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Aboard the CSS Agamemnon, Star Patrol life is quite a bit different. A few sailors, closer to Madison May's style, chafe when a distress call comes in...

The first part of the two-part season finale, which takes us off the Dark Horse and onto another ship in the Star Patrol, where Maddy's ways are quite frowned upon. Pretty much a standalone story, so have some fun and some smut because why not :3 Thanks to Spudz for all his work at, uh, action stations.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

_Tales of the Dark Horse _by ** Rob Baird** S2E4, "Rendezvous, Part One" Stardate 66588.5

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"Captain on the bridge!" One of the technicians shouted it out the moment Captain Hatfield stepped through the hatch, and everyone came to the nice, crisp attention that one of the Star Patrol's most well-respected officers deserved.

Captain Hatfield nodded. "As you were." Lieutenant Commander Irkan, their navigator and the senior officer of the previous watch, remained next to the captain's chair where he'd been seated. "News?"

"No, ma'am." Irkan, cybernetically enhanced like most of his race, had eyes that glowed when he was processing information. They were glowing now, digesting every report that had come in from throughout the mighty Agamemnon. "Two memos for your review, one from the Strike Group and one from Sustainment, but neither are marked urgent."

"The repairs?"

"Should be completed on schedule, ma'am."

"Very well. You're relieved."

Irkan's eyes darkened, his ears swiveled back into his skull for storage, and one of his two pairs of arms folded up as it deactivated. "I stand relieved, ma'am." He skimmed off on his antigravity-enhanced legs, and Hatfield took her seat to wait.

It didn't surprise the doe to hear that little had happened. They were dead in space for a reason. On cue, the intercom chimed.

EVA in progress outside ship. Do not rotate, radiate or energize any electric or electronic equipment, discharge waste, perform weapons or engines maintenance or cycle airlocks while personnel are on EVA.

Hatfield paged through the ship's log until she found the details of the work order. Just routine maintenance: checking the light covers and antennas to make sure they hadn't taken any damage from space dust, and to clean them up if any damage was found.

Theresa Hatfield wasn't the type to remind anyone of her full title, and nobody would dream of calling the unassuming deer 'Dr. Hatfield' to her face, but she'd earned her degree for a dissertation that proposed a truly comprehensive philosophy of starship operations. Routine maintenance was part of that.

At the launch of the CSS Agamemnon, when the ship's corridors were crowded with reporters, one eager young lass had clearly been given entirely the wrong idea. She wanted to write about the ship's huge fusion reactors, her state-of-the-art point-defense cannons, and the next-generation shield emitters that gave the ship a characteristic belt of glowing violet strips.

Hatfield had the notion that the reporter saw the Agamemnon as something out of a space adventure story, and expected the captain to tell her just how useful the shields would be in a space battle. The maintenance was far more interesting; Hatfield explained that every shield emitter was likely to go through a thousand maintenance cycles for any instance of actual defense.

Many theorists and system engineers are accustomed to treating a specific system as a function of its use, as evidenced in Kapoor (2792) and Ba'irsa (2799). It must simultaneously be considered as a function of its support. Take the case of a communications network, which Coverly (2798) describes as employing a 2-terabit hub transmitter "consuming only 5W and installable in any TSO-3500-2606.2 bay."

The implication made by Coverly is to treat the transmitter as a static object. Its 5W must be provided by the main reactor, with guaranteed current and backup switching. In addition to the space for the transmitter, a conservative estimate of 2 cubic meters is allotted for spare parts. Extrapolation from the ComTegrity Systems manual projects a cycle average of 6 man-hours for maintenance in normal circumstances, the curve being nonlinear and described in Figure 26 and its associated table.

This example, in Hatfield's dissertation, continued for two pages. She summed it up to the reporter, whose expression became more and more bewildered. It was a common mistake. A starship, even--and particularly--a glamorous warship like the Agamemnon, was really a huge collection of maintenance schedules, precise measurement and attention to detail.

Attention to detail: exactly why Hatfield was so respected in the Star Patrol.

The memo from the head of the Sustainment division said that weekly reviews of the mess hall food had declined by two percent, extending the previous week's decline. The memo from the Strike Group said that training on some new hardware had been completed early. She smiled, and saved the memo so that she could remember to add the information to her log.

Food, that was a tough problem. Their cooking staff did what they could, given the ingredients available--and the diversity of the crew. Fortunately, if anyone from the Admiralty asked, Theresa Hatfield had seven different models and projections relating ingredients and menus to the positivity of their reception, with twenty-eight variables tracked.

Nobody from the Admiralty would ask, but that didn't mean there was no reason to stay prepared. Hatfield liked to be prepared. That meant she did not like what came next.

"Captain, we're receiving a coded transmission. It's for you, from Admiral Kelso."

***

Six decks below Hatfield's sudden crisis, Captain Ford was having a minor one of his own. The artificial gravity in his berth had gone askew. One half of his bunk was now slightly, but noticeably, more attractive than the other. It made sleeping uncomfortable.

Reporting the gripe to Crew Resources would mean raising at least one requisition for maintenance, and probably an analysis of what had gone wrong. Captain Ford knew what had gone wrong: he'd tried to adjust the gravity himself, and bent one of the gravity-shaping pins. That was his luck.

His luck--Ford's wife said he needed a marked deck to win at 52-pickup--was where he'd gotten the name 'Shamrock.' Jack Ford was a melanistic coyote with oversized ears even for his species. He'd figured 'Anubis' was an obvious nickname, or even 'Jackal,' but losing thirty coin tosses in a row had been what really impressed the others in his squadron.

"That's just natural coyote luck," his mother had said, when he came back on leave and told her about the name. "Part of who we are."

"Do we get anything to make up for it?"

Her expression wavered. "Oh, would you look at those clouds," she'd exclaimed, at an almost-spotless sky. "I hope we're not in for rain." They were.

In the end, Ford settled for finding a sleeping position where the pull of gravity tugged at his legs but didn't upset his sense of balance. It would have to do; by the next time he went on duty they'd be done with the maintenance and he fully expected to be busy. Maybe two shifts in a row.

He shut his eyes and dozed off. When the buzzing alarm startled him back awake, he yelped, and glanced at the computer on the wall. Maybe I got a couple hours, at least? It had been four minutes. Ford reached out to quiet the alarm. "Captain Ford speaking."

"Staff meeting, sir," a voice on the other side of the computer said. "All senior officers are required in the captain's ready room at 0600."

"Thanks." He closed the channel. 0600 was a little under an hour off. Not far enough away for sleep; not close enough that it might be over in time for rest afterwards. He stared wearily at the painting on the far side of his cabin--given to him by his former team when he'd been assigned the Agamemnon.

To Commander Shamrock, it said. May good fortune follow you everywhere. It showed a caricature of Jack Ford, flipping a coin, and a mischievous bird, black as the coyote, swooping down to snatch it from out of the air. His position as Commander, Auxiliary Group--responsible for all the embarked ships on the _Agamemnon--_was supposed to have been a good opportunity.

The Agamemnon had many embarked ships, including two squadrons of Type 7 scout-interdictors. Captain Ford, a Type 7 pilot, fell in love with them the way he'd fallen in love with his wife: immediately, completely, and dangerously. They could flip a full 180 degrees in two-tenths of a second. They could manage 24 gees of sustained acceleration. They were the first scout-interdictor in Star Patrol history to have an integral shield generator.

Agamemnon was intended to have upgraded versions of the Type 7--pilots called the starfighter 'Riverjack' because of the distinctive pattern of its shield emitters, and the horned look given to it by its sensor pods. Sometimes they just shortened them to 'jacks'; Ford thought this meant he was a natural fit. He looked forward to flying a new model.

They did not have them. The explanation, in excruciating detail, followed his reporting aboard.

Operationally, Block 19 Type 7 scout-interdictors have an expected four percent increase in maintenance requirements but only a three percent increase in effectiveness. For example, the radiator of the current Block 16 uses an identical Oni R22 chip to the thermal regulator in the ship's stovetops. Part commonality improves storage utilization by over two percent during the lifetime of the scout-interdictor. And that's just the start...

