FSE

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For the third time, Weaver trembled on the cramped bridge of a superluminal data freighter, steeling himself for the impending embedding. For the third time, he had managed to convince himself that the money was a necessity, that the pay was worth the risk. And for the third time, he tried his very best not to think about the five percent chance that the ship would not make it to the other side.

He was not alone. Iora stood rigid beside him, digging her claws into the plastic decking. It was a bad habit of hers, he knew--she had done the same on their last two trips together--but if any situation called for such habits, it was this one. The Apeiron was not an easy place to get into, if that eerie hyperspace could even be called a_place_.

Yet that feeling of nervous anxiety did not extend to the other dragons on the bridge. The three remaining crew members of _The Undersea Cable_were neither shaking nor frozen, but instead relaxed and loose. While the silence was tense, they displayed no outward fear or apprehension. If anything, they seemed almost impatient. Like this trip was routine.

Weaver wished he had even half of the calm that they exuded. It was the rational thing to do--worry or not, there was nothing to be done about the situation. If the embedding failed, he wouldn't feel it. None of them would. So there was no point in worrying. But he worried just the same.

To call the upcoming trip safe would be a lie. While uncommon, ships traveling via the Apeiron did not always arrive at their destination. That cursed five percent of the time, ships would depart from safe, low-order spacetime only to never be heard from again. The reasons behind the losses were unclear, but given the absurd energies involved in embedding a forty-meter wide spherical freighter into high-order space, being accidentally vaporized was not out of the question. Those who safely returned never seemed to have had any issues with the journey through hyperspace itself, which only bolstered the theory: embedding failure would easily explain such a binary outcome.

Of course, such explanations did little to quell the rumors about what had _really_happened to those unfortunate ships. They were all seamen's tales, for the most part, stories telling of monsters the size of planets, of crews going mad. Everyone loved a good tale, after all, and hyperspace made for quite the preternatural setting. Not that there were ever any firsthand accounts of such things.

Weaver focused on his breathing, forcing it to slow, and looked at Iora.

"It'll be fine," she assured him, though her voice wavered. "You'll feel better once we're in."

"I hope you're right," he whispered back.

Their captain, Vanga, made a terse reply into her headset. Something about the auxiliary power clamps. The hull clanged as they disengaged, metal grinding against metal until the ship was free of its bonds. She continued to listen intently to the device.

"Fully detached," she eventually said. "We have the green light. Stitch?" She looked to the golden dragon in front of the group.

The runty navigator wore a full-head visor that covered the sides of his face to the base of his skull in a dull, gray plastic. A nest of wires poured out of the device and down into the deck. He gave a shallow nod in response and pinched the space in front of him, swiping to navigate the virtual interface.

The others tensed, straightening their backs and curling their claws inwards. Stitch made a final, deliberate pinch, and The Undersea Cable was launched in a direction that did not exist, the hull rumbling and creaking as the ship began to embed into the golden, gooey ocean that was the Apeiron. After a few loud seconds, everything fell dead silent.

Weaver's ears rang. He could hear his own heartbeat thumping in his chest, and imagined he would be able to hear everyone else's, too, were his own not so loud. His focus was fixed to the navigation dashboard. It would light up to indicate success. Then this torturous moment would finally be over.

Soon. Probably. Had it always taken this long?

Stitch let his foreleg fall back down to the ground. Then a small light on the dashboard turned on, showing a wonderful, solid shade of green. The room sighed. They had made it.

Vanga was the first to speak. "Another successful embedding--time to break out the drinks," she said flatly, pulling the headset off and hooking it onto a nearby peg. "I'm kidding, Stitch" she added. The navigator lowered his raised foreleg slowly back down to the ground.

"You need to have your head on straight to drive, anyways," Thrush said. The firecracker-red dragon stood by Vanga's right side and wore a rough, tan working suit that bore the telltale stains and wear of heavy use. The Astralonx company logo had once been emblazoned on a left sleeve, but had since faded and torn. Thrush's ruddy scales popped through the gash, making it look as if the submarine emblem had been wounded during some particularly intense repair work.

"Not really," Stitch replied as he continued swiping through the air. "I just have to make sure we don't crash. Chart is planned two hours ahead--no reaction time needed."

"Uh... Captain?" Weaver started, frowning. "We don't actually have any hexane aboard, do we? I'm pretty sure it wasn't in the food manifest."

"Personal supply, only for emergencies," Vanga deadpanned.

