoy exchanging touches, mussing each other's hair, letting arms rub against each other.
"The trick with dual is to let others do the touching," Peter whispered by her ear. The rustle of his breath through her hair sent her reeling.
"What are you seeing?" Trivera wondered.
"These pillows are so beautiful. Red."
"No, I mean what are you seeing, in the dream."
"The dream," Ingrid repeated. Yes, there was something else, a concurrent narrative. She tuned into it without effort, like it was a screen playing out just above her eyes.
"I see...red. I mean, like conception. It's about a girl playing on a fence. It's spiking."
Ingrid heard a muffled giggle. Trivera was on top of the boy, her orange worksuit unzippered down to her navel. Her breasts were pressed up against his chest. Ingrid's eyes rolled back again, their focus content with the inner workings of her brain. Occasionally the sound of Trivera's moans or a wandering hand wafted through into acknowledgement, but they served to reorient the narrative nicely. It was like reading a book while dreaming; the words were always changing. An infinite sentence, constructed using fragments from other stories. Somehow, it was perfectly satisfying.
Ingrid felt herself diverted from reality, but nothing about the experience made her want to run from it.
Trivera and the boy were looking at her, smiling gently.
Tomorrow I'll worry, she thought.