Indeed it had been: six hours of graphs and charts and models demonstrating why, despite the Block 19's superiority in every way, it was in "everyone's best interest" that they delay any upgrades. The logic being unassailable, Jack Ford went along with it, exactly as he was going along with the request for a new briefing. Assent did not, of course, imply contentment.

Jack pulled his uniform on, made himself presentable, and went to the pilot's lounge. Lieutenant Gilman, one of their newest recruits, had been roped into duty maintaining the lounge equipment for a shift. He wasted no time. "Coffee. Black," the coyote added, to emphasize the urgency with which he needed stimulants.

"Back so soon, cap?"

"Coffee," he repeated. "Black."

The young lieutenant poured him a cup and handed it over. She was not so young: she understood the value of coffee to continued existence, both Ford's and her own. Perceptively, she checked the pot to make sure there would be enough for another cup, and perhaps a third.

A few sips pacified enough of his nerve endings that he could manage conversation again. "Thanks, lieutenant. How are things here, anyway?"

"Pretty good, sir. No activity, seeing how late it is. Commander Kamyshev was looking for you."

This would be Konstantin Kamyshev. One of the squadron commanders, the snow leopard was a Type 7 pilot like Jack, a rogue like Jack, and a troublemaker like Jack. The coyote liked him. "Did he say why?"

"Something about a report?"

It wouldn't do to let Lieutenant Gilman see him sigh. Kamyshev, as a good pilot, valued spending time in the cockpit and the learning opportunities it afforded. His squadron was highly trained... and also well above what Star Patrol models dictated their fuel allowance should be. Captain Ford sent him the formal report itemizing this, requesting the snow leopard's commentary.

Kamyshev was probably, in that case, looking for an opportunity to complain. Jack needed more sleep to deal with it. He escaped early from the pilot's lounge, hid for the remainder of the time in his quarters, and made his way to the internal lift at the last possible opportunity. The lift, part elevator and part people-mover, was deserted; the first part of the short journey passed uneventfully.

Then the doors opened on a tired-looking genet who failed, for a moment, to notice them at all. "Commander?" Ford prompted. Lieutenant Commander Irene Stewart was responsible for the Agamemnon's technology department; she was harried on the best of days.

This was not the best of days. Her attention summoned, Stewart stepped inside, and the doors glided shut behind her. When the lift started to move, she glanced over, and gave him a halfhearted smile. She, too, must've been trying to sleep. "Heading to the staff meeting, sir?"

He nodded. "Don't know what it is, but it must be important..."

"Perhaps another emergency OSR?"

There was not, technically, a procedure for calling an Operational Status Review meeting as an emergency. Their captain believed, however, that operational reviews were important, and best held both early and often. It seemed a possibility, if an unfortunate one. "We just had one last week, though..."

"I know..." The genet folded her paws, and sighed. "Between you and me, I'm hoping it isn't."

"Yeah? Computer problems?"

"I made some changes to the way we handle processor allocation--at first, just as a test. But, um... they worked too well. We're running almost thirty percent under our power budget. Somebody's going to notice."

Ordinarily, an increase in operational efficiency would simply be a good thing. Jack Ford knew his view was, at best, a naïve oversimplification. Lieutenant Commander Stewart had requisitioned too much power--and Captain Hatfield would, on learning this, stress the need for accurate predictions.

She wasn't wrong, of course. All the power Lieutenant Commander Stewart requested, but didn't use, was extra power generated by the ship's reactors when it didn't need to be. This was an obvious conclusion; it would be more obvious backed up by a series of graphs and equations and reviewed in excruciating detail at a special staff meeting.

"I could book some extra time, if that helps."

Stewart tilted her head. "Extra time, sir?"

"I'd like to be running some training ops, but--as it happens--we're on track to exceed our fuel budget for this cruise. I was going to say we could do those in the sims, instead, but..."

The genet started to perk up, seeing the lifeline he was offering. "You didn't request processor time, did you? I could slot you in, don't worry. We can definitely do that. Thanks, captain--I owe you one."

"Don't mention it," he said, as the doors reopened at their destination. "At least, not in public."

Captain Hatfield stood stiffly, at the head of the table in her staff room. Sometimes, she chose to conduct the entire meeting standing--having read somewhere that it made them more efficient. In this case, others were already seated, so Ford and Stewart followed suit.

When the last department head, their chief engineer, arrived, Hatfield ordered the doors locked and the lights dimmed. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I've received some new orders, and I want to make sure we're ready to execute them."

They went around the table. Ford did not mention his fuel consumption, and Stewart did not mention the increased efficiency of her computers. There was no point in causing trouble, especially given that they had a solution handy. Commander Hill, the engineer, was the only one to raise any alarms. The Agamemnon's maintenance crews, he said, were going through their stock of electrical conduit shielding at slightly elevated rates.

"That could be a problem," Hatfield said grimly. "We've been given a special task, and it takes us beyond the frontier. The Star Patrol has judged that we're the closest, most appropriate ship to be able to handle it. We'll be meeting up with the cruiser Dark Horse, which is on a mission of deep space exploration."

The executive officer, Commander Ashley, looked up sharply at the name of the other ship. "That's Commander May, isn't it?" If Ford's memory served him--it often did not--Steve Ashley had once worked with the notorious captain.

"Yes," Hatfield confirmed. "I know that some of you have a history with the ship's commander, and I want to make sure there won't be any problems."

Madison May was by nearly any metric the most infamous officer in the Star Patrol who had not actually become a criminal. Before the Dark Horse she had been captain of the Sunshine-203, a light patrol vessel assigned to untroubling and quiet duties around Alpha Centauri. The first time Jack Ford heard the story, he'd been told that May had "fired at a ship carrying the prime minister's son."

Later--Ford was intrigued; how could he not be?--it turned out that the prime minister's son was aboard a pleasure barge at the time, and that the pleasure barge had drifted into controlled space and failed to answer any hails. It was at that point that Commander May ordered it disabled with a salvo of ion cannon fire.

This was a logical, and justifiable, course of action. At the same time, it was still firing on civilians, and the kind of reckless, free-spirited behavior that had gotten May her reputation, and her exile beyond the frontier. From what Ford knew, she seemed like the kind of character who wasn't likely to consider it 'exile.'

Commander Ashley fretted: "I thought that she was sent out of Confederation space to keep her away from the rest of us..."

Captain Hatfield assured her executive officer that counseling resources would be made available, and went through the details of the mission. The Agamemnon would be delivering new supplies and crew, which they'd pick up at a starbase along the way. They wouldn't be beyond the frontier for very long, the doe said, but she wanted regular reports to make sure they'd all be ready.

"She wants regular reports even when we're not on assignment," Irene Stewart pointed out to Ford, on their way back down to the lower decks. "So I guess it's not that big of a deal..."

"I imagine she'll want them more often." Ford rubbed at his neck, unable to figure out whether his irritation was entirely due to lack of sleep or not. I'm sure it must be. Captain Hatfield is the best we have--she knows how to manage the operation, that's for sure.

"Do you think we'll get hazard pay for this?"

According to the mission profile, they would spend a total of eight days beyond the nominal frontier of the Terran Confederation. It was still close enough to be in communications range of the Star Patrol, close enough that Confederation-friendly traders made the trip all the time. "Probably," the coyote said. The Star Patrol erred on the side of caution so reliably it was practically their motto.

"Well, that will be nice. Won't it?"

There was something to be said for looking on the bright side of things. Jack briefly visited the ship's hangar space, and used the new assignment to switch shifts with the head of the maintenance division. When the coyote explained that he wanted to make sure the squadrons would be prepared, the maintenance officer agreed at once.

It also afforded him the chance for an uninterrupted four hours of sleep. Ford returned to his cabin, made himself as comfortable as possible in his bunk, and closed his eyes. "Computer, dim cabin lights and set an alarm for 1150. My normal profile." His normal profile relied mostly on the cabin lighting; rather than jarring him awake, it was designed to brighten steadily until he awoke naturally.