Weaver let himself chuckle at that. Iora smiled alongside him, but the other three did not join in. He let the laugh fade away into the faint drone of the ship's fans.

"That part wasn't a joke," Thrush said. "I hope we never have to open those bottles."

"And we won't," Vanga stated. "Thrush, Stitch, I know I'm preaching to the choir here--"

Stitch sighed. "Again?"

"Quiet--you don't have to listen if you don't want to. But Iora and Weaver haven't heard the whole spiel. I need to make sure we're all on the same page." The captain turned to face the pair directly, standing up straight. "You've each done two shipments, right?"

"That's right," Iora replied, matching Weaver's nod. "And we were each planning on doing a couple more before stopping."

"That's good--it means you have an idea of what this means, then. I've captained thirty, most of them with Thrush and Stitch here."

"Thirty!" Iora exclaimed.

Weaver was dumbfounded. Thirty trips was flat-out absurd. He and Iora had agreed to do five, and that was already risky: there was only a seventy-seven percent chance for them both to make it. What would those odds be for_thirty?_ He couldn't do the math in his head. There was no point--it was too small to bet one's life on, obscene pay or not. What motivation could possibly warrant that?

"You're tempting fate," Iora continued. "Those odds... they apply to us. They're not pretend."

Vanga raised a claw in the air. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Answer me candidly, both of you--would you rather be with a crew green behind the ears--forgive the pun, Weaver--or with a veteran one? Which would you think is safer?"

"It's not about competence," Iora said. "It's about luck. It's about survivorship bias."

"I'm with Iora," Weaver said, frowning. "I'm sure you all know what you're doing, but... what if you've just been lucky to make it through so many times?"

The captain beamed. "Well, then you're with a veteran crew that also happens to be lucky. That's strictly better, no?"

Weaver exchanged a worried glance alongside Iora.

"That doesn't explain why you've done thirty trips."

"Same reason as anyone," Thrush grunted, facing away from them. "Including you two, I'll bet."

The captain nodded. "That's right. I'm going to retire after this. Early, perhaps, but I'm nearly there with my little nest egg."

Weaver could sympathize with the general idea, albeit not at such an excessive scale. He had planned to retire to Earth once this was all over. It was an expensive endeavor for a dragon, but he'd had enough of living in metal boxes. Even the really big ones that spun were still absolutely lifeless.

Yet even the exorbitant surgical costs to adapt his body to the small, blue planet--not to mention custom everything_as an alien there--could be covered by the compensation from just a few shipments. Hell, he had enough for that much already. He just needed a bit more so that there was something to live off of afterwards. Earth wasn't the easiest place to find work, especially as a dragon. A couple more shipments and he could live a comfortable life there, though it wouldn't be extravagant. He could understand someone taking on the risk of a few more jobs than he did, if they had less to lose. But not_thirty of them. What kind of opulent lifestyle did she have in mind?

"You don't believe in the risks," Iora said.

Thrush growled, lashing his head around to glare at the two. "We aren't complacent, if that's what you mean. We've had close calls.I've had close calls, too many times."

The captain's face went stern. "Thrush is right," she said. "That's what I was getting to. Look, I don't care what you two think about my decisions, or any of ours, for that matter. I don't care about yours, either. We're all free to make our own choices here. But when it comes to safety and command, there will be no hesitation or excuses with respect to my orders." She glanced at Thrush. "From anyone. Clear?"

Weaver and Iora nodded curtly.

"Good. Then let's get to work."

The server room was blisteringly hot, fans screaming as they tried to dump as much heat as possible into the rest of The Undersea Cable. That much was normal. As Weaver replaced each damaged drive, the system would repair itself, fixing errors and building redundancy back into the system, all in preparation for their projection back into regular spacetime. What was not normal, however, was the sheer amount of corruption that the embedding had caused this time around. Pseudoradiation always broke some of the drives, but the damage here was downright rampant. The console reported that 537 of their 768 drives would need replacing.

Weaver panted as he slid yet another drive out of yet another bay and replaced it with yet another good one from the tray. While Astralonx had provided an abundance of spares, there were barely enough to cover half of the damages. It was no longer a question of_if_ they had lost data--it was a question of exactly how much.

There were few things for which the company would dock their pay. So long as a crew delivered the data payload quickly and intact, everyone was happy. Even if they missed the main arrival window and had to project the ship back using a later, backup timeslot, they would still not be penalized. Better late than never, after all, and even late deliveries were still six years ahead of radio communications.

But if that payload were to arrive corrupted, Astralonx might assume negligence. And with negligence came penalties. If they believed he was at fault, they could dock his pay, or worse, fire him. Neither would do--not if he was to ever retire to Earth. His dream would die. Just getting a job was hard enough these days, let alone one that paid as exorbitant an amount as this one did.

There was only one option: he would have to report it to the captain. The damages were no one's fault, after all--just bad luck. Hopefully she would be reasonable, even if she didn't seem the type to believe in "bad luck". She would at least not look to him as a scapegoat. Probably.

Weaver's head swam from the sweltering air. He checked the tray. Was it already that empty? Another drive came out. Another in. It would be hypnotic were the heat not so distracting.

A metallic banging came from the door behind him, barely audible above the headache-inducing fans. Weaver ignored the noise and pulled another drive out of the bay. Whoever it was, they could wait. He was nearly done.

The bangs came again. He ignored them again. This was the last drive in the tray.

Weaver slammed the bay closed. A second later, an indicator light beside it flickered green. That was it. Barely half of what needed replacing, but it would have to do. There was nothing to do now except wait and let the servers finish repairing themselves.

The air tugged at his back. Weaver's heart skipped a beat. He whipped his head around, automatically assuming a hull breach. But thankfully, the change in pressure was only from the door, which had been cracked open. Iora's welcome, ocean-blue snout poked through it.

"Hey!" She shouted, her voice barely cutting through the shrieking fans.

Weaver waved back to her with his tail. He didn't try to yell; there was no point in trying, given all the noise. Instead, he motioned that he would meet her outside and trotted to the doorway.

Cool, refreshing air washed over his scales as he stepped past, the sprung door clattering shut behind him. Those incessant fans still buzzed in his head. If past experience was anything to go by, they would keep doing so for some time.

"Sorry," Iora said. "Did I interrupt?"

Weaver scratched around his horns. "Ah, no. I had just finished. Time for my physical, then?"

"You know it." She started down the passageway.

They turned a corner, weaving through a dense jungle of power conduits and storage lockers. The rolling of dice echoed from another direction, followed by laughter and shouting. The others had already finished their jobs, it seemed.

"Slow work?" Iora asked. "Seems like it took longer than usual. I had thought to see you in the rec room earlier, but you weren't there."

Weaver groaned. "The embedding broke more drives than usual. I don't think everything will make it. Have to wait for the whole thing to finish repairing itself before we'll know exactly how bad it is, though." He sped up his pace until he was right behind her. There was no room to walk abreast in the tight corridor. "Say, you didn't notice anything with anyone else, right? I know pseudoradiation is supposed to be safe, but if the drives are anything to go by, we got more than a normal dose."

"Everyone else is fine, physically. Too fine, even. I don't know if it's complacency, but they definitely feel comfortable here."

"Huh. Guess that's what thirty trips does to you."

"I guess so."

Iora led him into a room the size of a walk-in closet. Each corner was chock-full of various equipment and instruments. A small laying-bench sat as the centerpiece, with narrow paths alongside it. Between the two of them, there was not much space left over.

"Could you lie down and give me a leg?" Iora asked. "We'll do heart rate and blood pressure first."

Weaver did so. The chill set in once he stopped moving. This room was on the edge of the ship, up against the hull. Unlike the server room, the challenge was in keeping it warm. The Apeiron stole heat in fifteen dimensions at once--it was entirely new category of cold. He focused on the subtly curved, concave surface. There were but a few inches of metal, heating coils, vacuum insulation, and then nothing but frigid, unforgiving oblivion beyond. He shivered.

Iora wrapped the cuff snugly around his thigh and grabbed a nearby clipboard. She hit a button on the machine and the compressor began to rattle, the cuff giving that familiar, unyielding squeeze.

"I guess you've been working, so the readings might be a little off," she said.

"As long as I don't set any new records."

The sphygmomanometer vibrated for a while until it finally sounded off a loud beep. Weaver felt the blood return to his leg, flooding it with warmth.

Iora examined the readout. "Hmm. You'll have to try harder than that if you want a highscore. Definitely above baseline, but normal for the Apeiron. I've seen worse from you." She scribbled the results down.

"Guess I'll have to find something more strenuous to do next time."

Iora chuckled, grabbing a vacutainer from a nearby holder. "Have something in mind?"