The Star Patrol put a lot of thought into crew comforts like that. At least they softened the blow of his curtailed sleep. He dozed, and his exhausted brain contemplated the prospect of dreaming. There were lots of things to dream about. His wife. The thrill of an unexplored frontier. The beauty of the stars. The--

"Action stations!" The cabin lights flashed an angry red. "Action stations! All crew, all stations to State Red. Section heads make your reports to the bridge."

It was barely 0830. Jack Ford buried his head in his paws, and made his first report entirely to himself. "Fuck," he groaned. Natural coyote luck was desperately overrated.

***

Captain Hatfield ran her ship so efficiently just in case the unexpected happened. The doe's focus on operational excellence paid off handsomely in critical scenarios--like now. Flash traffic, direct from the Admiralty, changed their mission to the frontier almost as soon as it began.

Waiting for the section reports to come in, Hatfield had plenty of time to outline the summary she intended to prepare for the Admiralty. Their new orders, so soon after the ship was gearing up for deep-space exploration, entailed upsetting many of her careful plans. Don't they know how troubling chaos is?

But then, they couldn't predict everything. The priority message spoke of a crisis on the planet of Tilea: a short detour from their course outside of Confederation space, and evidently requiring the full resources of the great starship. Hatfield ordered a new course plotted; their helmsman was hard at work figuring out a cost-effective way to navigate the diversion.

It didn't take too long. "Course laid in, captain!"

"Engage, at maximum speed."

The trim, professional polar bear at the helm moved with precise grace that his large size belied. The Agamemnon moved the same way. Twenty-four hundred meters and sixteen million tons pivoted smoothly and leapt back into hyperspace. "Flank speed, captain. Just over thirty-four megajärvi."

Under emergency conditions, ships of her class had been rated to thirty-six. With a reckless captain, and an even more reckless engineer, even faster speeds were likely possible. Hatfield was not such a captain. She knew the limits of the Agamemnon, after all. Three light years per day was fast enough.

What was the alternative, anyway? Increasing the reactor output increased the wear on sensitive systems. These would need to be overhauled: Star Patrol protocol was extremely inflexible about the degree of wear between maintenance cycles, and this inflexibility came from a very good reason. The reason, as Hatfield could immediately articulate, was that it was written down as Star Patrol protocol.

The crisis on Tilea was pressing, but not immediately one of life and death.

She went over the reports from the section heads with Commander Ashley, who was every bit as understanding of said protocol as she. Ashley, a rabbit, had grown up on space stations; the lowered gravity had lent him a spindly appearance that accented what some--incorrectly--viewed as timidity. He was not timid, merely cautious.

All the same, Hatfield appreciated that the distress call forestalled their need to interact with the mercurial and bizarre Madison May; the akita was their polar opposite, and highly distasteful to both officers. "Will you be okay with the mission?" Hatfield prompted.

"Yes, ma'am." He didn't sound convinced. "Captain Ford indicates they're completely ready. We should stand them down."

The swiftness with which he'd pivoted back to the business at hand didn't make him sound any more convincing. "You're sure?" Hatfield asked.

"Protocol 4.21. At FTL speeds, embarked vessels should be secured from action stations if unneeded within fifteen minutes to maximize operational readiness."

This was because, at FTL speeds, any embarked ships could not be launched. Despite the high alert condition, there was no point in keeping their engines running and using valuable fuel. Hatfield nodded. "Tell Captain Ford to stand down, yes. But that wasn't what I meant about you being 'sure,' Commander Ashley."

The rabbit assured her that he could deal with the stress of his history with May. Hatfield let the matter drop. While their ship raced to the rescue of the Terran colony, Hatfield started writing out her summary, itemizing not merely the costs of the new mission, but also the added effects it had on their primary assignment.

They'd want to know. They trusted her.

At their destination, the Agamemnon slipped from hyperspace with no fuss or burble: not even a shift in gravity to mark their transition from traveling at over a thousand times the speed of light. The inhabited side of the planet, Tilea, lay for the moment in shadow from its star and they had some time to prepare. Captain Hatfield was, of course, fully briefed.

Terraformed only a century before, and with a small population, Tilea had yet to reach self-sufficiency. Director Dolan ran it as an experimental agricultural station. Hatfield more than recognized his name; they'd collaborated on a few papers. He was a noted scientist, and a logical soul.

Hatfield's mood was quite good. An easy assignment lay before her; then they could be back on their way, and back to establishing something like a routine. All that remained was putting together a brief order to Captain Ford, the commander of their embarked ships...

***

"You seem distressed, sir." Commander Konstantin Kamyshev's callsign was 'Bubbles,' and the snow leopard saw in Captain Ford a fellow victim of cruel humor and cruel fate. He was as partial to the coyote as the coyote was to him.

Jack Ford spoke via a hologram that somehow exaggerated his exhausted expression. "Do I? It's probably just sleep deprivation, commander. I'll see you shortly."

'Sleep deprivation,' though, that was nothing. Nothing a good dose of stimulants couldn't fix. Konstantin felt the problems ran deeper. Something to do with the orders, no doubt. He didn't understand why rescuing a colony required sending three starfighters.

But, for whatever reason, it did. Ford had gone to the surface a few hours earlier, in an executive shuttle with Captain Hatfield. Now, 'on a quick break' from some meeting, the CAG ordered Commander Kamyshev to take three Type 7s and meet him in the colony's capital.

On the way down, the snow leopard passed the time guessing why they'd been requested. Sometimes, colonists asked for fighter support as animal control. Older worlds could have fairly serious pests. Kamyshev remembered being asked to take out a nest of what, inaccurately, the colony described as 'rats.' They're not much bigger than three meters, the game warden had said, as though that was supposed to be reassuring.

Tilea, though, had no native fauna. Perhaps some avalanche control, or seismic adjustment. Perhaps all they needed was a demonstration: showing off some advanced Star Patrol technology to impress a grade school class. That didn't rise to the level of an emergency, and Tilea had sent out a distress call... but colonists were weird, after all.

None of the scenarios Kamyshev considered explained why Shamrock was so unhappy. The Agamemnon's shuttle was parked on one of the landing pads outside the capital building. Its shiny, enameled walls made it glow like an inviting, clean beacon. Kamyshev and the two other starfighters landed on the other free pads.

The other pilots, having secured their ships, went in search of a bathroom and lunch. Kamyshev was hungry, too--they'd had to skip a meal to meet the launch window--but he stayed behind so that he could be ready to meet his commanding officer and find out what was going on.

Captain Ford emerged from the building alone and looking, if anything, even worse off than he had before. "Bubbles," he began. "You know that you're not supposed to have any alcohol in the cockpit, right?"

"Of course," the snow leopard said.

"Do you have any anyway? Maybe just a little flask?"

"Sorry, sir."

The coyote's shoulders drooped. "Not as much as I am. Not as much as you're about to be."

"Sir?"

The door of the building opened again. Captain Hatfield strode over, behind a man in a business suit. The little man, with his short stature and glaring eyes, looked like one of those dogs perpetually consumed by the fact that they were not wolves. Obviously, he wanted to be.

Theresa Hatfield politely indicated the dog, whose pointy ears came up to the doe's shoulder. "This is Mr. Dolan, the colony administrator. Mr. Dolan, Commander Kamyshev is the leader of Squadron 575, the 'Arrows.'"

Konstantin held out his paw; Dolan didn't seem to notice. He stared at the starfighter behind the snow leopard. "This one?"

"That's one ship of the squadron, Mr. Dolan, yes," Jack Ford said. "They all fly the Type 7 scout interdictor. As Captain Hatfield pointed out, Commander Kamyshev worked for the company responsible for--"

"Yes. You just said she'd already pointed it out. This will work?"

Hatfield looked to be slightly more in her element than Ford did. "The reactor and its power subsystems were specially chosen by Yoyodyne to produce sustained and well-regulated output. It's certified as compliant with Directive 726, Subsection 19, of course."

Kamyshev glanced at Ford. The coyote shook his head as subtly as possible.