"You know I do." He looked away. A sharp pinch came from his leg. "Though I can't say you taking my blood is much of a turn-on."

Iora remained focused on the vial, watching it slowly fill like a loading bar. "I don't know, seems pretty intimate to me. Just the two of us, and I've got you entirely under my claws..."

"Hah."

Iora removed the vacutainer and rolled a bandage onto the prick. The vial went into a wall-mounted storage cabinet, chilled to preserve the samples inside. While benign, traveling through the Apeiron had measurable physical effects. Astralonx would pay extra for any blood samples taken during the trip. It was a strange request, perhaps, but an optional one, and such a small thing compared to the risk from the shipment itself.

"All done?" Weaver asked.

"You don't feel sick? No bruises you can't remember getting, no headaches?"

"I feel alright."

"Then we're done, for now."

Weaver hauled himself off of the bench, turning his back to the hull wall. "On to your next patient, then?"

"Just Stitch, but he was napping last time I saw him. I swear, navigators are impossible to grab for these."

"Oh. Well, in that case, think this physical could run a little longer?"

Iora's eyes narrowed. "Why? Something the matter?"

"Nothing serious--I just thought we could run through some more rigorous cardio tests," he said, stretching in a motion that mimicked a slow thrust.

Iora snorted. "As much as I would love to, we should probably ask about the breeding pay before we have sex."

"Permission, forgiveness..." His tail lashed back and forth.

"I mean it, Weaver--we're on the clock. We can ask Vanga and have some time sanctioned. Then we won't need to worry about someone walking in on us or needing us."

"Yeah, but..." He scratched behind an ear. "I really don't want to ask her, though. I'm not sure the captain likes us so much as she tolerates us."

"We'll ask together, then. I'm sure she'll let us. One of the perks of having a captain who is both overconfident and greedy. She'll leap at the chance for free money."

"I guess." That was all true, and asking alongside Iora would be a bit easier. But he still had to have the conversation with their captain about the drive failures, and it had to come first. It was probably better to just get it out of the way, anyways.

"But I've got to discuss all of our lovely data corruption with her first," he added, grimacing. "Come with me? We can ask about the breeding pay right after."

"As much as I would love to..." She scanned the spotless room. "I've still got a few things to finish up here. I'll be right behind you once I'm done."

Weaver smirked. "You're allowed to say no."

"I'll be right behind you once I'm done," she repeated.

"Fine, fine. Suit yourself, but don't take too long." Weaver pushed the door open and slipped out into the hallway, letting the door close itself behind him.

The passageway was noticeably warmer than the medical room. It was more like a tunnel in some places, carving its way through haphazard equipment and half-open maintenance panels. Weaver started carefully along the path, deeper into the ship.

There were too many ways the conversation with the captain could go wrong. She didn't seem like the type of person who would readily accept chance accidents. She would want to know why those drives failed, and he had no answer to that beyond bad luck. And her rejection of bad luck as a concept had been quite clear.

He squeezed through a tight corner partially blocked by conduits. Their captain had done _thirty_trips. If this amount of drive failure had never occurred before, she might look for someone to blame. Someone like him. After all, it certainly wasn't the fault of her favored little trio. Iora wasn't anywhere near them. He was the obvious variable.

He tried to push the thought out of his mind as he approached the rec room. Surely the captain had firsthand experience with the volatility of the Apeiron, or at least the tact to not throw a fellow crew member under the bus? Maybe he was just over-thinking it. He swung the door open.

The rec room was a small place that looked large only because it was conjoined to a corner of the bridge--there were no walls separating the two. Unnecessary walls were wasted space, of course, but their absence here was symbolic as well: there were to be no barriers between work and relaxation. They were all on-call the entire time, and being ready during off-time was presumed, even if it was rarely required in practice.

Weaver noticed Stitch lying on a nearby mat, taking one of the many naps that would constitute his rest for the entire trip. He didn't envy his sleep schedule. Navigators were tasked with charting and updating their course every couple of hours--a low-effort task, but also one that precluded large, contiguous chunks of sleep. Their life was a one of catnaps and work and nothing else. And Astralonx would not put two navigators on a single ship to share the burden--they were too valuable to be wasted like that.

On the other side of the room, Vanga and Thrush had seated themselves on the floor, leaning over a low table strewn with cards and dice. Thrush's tail twitched back and forth as he peered under his hand. Vanga, meanwhile, had her face buried in hers. She riffled through the card with focus, pausing on each one as if preparing to play it, but then muttering to herself and continuing on to the next one.

"Quit stalling, Vanga. Don't want to look like a sore loser to our audience, do you?" He gave Weaver a toothy grin.

The captain whipped her head around, only then realizing that he had entered.

"Oh! Hello, Weaver." She set her cards on the table.

"Hello," he said. He scratched at the floor nervously, claws scraping against the rough plastic.

"I take it you're done, then?"

"Oh. Uh... basically. Drives are set; repairing themselves as we speak. But... well, it's kind of a mess down there."

Thrush slapped his cards down and frowned at Vanga. "Told ya it was everywhere," he said.

Weaver cocked his head. They already knew?

Vanga opened her mouth to answer, but Thrush got there first. "A lot of the Cable's internals got cooked too," he gruffed, brushing his claws on the front of his coverall. "Things are working, fixed what I could, but I wouldn't want to push it."

The captain gave Thrush a stern look before turning back to Weaver. "Stitch said we embedded right into a storm," she explained. "Our little bubble of spacetime was insulated from the turbulence, so we didn't feel a thing, but the pseudoradiation hit the equipment harder than usual. He said that he didn't even notice it himself until we got the sensing antennae out, and he's usually tuned in to that kind of thing."

"That's why it took so long to embed," Thrush added.

Weaver gave a sigh of relief and smiled. They knew it wasn't his fault. But then ice stabbed down his spine and his smile vanished. This was not a good outcome--he would have preferred it if it_had_been his mistake. The idea that things weren't going perfectly fine was far, far worse. He had never heard of anyone talking about a "storm" in the Apeiron. A few minor hiccups here and there, perhaps, but most shipments had no issues. Maybe they were the first ones to have it this bad. Or maybe any ship that_did_ get caught in something like a storm just never made it out.

Weaver shivered as he imagined that frigid, amber goo whistling past the ship's hull, lightning flashing through the fluid. The force would throw the ship in arbitrary hyperdirections; time would dilate and contract in waves; ultimately, it would tear the ship apart and thrust them all into a dark, cryogenic grave.

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. It was a silly image, useless catastrophizing--there was no wind in the Apeiron, let alone lightning. Calling it a storm was a metaphor for those swirling energies of the bizarre, heterogeneous manifold of hyperspace. No one but a navigator had a chance at visualizing that mess. Besides, if Stitch had let himself sleep and those two were playing a game of cards, it couldn't possibly be that bad.

"Are we going to be okay?" Weaver asked.

"Of course we are," Vanga said. "Stitch is an amazing navigator. He was at it for a while, but ultimately found a course he was happy with. We're still on track to make the normal window, within a week. Seems like it took a lot out of him, though." She glanced over towards the sleeping dragon.

The navigator slept with short, fragile breaths. His head was upside-down on the mat, the rest of his body contorted into a U-shape. His golden wings splayed out and spilled onto the gray decking. The time between each inhale was deathly still.

It was terrifying how much they relied on the small drake. There was no consistent path through the Apeiron--their route had to be charted on the fly. The navigation programs were decent, but they could not see the Apeiron the way a navigator could. That talent took a one-in-a-million mind that computers had yet to emulate. Someone like that small, sleeping dragon.

"As for the drives, I'll leave the report to you, Weaver," the captain said.

Weaver felt himself nod. Writing it would hardly be fun, but there were worse fates. With any luck they had just avoided the worst of them.

The rec room door squeaked as Iora entered, clanging shut behind her. She quickly scanned the room before walking up beside Weaver and addressing the captain directly.

"Looks like I'm late to the party."

Vanga huffed. "All set with the physicals?"

Iora nodded towards Stitch. "Still need to check up on sleeping beauty, but everyone else is perfectly normal."

"Do it later. He needs the rest."

"If you say so," Iora said. "So... that's it for now, then?"

"Yes, yes. Consider yourself free, for the moment. But be on call."

The ship creaked softly. "Something happen?" Iora asked.

Vanga made a dismissive flick of her tail. "Oh, nothing, really. A few hiccups. Nothing we can't handle."

Thrush gave her a sidelong glance, which she ignored.

"It's all been sorted now," she continued, "but it's like you said earlier: we can't afford to be complacent."

An angry spark flashed through Iora's eyes as Vanga spoke, but it vanished as soon as it had appeared. She folded her wings closer to her body and nodded.