"Subsection 19 as modified by the 2802 Galoru Protocols?"

I don't know what they're talking about, Kamyshev mouthed to his commander. Captain Ford shook his head again.

"Subsection 19 as originally interpreted, in the latest 2798 revision," Theresa Hatfield said. "I do apologize, but we've had some difficulties in making the needed corrections."

"Unacceptable." Mr. Dolan's declaration saw Ford's ears flatten, but the coyote was out of everyone but Kamyshev's view.

Hatfield, who Dolan was looking at, took it in stride. "Perhaps I should explain to Commander Kamyshev what the problem seems to be."

Dolan crossed his arms over his chest. "If it takes another thirty minutes, the billing cycle rolls into a full hour." But then Hatfield said--somewhat worryingly, to Konstantin--that there was more to negotiate, and they retreated back inside the building. Jack Ford remained, looking grim.

At least he could explain things.

Tilea, the coyote said, was experiencing an unfortunate and unexpected cold snap. Temperatures in the colony were now predicted to be almost three degrees below average; they did not believe that their geothermal generators produced enough power to supply any additional demand for heat in the greenhouses.

"Three degrees?" Kamyshev asked.

"As CAG, I'm instituting a new rule. You only get to ask questions if you come up with that flask, Bubbles." Ford rubbed his neck briskly, roughing up his thick black fur. "Yes, three degrees. Mr. Dolan has written to the Colonial Ministry asking for new sources of power. The Colonial Ministry then asked the Star Patrol; the Star Patrol asked Captain Hatfield, and Captain Hatfield asked us."

"What power?"

"We're decommissioning three fighters so their reactors can be tied into the colony's power grid." He sighed heavily, realized that the explanation was insufficient, and started from the beginning. Tilean administrators projected that, without new power, agricultural output would fall six percent below anticipated levels.

Additionally, maintaining greenhouse temperatures added wear to the geothermal plant, increasing maintenance demands and corresponding emptap. Kamyshev didn't recognize the word and his translator, which normally handled everything automatically, didn't help.

"Externalized-man-hours-per-ton-of-agricultural-product," Jack Ford clarified.

"That's a thing?"

"It is now."

Based on rigorous computational models, relying on the colony's internal power sources until new generators were dispatched by the Colonial Ministry would lead to a four percent increase in emaptap per 'shortfall point recovered': the distance that needed to be made up between Tilea's projected harvest and what they could manage without making changes.

Although some new work would be needed from the Agamemnon, volunteering three starfighters meant only a three and a half percent increase in EMPTAP and what Ford described as: "better output-owner mach.... no. Output... uh. Well, anyway. I'm oversimplifying a four-dimensional model because... because I'm too tired for multivariate calculus, commander."

"Multivariate calculus was involved?"

"Why do you think we were in there for six hours? The point is, we need three reactors. We'll pick up the fighters when we come back. There's... more complications. But, really, why make others suffer?"

"Right, cap..."

"Other than... other than because I'm the CAG, and I can delegate. There is that. I'm sure you want to help out. So, commander!"

This was how Konstantin learned that Directive 726, Subsection 19 was part of the Terran Confederation Standards and Regulations Codex. It covered acceptable radiation emissions from a given source of power. Rather, everything between 710 and 736 did that; Directive 726 referred to Light, Mobile 'Power Sources' Designed for Atmospheric and Non-Atmospheric Operations, As Defined in Appendix 500 of This Document, Except For Class A, Class D, Class F and Class G 'Power Sources' and Class B 'Power Sources' Exceeding 815.5MW.

The snow leopard was not, in the end, particularly surprised to find that many of the document's footnotes had been written by one Dr. Theresa Hatfield. One of the footnotes mentioned the '2802 Galoru Protocols.' The Protocols did not change how much radiation was acceptable--the limits were well below dangerous levels to begin with.

Instead, the Galoru Protocols clarified that reactors used in agricultural scenarios needed to be certified by a licensed professional who had completed a training outlined in TCSRC Directive 950. Konstantin didn't have time to read the directive before Hatfield and the colonists reappeared.

"We've agreed to the proposal." Considering that 'the proposal' was entirely for his colony's benefit, Director Dolan didn't seem happy. "Under duress. You will transfer the ships to us, since it's easier than removing the reactors."

"All we need to do is manage the paperwork. I think."

Dolan scoffed at Captain Ford's blasphemous reduction of the situation. "Hardly 'all we need.' I've asked Mr. Vincent Gerald Sims, Junior to assist you. Something tells me your familiarity with the appropriate regulations is... lacking."

The coyote visibly bit his tongue, took a deep breath... then realization struck, and he calmed down. "You know, you may be right. I'm appointing Commander Kamyshev as our representative."

"Uh--"

"It's your squadron, after all. You'll be perfect for it, commander."

Konstantin flinched. "Are you sure?"

"This one?" Director Dolan sounded unconvinced, too.

But Captain Ford, taking advantage of his rank to effect an escape, nodded firmly. "He's a good man. And thorough."

"He has very excellent marks in his fitness reports," Captain Hatfield added. Much as Konstantin appreciated the compliment, he was also well aware that it put him in the position of having to accept the offer of responsibility.

Vincent Gerald Sims, Junior showed him to a temporary office. Sims, a jocular ram, used his first encounter with the commander to prove that there was no such thing as 'terminal boredom.' It was, rather, a chronic and debilitating condition. "I'm responsible for Agricultural Output Affairs, New Product Introduction," he said. "What do you do?"

"I'm a fighter pilot on the Agamemnon. I command Arrow Squadron--scout-interdictors, space and atmospheric ops."

Sims nodded. "It sounds exciting."

"It is."

"There's a lot of excitement in what I do, too." The ram appeared, mysteriously, to believe this statement. "In order for a new strain of spelt to be certified for offworld export, it has to meet approval from the Agricultural Ministry and the Subdivision of Interstellar Trade. You probably didn't know that. Last harvest, we had a new strain of triticum that was the first to be successfully modified with genes from Burr Ridge Bread Spelt. We had a shipment all the way prepared, and it turned out that the certifying inspector from AgMin--heh, that's our name for the Agricultural Ministry--well, she was only trained in Class B grains."

Konstantin did not know why the ram appeared so concerned by this. "I see."

"Of course, we had to file an amended Form 312 for that shipment. Believe me, that was a late night. I had to call Undersecretary Pearson off-schedule. We went to school together, so we're old friends, but even still--you don't want to call in a favor like that!"

"Right," Konstantin said. "I know what you mean." He did not.

"And then, we even had an alien saboteur nearly take out the shipment."

"Oh?" The snow leopard hadn't guessed that a freighter full of wheat would really warrant that sort of thing.

"That's what we call it when we have a shipment that's supposed to be one pure strain, but an inspection turns up signs of a different strain mixed into it. Obviously, you can't have that. This time, it was all just a mix-up with the forms, but I don't have to tell you how tense things were for a bit. You probably weren't expecting that agricultural exporting had so much going on, were you?"

"I was not."

Vincent pressed his ID badge to the door of an unmarked room and stepped through the door. "Well, it is. That's probably why Mr. Dolan asked me to help with something so important as this. Anyway, here's your desk, and these are my assistants."

Konstantin stopped listening. There were three assistants. One of them was obviously a raccoon, and one was obviously a tiger. The other was too short and too elfin to be a collie--Shetland sheepdog was more likely. All three seemed excited to meet someone new, and Konstantin decided he was plenty excited to meet them, in return.

"--from the Wheat Sciences Department," Sims was saying.

"Hm? Hm," Konstantin corrected quickly, so it seemed like he'd been paying attention. He would have to learn from context.

"Only Dora and I," the sheltie said. "Keith is in Pre-Law."

"Yes, sorry. Jane and Dora are studying Wheat Science, and Keith is in Pre-Law." Nearly everything Mr. Sims said was redundant, although it did give the snow leopard Jane's name. He thought she would've forgiven him for having to ask twice, considering the smile she gave him when he introduced himself.

He did not have the chance to engage any of them in proper conversation, after the pleasantries were over: there was work to be done. None of it was anything Konstantin understood, and none of it was anything he was expected to do himself. Documentation required a lot of experience, apparently.

Judging by how long it took, Tilea's primary export might well have been certificates and forms. Konstantin was obliged to give up any hope of leaving at a reasonable hour. The interns were used to it, and didn't chafe--though they also, obviously, were happy to have a guest.

Keith looked up from his desk, breaking a long, silent spell. "There we go. I'm done with the--hey, those are mine!"

Jane had popped to her feet and snatched the computer from off his desk. The sheltie brought it over to Konstantin, holding it out for him. "Mr. Kamyshev. Commander, I mean. These are for you."

"What are they?"

"Legal documents," Keith called out. He seemed a little perturbed that his authority had been usurped.

If so, it didn't bother the sheltie. "Simple legal documents." She pulled a chair up on the other side of the desk, sat down, and watched the snow leopard review them. The patterning of Jane's face--white muzzle and forehead, tan cheeks, and a subtle grey-brown line dividing them--was very nearly symmetric. The right tan patch came slightly further forward on her delicate muzzle. If her fur wasn't so neatly brushed, he might've missed it.

She also had very inquisitive eyes. Konstantin had to force himself to look away from her and towards the computer. Nothing about the computer validated the decision. "Form A-20, TCLSC56. Approval for Review of Records, Binding but Nonbinding to Children when Isol... what?"

Keith got up and came over. "Mr. Dolan wants all the maintenance records. These forms say we can look at them and you have to give them to us, but not any maintenance records that are linked to those."

"So..."

"So if I wanted to inspect your jacket, you'd have to let me, but it wouldn't let me inspect the buttons on it."

"Not quite, Jane," Keith said. "But way to play your hand. Buttons are Non-Isolating Children according to the Terran Confederation Legal Codex, because they're physically attached and an integral part of the uniform. On the other hand, if I had an A-20 for your jacket, it wouldn't entitle me to inspect your ribbons or the little metal wing badge you have."

Konstantin's thumb skimmed the computer, and he realized that the forms scrolled for a very long time down the screen. "Practically speaking, that means you want the maintenance records for the reactor, but that doesn't include the records for the fuel pumps. Right?"

"Right. Fuel pumps, safety mechanisms, exhaust systems, voltage converters, something called a 'flow matrix'... those aren't included. There are separate Form A-20s for all of them, and for some of their children. It runs to about fifty forms per machine."

"For three machines," Konstantin asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You need a hundred and fifty signatures?"

"Yes, sir." At least Keith had the good sense to recognize the request for its ridiculousness. "Sorry."

"Isn't there some form that would just authorize everything?"

"Form A-24F would, yes, but since maintenance records are classified..." The tiger's face twisted into a pained, telling grimace. "We'd need a countersigned form B-30 from the Star Patrol, and then a signed approval waiver for every form so that I could work on it, because I'm only an intern."

Konstantin understood enough of what he'd been told for a frown of his own. "Jesus Christ. So I guess I better get signing?"

"It's simple," Jane said, seizing the opportunity. She lifted the snow leopard's paw up, guided it to a blank box on the computer, and pressed his finger to the screen. The computer flashed, and gave a quiet, happy chime.

The box in question was clearly labelled SIGNATURE (TOUCH FINGER OR EQUIVALENT AND WAIT FOR CONFIRMATION), and so Commander Kamyshev thought that he would probably have been able to figure the process out eventually. But he thought that later, only after several seconds of thinking that the sheltie's fur was even softer than it looked.

While he went through page after page, signing off on a sea of endless forms, the three interns carried on at other forms of tedium. Kamyshev finished and handed the computer back to Jane. Jane took it over to Dora.

Dora added the computer to two others already on her desk, stacked them, and set the collection before Vincent Gerald Sims, Junior, who was listening to music on headphones beaming the sound into the ram's ears. "I've finished compiling all of the documentation, Mr. Sims."

He looked them over briefly. "Oh, hm, good. They're done? They can go to Director Dolan?"

"Yeah. And I was wondering if you still need me, then... or..."

"Or?"

The raccoon lashed her thickly ringed tail. "Because Avery is back from his trip to the Annex. We had dinner plans, like I told you when you called me in? Not that I want to be, um... I don't want to seem like I'm slacking."

"No, no, no." Vincent took his earphones out and dropped them to the desk. "I can take them. Thanks for your help, Dora." He stood, picked up the computers, and left.

Dora pulled a coat on, gathering her belongings. "See you around. Nice meeting you, commander." She shook his hand again and, while it was a pleasant handshake, Konstantin decided Jane's was nicer.

"You know she had reservations at Gruner's? Wish I could just up and get a reservation there." Keith said it offhandedly, but the tiger's tone made a certain degree of envy obvious. "Pretty sure she would've found a way out of this. 'Slacking,' huh? I've still got work."

"Not to make light of anything, but... so far, all the work hasn't been real, um. Important," Konstantin decided to take a chance on insulting the dedication of Sims and his assistants. "It could wait."

"Keith just means she doesn't really care if she's slacking," Jane explained. "She doesn't need the credits. Avery is Mr. Dolan's son. He can pull strings. It's how she even got in to the grad program; that's what I heard."

"Unlike Jane and I, who weren't born into nobility."

Konstantin found himself a little surprised; several hours of reading up on colonial bureaucracy until his eyes hurt left the snow leopard assuming they did everything by the book, rather like Captain Hatfield. "That really matters? There's no legal protocol for that?"

"'Legal' is whatever the director decides it is. I found that out once I actually started studying law. To be honest, I just hope that another jurisdiction will even let me take the exams."

"Not planning on sticking around, then, I take it?"

Keith's disgusted snort was plenty answer enough. Jane also thought the question silly. "Would you?" the sheltie demanded. "As soon as my dissertation's finished, I'm headed out on the first ship that'll take me. I mean... come on, commander--you thought we really liked this? You figured I was into wheat science?"

"I don't know what 'wheat science' is, exactly..."

Jane gave him the sweet smile of someone who has acted innocent often enough to get a bit complacent--there was a lopsided, toothy edge to it. "It's a way out, that's what."

He couldn't blame her, and was about to say so when the door swung open and Dolan himself stepped in. He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. "You're still here?"

"Yeah. Yes, sir," Konstantin amended, in case it would pacify the director. "Didn't know if there was more to do."

"You're done. Sims gave me everything. I hope it meets specifications."

"I'm sure it will, sir. Mr. Sims and the others here have been quite diligent."

"Hmph. It had better be good. I'm not paying you for another shift."

"You're not... paying me at all, sir. The Star Patrol does. As part of my commission. Because I work for them, not you."

Mr. Dolan scowled. "Well, I'm not paying these two."

"You don't pay for us, either. We're interns."

"Well, if you're interns, you better itemize the 4.6 Exemption Form, because you're not getting credits for this, not when Administrator Sims isn't here. I see what you're up to. When are you leaving, sailor?"

"Tomorrow."

The dog let out a grunt of inexplicable irritation. "You can't stay here. If you stay overnight, you have to stay in a quarantined space. No visitors longer than eight hours without providing a quarantine certificate or remaining in a Designated Monitoring Zone."

Konstantin waited for him to depart before asking what a Designated Monitoring Zone was. Even Keith didn't know all the details; it had something to do with observing for biological contamination. A search, though, turned up only one available room, in a hotel six kilometers away. Naturally, it did not offer approved transportation.

"You can't stay here; legally we have to turn the lights off and lock the doors in case anybody gets access to the record rooms or the processing certifications."

"Aren't those public?" Jane asked.

Keith shrugged. "The versions in TCS90 format that we upload to the main databank are. The local versions are stored on local servers, though, so... so they're technically private documents even though they're literally identical. You could hole up in one of your ship's vehicles, though."

"The... the ones we're giving you? The advanced, powerful starfighters we're lending Tilea as a favor to keep your greenhouses from freezing? I could sleep in the cockpit of one of those for the next eight hours?"