"Actually," Iora started, her voice careful and measured. "We've been meaning to ask about what your definition of 'on call' is." She wrapped her tail around Weaver's, intertwining the tips.

Weaver twitched at the initial contact, snapping his head around. But when he saw it was Iora, he felt blood rush to his face and covered it with a wing.

"Uh... captain, we..." he began.

Vanga's face softened. "Ah, I should've guessed. I _did_guess, but thought it would be rude to assume." She examined the two. "We all get a small bonus if you succeed, right? I recall it being reasonable."

"That's what the agreement said," Iora said, nodding curtly. "For... encouragement. Since it's a bit of a distraction. And far from guaranteed."

"That's all fine--the three of us can easily handle things here. Take a radio. I'll call if I need anything from you two." She motioned to a locker by the door. "Otherwise..." The corner of her mouth lifted into the slightest of grins. "Have fun."

Weaver turned around and went to the door, stopping to grab the radio on the way. It was an anachronism, especially compared to the rest of the ship--a chunky, rectangular relic from an ancient analog era. But it was a sturdy thing, and could handle pseudoradiation without any shielding. There was robustness in simplicity. He hooked his tail onto the radio's carrying ring and made sure the device was on.

Meanwhile, Iora had already squeezed through the door and was holding it open for him. Warm air from the rec room rolled into the cooler passageway.

"Got it?" she asked him.

He held the radio up high. "Yup." The radio slid down his tail until the ring fit snugly onto it. He tucked his wings close against his body and followed Iora out of the room.

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving the two alone in the cramped passageway. They took a few steps forward to ensure they were out of earshot before speaking.

"You were listening from just outside the door," Weaver stated.

"Around the corner, actually."

"You heard, then? About the damages and the storm?"

Iora growled under her breath. "Yes. I don't know why Vanga's trying to play it off like no big deal. We're trained to handle it. There's no reason not be forthright--we're not hatchlings."

"Maybe she's just trying to convince herself?" Weaver suggested.

One of Iora's horns struck a ceiling support. She recoiled from the collision and swore. "That's even worse! She's the captain!"

"Then maybe she just wants us out of the way."

"That's probably it, actually," she said, sighing and rubbing the bruised skin around the horn. "But it's foolish. There's five of us here for a reason. We need sleep, we need shifts, and we need to back each other up."

"Which is why we are currently heading to our lovely closet-bedroom to fuck each other's brains out. For the sake of backing each other up."

Iora smacked him playfully with her tail.

"Ow," he said in mock annoyance, slowing down until he was just outside of her range.

"Count it as an off-shift," Iora said. "Besides, that which pays is work. And this work pays a lot more than those blood samples I took."

"Really? It's about the same for me."

Her tail swayed back and forth. "That's because you aren't taking on any risk."

"What risk? Conception is harder, not riskier," Weaver said, watching the tip of her tail go higher with each period of sinusoidal motion. "Probably just the stress, if you ask me."

"Astralonx debunked that, supposedly," she said. "Besides, our increased heart rates and blood pressures aren't from stress alone. Being in the Apeiron has physiological effects, even aboard the ship." Her tail was now much higher than was polite, though still covering. "And the risk isn't in conception, it's in laying_._ Plus there's the compensation for being poked and prodded at all the while."

"I guess. But it still seems like a lot of money for something so... normal. I don't even know why they'd care."

"It's hyperspace. It's the Apeiron. They're interested in every data point they can get their grubby claws on, however useless it seems to us. Besides, for the amount they're paying, I don't think I care. If we conceive, I'll never need to do another one of these shipments again."

The air around them grew colder as they got closer to the edge of ship. It was still comfortable, but the chill was noticeable.

Weaver broke the silence. "What would you do with the eggs if you do lay?"

"Same as anyone else--drop 'em off at the closest hatchery and be done." She craned her neck around to stare at him. "Don't tell me you'd try to raise them?"

Weaver looked away. "Oh... maybe not. I'd have considered it, at least--there'd be enough money."

"That's vain and selfish," she said, turning back around to look ahead. "We're not role models, let alone teachers. Let the professionals handle it. The hatchlings will end up better than if I raised them, at least."

"Maybe." He sighed. Iora had always had that traditionalist streak--not that he could blame her. He had even shared some of those views earlier in life. "But don't you at least wonder what it would be like?" he asked. "To raise a family?"

"No!" Iora said, aghast. "That sounds horrible."

He frowned. Surely it couldn't be all that bad, cultural taboo or not. It would be hard work, perhaps, but there would be plenty of joy to make up for it.