The tiger thought about it for a bit longer. "No, actually. Not the cockpit. If they found out we had a non-resident sleeping in a device or conveyance not approved for intentional rest, we could be in big trouble."

"I know..."

"Are you going to suggest he could sleep in your dorm room, Jane?"

"No." The sheltie looked suitably aghast. "But now that you mention it, he could. That's a good idea, Keith. Commander, I have a bed free. It isn't certified, but I think that since pretty much everything violates some ordinance..."

Since Keith's first suggestion had been sleeping in a cockpit, Commander Kamyshev didn't feel all that guilty about going along with Jane. Even if he didn't think getting him a good night's sleep was the highest on the list of her priorities.

Their destination was a student dormitory: small, clean and sturdy, just like the quarters on the Agamemnon. Her room was a little larger, and a little more decorated--if a few fluorescent paintings and a scraggly bonsai tree counted for decoration. Anything more, the snow leopard figured, probably offended Dolan's sensibilities.

"See?" Jane asked. She closed the door behind them, lowered the cold blue lights to half brightness, and gestured expansively.

This ended with her indicating a second bed in the room, showing no signs of recent occupation. "Huh."

The sheltie laughed at his expression. "Did you think I was making up the free bed, Konstantin?"

"A little."

"My roommate is never around. It's still a violation of protocol. You're not a student. Among other things, but..."

He sat down on the spare bed; it wouldn't fit the tall snow leopard especially well, but it seemed to be more comfortable than his quarters on the Agamemnon. "A place to sleep, at least."

Jane nodded. With Konstantin sitting down, the sheltie was finally taller than him. Not by much, though, and she gave the height up when she bent down to get closer. "And if... you know, hypothetically, if you're going to be violating protocols anyway..."

"Which other ones were you thinking I should violate?"

She put her paws on her thighs, steadying herself when she leaned forward. Her eyes went from his to the snow leopard's blue Star Patrol jacket. "It might break quarantine to take this off and let it contaminate my closet. I don't know, though."

"True. And since I wouldn't want you to get in trouble, I should probably do it." He undid the jacket, and tossed it onto the dresser. The fabric, designed by helpful engineers, wouldn't wrinkle. And it was more comfortable to go without it, wearing only a perfunctory sleeveless shirt. Even that might've been overkill: the dorm room seemed quite warm as it was.

Sheltie fur was just as heavy as snow leopard fur, which explained why Jane obviously felt the same way. Like Konstantin, she had a shirt on. Unlike him, that was all--no jacket--and pulling the shirt off was much more revealing. At least, to the extent that her thick, luscious, snow-white pelt revealed anything.

She settled onto his lap, blanketing him with her chestfluff. The cushion it made was so nice and plush that he couldn't object, even if it did present a fuzzy barrier between the two. Jane hugged him, adjusting her position a few times to find the best way to circle the feline's big chest.

As soon as her dainty little nose was close enough he went in the rest of the way for a thoughtful kiss. He intended it as a sort of test: prudent caution, like seeing how thick the ice was. Like all battle plans, it went out the window immediately. Jane grunted, and leaned her short body in for leverage, and their muzzles locked firmly.

Some period of time elapsed--his situational awareness was failing him. Thirty seconds? A minute? Long enough that by the time he recovered his wits Konstantin was out of breath, desperately aroused, and in need of a conscience that the sheltie paws buried in his fur entirely failed to provide. Not that he was doing much better, with his spread fingers pushed happily between her pants and the girl's pleasantly fluffy rear. "Hrf--Jane. Question."

She was out of breath, too. Her cute, shallow panting warmed his lips in the ragged pauses between her words. "What kinda question?"

"How much--uh. Mm. How much trouble would you be if anybody found out about this?"

Jane tilted her head. "About what?" Naturally, she knew exactly 'what' he was talking about. Otherwise, they would've still had all of their clothes on. He groped her with both paws, and she wiggled. "Oh. Well, they know I'm not a good girl, exactly."

"That didn't really answer my question." At best it only answered whether she was liable to stop.

"A fair amount, I guess... maybe." Jane leaned back and tilted her head again, more strongly. The abrupt, inescapable pressure her leaning put in his lap, right against his problematically clothed crotch, spoke to something less innocent than curiosity. "You?"

"My captain wouldn't be happy."

Konstantin couldn't necessarily recall the specific Star Patrol regulations against fraternizing with the locals. Honestly, he didn't have any reason to believe there were any. But if anybody knew that it was strictly forbidden by Paragraph 99, Subsection Blah of Protocol Who-Gives-a-Fuck, it would be Captain Hatfield. He could bet on it.

This nagging suspicion kept him from doing everything he really, and quite badly, wanted to do to the sheltie. Jane leaned back forward, grinding against his erection, and lapped at the snow leopard's ear when she asked him how much he cared. He needed to do the right thing and lie. I care a lot.

"I... well..."

The lap became a nibble. "Mm-hmm?"

"I..." Say it, Bubbles. 'I care about setting a good example, which doesn't extend to fucking the bark out of teasing little sheltie girls.' Unless it did? I wouldn't want the natives to get the wrong idea about the capabilities of the Star Patrol, and--

The communicator wrapped around his wrist vibrated and buzzed, surprising them both. Konstantin jumped. Jane bit down on his ear, or he knocked her muzzle shut--either way, it stung. "Eep!" She gave a little yelp and rolled off the snow leopard.

He tapped his wrist. "Commander Kamyshev speaking."

"Commander." Dolan's voice came through perfectly rendered, including the dry irritation. "It's good that you're still awake."

"Yes. Not for too much longer, seeing how late it is. Can I help you?"

"What were you even thinking?"

How the fuck did he find out? Jane also looked concerned. But when she dabbed his ear, her paw came back showing a bit of red--so maybe she had other things to feel guilty about.

"Well?" Mr. Dolan demanded.

"Well... I got a little carried away, sure. But--"

"You got the exact opposite. Don't take that tone with me! Do you think I'm impressed by you Star Patrol showoffs? I'm not impressed by you Star Patrol showoffs."

Konstantin knew, much as he wanted to say it, that explaining he hadn't even started showing off yet wouldn't please the colony's administrator. "Well, I'm sorry, but--"

"Do you think I'm an idiot, commander? I'm not an idiot."

"I didn't mean to give a different impr--"

"Do you know how important this is? It's very important!"

"Yes, you made that--"

"Then explain yourself! Do you think I can't count to five?" Silence. "Do you?"

He was losing patience at being interrupted, and the man's general tone. "I figured it was a rhetorical question."

"Do you even know what a rhetorical question is, mister commander Star Patrol! Ugh! The auxiliary unit on that reactor is clearly rated at sixteen megawatts. Isn't it?"

Konstantin knew immediately that he'd lost the thread, somewhere, although he didn't know where and he didn't know what the new thread was. "I guess?"

"I just bet you guess. Figure out the rest, genius. No, wait, I'll do it for you. You described it as twelve megawatts! Awfully convenient that your mistake makes the complete assembly a Class D McConnell device, rather than a Class E one--isn't it?"

Jane silently slid off the bed, and came back holding up a computer for him to read. Konstantin only had time to skim the definitions of what appeared to be several kilobytes of legalese. "Uh, isn't the only difference the maximum output?"

"And the tax class!"

"You're not paying taxes on it. We're lending them to you. And... uh, wait. Even if we were, wouldn't that just mean you were getting more power than you paid for? What's the problem?"

"The problem is you clearly didn't want to fill out a Form E96 certification, and you thought I wouldn't notice. Well, I noticed. I noticed, didn't I? I'm calling your captain first thing in the morning and having a Form E96 sent out with a Form T5-A attachment. How do you like that?"

Dolan ended the call before he could get any sort of reply out of the snow leopard. Konstantin's head hurt. His ear, in particular, hurt. "What is a Form E96?"

Jane looked it up quickly. "Statement of origin protection. You sign off that the device in question didn't come from an illegal vendor. Uh... I think it was originally meant to keep colonies from buying weapons and stuff from pirates."

"We're the Star Patrol, for fuck's sake."

"Yeah..."

"What about a Form T5-A?"

"According to this, it's an itemization of how much time is spent working on something, if you want to bill somebody hourly. The actual bill is a separate form. I guess Dolan just wants your captain to know he spent time on it."

"For fuck's sake." Konstantin said it again, because he didn't know what else to do.

The sheltie, casting an innocent glance ceilingward, tossed the computer aside. Her delicate fingers stroked the bulge straining at the crotch of his Star Patrol-issue trousers, and she nudged the catch with pressure just barely too light to pop the material open. "I think you're already in trouble..."

"True. And I'm not inclined to be charitable."

"To Mr. Dolan, or to me?" She perceptively read between the lines of the feline's grin, and casually slid his pants open. He had yet to answer. He didn't speak until she'd gently tugged his underwear off, and her thumb was resting lightly right against his cock.

"You did draw blood..."

Her ears lost their cute little fold, and swung back. "I also said I was a bad girl." The precedent having been established, she rubbed him a little harder. "You're apparently a bad kitty, too."

"There's a saying--'in for a penny, in for a pound.'"

"Yeah, and which one am I in for?"

Konstantin couldn't properly purr, no more than Jane could, but he gave his best impression, and flashed his fangs. "Do you even know what a rhetorical question is? Get your pants off, pup."

Jane's ears perked up, having earned the snow leopard's surrender. She shimmied out of her clothes and clambered onto the bed. When she slid past him, she nudged his side roughly with her hip. "One favor, in case you are charitable?"

He finished undressing and turned to find the sheltie waiting on all fours, a stance that rendered her simultaneously more compact and more obviously demanding. Konstantin got behind her, and was pleased to find that his greater weight on the bed put her in a rather obliging position. "Yes?"

"You're kinda, uh... ah!" He was running the tip of his cock slowly between her lips, wetting it, teasing himself with the silky warmth. Teasing her, too: she gasped, and started over from the beginning. "You're a pretty big kitty."

"I'll go slow," he said, aligned himself, and pushed in gently.

The canine sighed through a tense, slightly parted muzzle as she took that first inch, and then the next. She groaned and closed her eyes while he slid slowly deeper, and deeper. Heat steadily enveloped him. "Y-yes, but..." she finally murmured.

He rested his paws on her back. His fingers smoothed her fur down, and with a grunted effort he hilted himself, already regretting the promise. It was, at best, a pretty close fit. "'But'? There's more?"

"Nnh." Being so full of snow leopard had the sheltie's thoughts muddled. "N-not what I m-meant."

Konstantin pulled halfway out. "Don't need it slow?" He shoved in more forcefully and held himself still until her shuddering calmed down.

"Mmf. Just. You--you have barbs. Right?"

Can't all have knots, girl. He pumped into the sheltie a few more times, each time holding back a little less. Slow enough to let her feel the for-the-moment subtle spines that studded his feline shaft. Strong enough to let her decide for herself what might happen when they came into play. "Right... not a fan, pup?"

"M-m-maybe. With--someone. Your own--size."

Fair enough. "No problem," he said, and took out his slight sense of disappointment in a handful of sharp, powerful strokes. It vanished immediately, the way she shivered and moaned when he bucked firmly against her rump and she had to brace herself with her paws to keep from being knocked forward. No problem, indeed.

Happy agreement, even. He let himself go, fucking her as swiftly as the mating instincts asserting themselves demanded. And she took him eagerly, reduced from broken sentences to single words and finally just raw, unapologetically canine yelps. There had been too many words already that day, and most of them hadn't mattered.

Konstantin gave up on them too. The snow leopard moaned and growled and chuffed hoarsely, adding to the chaotic symphony of the dog's pleased whimpers and the rough scrabbling of her claws on the sheets.

The bed, courtesy of the sturdy code to which it had been constructed, stayed quiet.

Neither of them were in the mood to appreciate the finer points of regulation. Konstantin was far too busy driving his cock into the sheltie's sodden, squelching cunt--burying himself deep to feel the hint of pressure and resistance as he bottomed out. Every time, he futilely tried to pace himself. Every time, the resolve lasted until he was starting to pull out and the need to fill her again consumed him.

And every time, Jane's claws raked the sheets harder. Her paws shook. The snow leopard rutting into her was too distracted to notice the trembling. He caught its next stage, though. She tightened her fingers into a fist, thumping the bed in a frantic rhythm, trying to channel her energy into something subtle as she lost control. Thump-thump-thump.

Her fist stiffened to a halt, aloft. Her muzzle opened, and the whine that left it broke into a shriek before she could help herself. Too late, she crushed her nose to her paw to muffle it. It didn't really matter: with her dripping pussy stuffed solidly full of snow leopard, Konstantin's desperate humping and her own involuntary shudders as she bucked on his cock kept tugging her muzzle free to let the howling burst out at full volume.

He slowed down and let her finish. Not that he wanted to: he just didn't have a choice. She squirmed, pushing back to keep him buried deep, and tight as Jane was he couldn't move much anyway. He waited until she'd stopped wailing and was panting in heaving greedy breaths. Even then, his first thrust seized the sheltie's fluffy body up anew.

She was frozen, a warm, living statue--except for the pressure, the flexing, rhythmic grasp that bore down on his shaft. The sheltie was clenching at him, squeezing down where his knot would've been if he was a dog. And even if he wasn't, the urge to cum in her right then and there was real, and very demanding.

This time, Konstantin waited until her panting had slowed down, too. He hoped it might have taken the edge off, but no. Two slow thrusts and his ability to pace himself was gone. A half-dozen and he was back to pounding into her, only now his paws had a possessive grip on her flanks and his claws were digging in.

Close. So fucking close to ending the night properly. He shut his eyes and rammed home into the plush-furred sheltie. "Kitty," he heard her gasp. When he didn't answer he felt her paw thud into his wrist. "Kitty." He opened his eyes. She was looking at him over her shoulder expectantly. "Almost there?"

He didn't have the coherence to ask about _rhetorical questions--_just nodded. As soon as he had she wriggled from his hold. His thrust met empty air but even so he couldn't help the reflexive movements. Konstantin hissed, huffing an oath at the abrupt denial. "Fuck--hey--wha--"

It turned into a groan before his conscious mind processed anything. The cool air of the dorm room vanished. Warmth engulfed him, wet and slippery and deliciously textured. He glanced down to watch his prick slip between her lips and into the sheltie's mouth. The snow leopard wasn't much of an easier fit there than he'd been in her pussy. No way she could swallow all of him.

She made up for it by sucking hard, bobbing greedily on the muzzleful she managed. His world collapsed to a point, one sensation tumbling to the next. The silky attention of her tongue bathing him, to the slickness of her thick saliva, joined quickly by the thin, tangy, warning spurts of precum. He chuffed twice--deep, shaky, telling breaths--then sucked his breath in and tensed up.

Jane knew what was coming. She pulled back, suckling and lapping his tip just as his cock flexed and the pleasure overcame him. He was groaning, thrusting erratically... and controlling none of it any more than the spurts of rich snow leopard cum he shot against the dog girl's tongue and the roof of her dainty muzzle.

The sheltie swallowed, and kept swallowing, sucking her lips to tease his flaring spines--more than once he thought it was over until another wave hit and a fresh eruption filled her. Skillfully, she let him have his way while instinct ran its course. Her paws kept him from burying himself too deep when his hips jerked against her muzzle, holding him in just the right place as he blew his sizable load.

Konstantin could only mewl in weak protest to his sensitive length by the end, when his twitching cock added nothing else; he'd drained everything into her. The dog let up the pressure, and licked him gingerly. "Better, kitty?" He answered too slowly; she gave his tip the lightest, gentlest of kisses. "I hope so. You're not worn out, are you?"

"Aren't... you?"

Jane's eyes locked on his. Head tilted, soft breath still washing warmly against him, she kept her gaze fixed on Konstantin until he repeated the question, more incredulously.

And then, with a grin, she shrugged.