"I suppose it does sound horrible," he finally said.

"Oh, Weaver. You've been reading those alien books again, haven't you."

"It was just a question," he countered.

"Just... don't lose yourself, okay? Enough culture has been lost already."

Weaver shuddered, remembering the moonfall footage. The impact with their home planet had been slow, liquid, and orange. No, he told himself, forcing the image out of his mind. That was not a healthy place to be in. Arche was no more, and that was that. It was all in the past now. There was nowhere to go but forward.

"Sorry," Iora said. "I meant... our language. Or our history. Not that."

"It's okay. I know."

Iora rubbed her bruised horn again. "I get it."

"Hmm?"

"Why you'd want to live on Earth. Why you'd want a home. Stations just aren't enough--ships like this even less so."

"I sense a 'but' coming."

"But Earth isn't our home, either. The air is so toxic that you'd need surgery to survive, and that's not even addressing all of the immunological challenges. We aren't built for Earth, and Earth isn't built for us. You'll forever be a foreigner, Weaver--if not by the people, then by your own biology. It's an alien world, and it's unnatural."

"More unnatural than living on a metal ring?"

Iora shrugged her wings in the little space granted by the passageway. "Look, all I'm saying is that Earth isn't Arche. Just... be reasonable with your expectations, alright?"

"I know that, Iora. Nothing will ever replace Arche. I just... I need a horizon. A real one."

Iora was silent for a moment. "I hope you find it, Weaver. I really do."

Weaver hesitated. Now would be an alright time to ask her. He would have to eventually, if he was to ever do it. There was no point to procrastinating.

"Come with me," he blurted out.

"To Earth?"

"Yes."

Iora sighed and shook her head. "Weaver... I don't know. That's a lot to ask. Besides, I don't think I'll have that kind of cash left over after I pay off my debts."

"I could help out on the money front. There would be enough for both of us to get the respiratory surgery. It wouldn't be retirement--we'd have to work--but I think that between the two of us, we could figure it out."

Iora frowned. "I don't know. I appreciate the gesture, but... that's a lot."

"Well, give it some thought. There'd be good company, you know."

"Would there, now." Iora let her tail slip to the side, giving him the slightest glimpse of her slit before covering it back up.

"And so much time to ourselves..."

"Mmnh."

They reached the end of the hallway, which terminated in three sprung doors. They were unadorned save an enumeration and blended into the cluttered walls of the ship like a maintenance hatch.

"Mine or yours?" Weaver asked.

But Iora had already hooked a claw around the handle to the rightmost one, unlocking it and opening the door. "Let's do mine. Everything's already in there."

Weaver followed her through the door, letting it close behind them. He slung the radio into a corner of the sleeping room, though it was really more of a closet than a room--there was a small mattress on a low bed frame attached to the bulkhead, a place to stand beside it, and a dim overhead lamp that was marginally brighter than a night light. The dingy, metallic ceiling hung low, and he had to hold his head at an awkward angle to avoid hitting it with his horns.

Iora had already hopped onto the bed, making space so that the pair could both fit into the room at the same time. Some of the floor space had been taken up by her suitcase, which sat next to the bed. They were each allowed some personal belongings, but besides toiletries, there was not much else that was strictly needed. If past experience was any indicator, Weaver had a fairly good idea of what Iora had used the rest of the space for.

He did his best to get comfortable, but there wasn't even space to turn around. This place had barely been intended for one person, let alone two. As far as metal boxes went, it was an intimate one.

"Comfy?" Iora asked him as she stretched on the bed.

He tried to extend his tail, but it hit the wall. His wings were similarly limited. "Not exactly."

"Well, it'll be better once we're both on the bed." She flipped onto her back and spread her legs, waving her tail in the air. She turned her head to face Weaver squarely and grinned, staring at him with lustful, half-lidded eyes.

Weaver smiled back, trying to stay calm to keep his blushing down. Iora's blue, lurid scales were washed out under the cheap lights, and the aluminum walls made for a poor backdrop. But as he scanned her nude form, trailing over those strong wing muscles and gentle heaves of her chest, he found that he couldn't have cared less about the setting. The room could have been a sewer and he would have felt the same way. Just being with her was more than enough.

"Join me?" she asked.

Weaver wasted no time clambering onto the hard mattress and into her embrace. Iora was so delightfully warm, especially compared to the cold walls of the ship. Her body was soft, especially compared to that hard, plastic floor. He felt his muscles relax and melted into her.