***

Jack Ford emerged from his regular Operational Efficiency Checkin--these took place every three days, or every two in a crisis--uncertain what to think about anything. They'd left Tilea four days earlier, and this was his second OEC. That seemed to imply a crisis, and the ship's captain was very focused on the crucial details of their coming mission. Was she worried? He didn't know.

He also did not know whether he had been praised or chided. The Strike Group was within two percent of their expected usage of fuel and computing resources; Captain Hatfield had been very enthusiastic about the degree of accuracy in their predictions.

Then, half an hour of instruction in statistical analysis had followed. You should aim to reduce your utilization mismatch coefficient below ten, she'd said. The coyote made the mistake of looking confused--that was the proximate cause of the half-hour lesson. It ended with a grave look from the doe, and the words: it's very important.

He did not bring up the communication he'd received over a secure channel. That would've rocked the boat, and for no good reason at all.

Lunch, in the officer's mess, was described on the shipboard menu as 'club sandwiches.' Conversation with the cook revealed that they were engaged in an 'A-B test.' Half of the recipients got normal sandwiches; half got ones where the bread had been replaced by 'synthetic grain analogue.'

"That's a hell of a face, commander." Lieutenant Commander Stewart's voice filtered into the sphere of his awareness; he glanced up to find the genet standing with her own tray on the far side of the table from him. "Mind if I join you?"

"No." He waited for her to sit down. "The cook told me that I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between cooked bread and bread from the nutrient dispensers."

"Can you tell the difference?" Irene Stewart, wisely, had taken nothing but salad.

Jack took a piece of not-bread, and pulled it apart. The material stretched and deformed; when he let go, it sprung disconcertingly back into bread-slice shape. "Yes."

The genet's heavy frown was, at least, sympathetic. "I guess this is what that bulletin was about, then, commander?"

"I must've missed something."

"The Aggie is running an experiment in cooperation with Star Patrol scientists--I know; I was asked to reserve a computing cluster to model it. They figure that if they replace 'secondary foodstuffs' with nutrient-dense synthetics, they can increase efficiency by eight percent. Captain Hatfield developed the theory."

The coyote tried, and failed, to tear off a bit of not-bread. "What is the 'efficiency' in question?"

"Feeding us, I think. Or, maybe, they just want us to lose weight."

"I wonder if the Dark Horse will have actual food."

"Putting in for a transfer?" Lieutenant Commander Stewart asked the question as if she was teasing. Captain Ford answered it the same way... but truthfully...

He knew that Captain Hatfield was one of the best commanders in the history of the Star Patrol. Her ship ran like a finely tuned, high precision machine; nobody could fault that. She'd be an admiral soon enough. Captain Hatfield represented exactly what the Star Patrol needed: efficiency, formality, and respect for protocol.

Obviously the Star Patrol didn't need anyone like Madison May--no reckless rogues to upset the apple cart. Why else would she have been exiled? And why, after everything, did he feel what could only be described as jealousy for her?

"I'm looking forward to meeting them," Stewart admitted. "I want to see how a ship like that runs."

"So do I. I wonder if we'll be surprised."

"My understanding is that her real problem is she's too darn independent. The crew roster is..." She trailed off into laughter. "Well, it's something, that's the word for it. Her chief engineer was the one who blew up the munitions depot on Haber."

"I thought that was an accident?"

"Blowing it up was an accident, yes. They were working on a new type of power conduit... obviously, it failed, but Star Patrol scientists used the data to get the design down two months later. Apparently it's twice as good as what we have now! Of course, it did take out that depot..."

"But nobody was hurt." Jack gave up on his sandwich while the same could be said of experimenting with synthetic grain analogues. "How many forms do you suppose..."

Stewart eyed him curiously. "Commander?"

"Just realized that they're out of normal communications range. They don't have to deal with the forms. Don't have to deal with any of it..."

"Now you really do look like you're thinking about jumping ship," she teased.

"Can I show you something?" He let her finish eating; then they walked back to his office, and comparative privacy. "This is an official communication directed at me."

She skimmed it, showing the same kind of bafflement Jack Ford had when he'd first received the message. "What is a 'Directive for Official Sanction'?"

"Somebody's not happy with one of my pilots. He seems to have gotten himself in a bit of hot water back on Tilea. I mean..." Jack cleared his throat. "It wasn't the only thing he got himself into."

Lieutenant Commander Stewart rolled her eyes. "I see. And they lodged a complaint?"

"Yeah."

"Have you considered controlling your men better, commander?"

Jack realized the impression the genet was under, and shook his head. "This is not from them. It's from the colony director. He wasn't happy."

"Because..."

"Apparently miss Jane Voss decided to transfer out of the Agricultural department to a university on Mars specializing in cybernetics and nanotech medicine. Director Dolan believes that a well-run colony shouldn't have folks up and leaving like that."

"Well-run? Sounds familiar."

"Doesn't it, though."

Scratching behind an ear, she finally read the rest of the complaint. It ran to nearly two thousand words, many of which were fairly graphic. "'I was informed of a disturbance at the university campus,' huh? Oh. Oh my. 'Repeatedly and into the early hours of the morning.'"

"It becomes somewhat more... direct. He interviewed the students in the adjacent dorms after Voss said she was transferring."

"On the grounds that this adventure with your pilot somehow caused her to take up an interest in cybernetics?"

"I gather, yes."

At last, she looked away from the report. "Cybernetics, though? What does he assume this conveniently unnamed pilot is made of?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask. Anyway, you see my problem, right? Technically, having received this request I'm obligated to act on it. That should go into the official record. It's a conversation I'm happy to have with the pilot, but..."

Lieutenant Commander Stewart nodded. "I can't help you, though. It's a legal document. I don't have the permission to delete documents with a classification rating of lambda or above. Official Star Patrol protocol."

Coyote luck strikes again. "Son of a bitch." He caught himself immediately, clearing his throat again. "Of course, I wasn't asking you to delete it, because that would be wrong."

She nodded again, demonstrating genuine and grave concern for such protocol. "Very wrong."

"Thanks for offering," he quietly added.

"I didn't. You just asked me to come down because your computer was acting up, and I run the IT department. Right, Captain Ford?"

The coyote raised an eyebrow. "Right..."

"Computer... run a level 12 diagnostic on all sectors contained in the specified communications log."

There was a pause. "Diagnostic complete. No errors found."

Irene Stewart got a rather mischievous look. "The captain wanted us to be able to scan our hardware more effectively, though, to better predict impending failures. Computer: rerun the diagnostic, and increase scanning resolution by two hundred percent."

"Diagnostic complete. No errors found."

"Computer: rerun the diagnostic, and increase scanning resolution by five hundred percent."

The display lit up brightly. "Six thousand, nine hundred memory errors detected."

"See?" Lieutenant Commander Stewart asked. Jack didn't see; he shook his head. "Hardware problem, captain."

"I'm still not quite following."

"Computer, mark the affected sectors as corrupted and create a work order for the memory units to be swapped. Restore the last backup of the comm log, authorization Stewart Four Seven Alpha."

"Voiceprint confirmed. Backup restoration complete."

Right. Because, as director of the Agamemnon's information technology department, the genet was certainly responsible for maintaining the system backups, she'd done the responsible thing--having detected faulty hardware, she'd removed it from use. Any lost data was merely an inconvenient side effect.

Some data had, in fact, been lost. "I'm afraid that message you were looking for didn't make it--wasn't in the previous archive. You can ask them for a new copy next time we're around Tilea."

"I'll definitely remember to do that. I guess you got lucky, too, right? Seven thousand errors..."

"Out of a million sectors, yes. And at that resolution, quantum tunneling means we see random effects where nothing actually exists. I tried to explain it, but you can imagine how that conversation went. It's hard for some people to imagine, but you can look too closely at something."

"I see. So it's not really any less corrupt now?"

Irene Stewart crossed her arms over her chest, and stared him down with a dry deadpan. "No. No, captain, it's not much less corrupt. On the other hand..."

"On the other hand?"

"It does work better. Wouldn't you agree?"