Iora snuggled tightly against him, wrapping his midsection in her wings. Her tail met his and hooked on to it, playfully wresting it to one side. The frame creaked as their weight shifted.

"Better?"

"Mmph," he mumbled into her neck. "You make a good mattress. Could fall asleep."

"Hah," she breathed. "Me too, but I'm afraid I've other plans in mind."

"Oh? Care to be more explicit?"

"They're quite explicit." She wriggled her hips into his.

"Ah..." Weaver groaned, feeling warmth blossom in his loins. "Tell me more."

"I packed some goodies for us," she said, glancing to the luggage beside the bed.

He remembered the last "goodies" she had packed. The toys had been fun, but her teasing had been ruthless, and the sex consequentially short.

"Okay, but could you go a bit easier on me, this time?" he asked.

"Actually, I thought we could switch places."

"Oh... you mean you want me to lead?"

"Not just lead. Take charge. Make me helpless."

Weaver closed his eyes. He had never been any good at that. Control was tiring and risky--there were so many choices, so many ways to mess it all up. He had learned that the hard way. So long as the decisions being made were fine, he didn't need to be the one responsible for making them. Someone else could take that burden.

"Iora... I'm not sure that's a great idea."

"You'll do fine," she insisted, and touched her nose to his. "I've been fantasizing about it," she hummed. "And I know that whatever you do, I'll really, really enjoy it. Because I trust you, Weaver. Just like how I know you trust me."

"But I won't be that good," he whispered. "I don't know how to do any of that."

"You don't know how to do it yet. Talent doesn't exist. Learn. Lean into the role. Let yourself be greedy." She cracked a smile. "And if in doubt, we can always just fuck."

Weaver licked his chops. He could try, at least. If she really wanted him to. And she was right--nothing could go catastrophically wrong. They were just having fun.

"Alright," he said. "I'll give it a shot. But don't say I didn't warn you."

Weaver begrudgingly climbed off of her, scampering onto the gray decking. It was cold. He wedged a claw under the velcro straps that held the suitcase closed and flipped the cover open, leaving it propped up against the wall. There wasn't the space to lay it flat.

Inside was an assortment of scandalous toys in a variety of colors. Iora had brought along a pair of dildos, a vibrator, a fair amount of rope--and that was only the top layer. A clear bag with some scale polish, a clawstone, and a toothbrush sat next to them.

"I'm not so sure about your selection, Iora. Some of these don't look body-safe," he said, holding up the bag of toiletries.

Iora chuckled. "You're more than welcome to give me an impromptu pedicure, if you want." Then she shivered, wrapping her wings around herself and curling her tail inwards. The mattress squeaked under the motion.

"If you're cold, I can climb back on top of you," he said, tossing the bag back into the luggage. "I'm a bit chilly too. I bet we could heat up the room if we did something more aerobic than cuddling."

"It's just a chill," she said. "It's weird--I always feel more exposed here on the ship. Like I'm lying out in the middle of a crowded stadium and not in this coffin of a room." She shivered again. "I've only ever felt that way here."

Weaver craned his head to look at her directly. "You think it's something to worry about?"

"No, no. It's not a _bad_exposed. It's like I'm putting myself on display in a public place, even though it's just you and me here. It's... kind of hot, actually."

"Maybe we have an extra-dimensional spectator looking for some action," he joked, glancing at the hull wall. Support bars wove through the thick plating, reinforcing it with a cage-like lattice. He suddenly felt quite glad that the ship had no windows, even if there was nothing to see but yawning, amber darkness. His imagination was wild enough without a muse. He turned away from them.

"Hah!" Iora barked. "More likely there's a camera stashed somewhere here. Dunno about Thrush or Stitch, but I wouldn't put it above our beloved captain."

Maybe," he lied. He didn't want to ruin the mood, but they were too close the the edge of the ship for that to be possible. Unlike other electronics, cameras couldn't be shielded--the image sensor had to be exposed in order to see. And with a lens, next to the hull? The pseudoradiation would fry anything with more resolution than a solar panel.

"Whatever. Let 'em watch, if there is a camera." She scanned the bulkhead. "I bet we could put on a good show."

"Surely. Starting with... uh..." He looked back towards the assortment of gear in the suitcase.

"Just tie me up, silly."

"Alright, then."

Weaver grabbed the coil of yellow polypropylene. He had originally bought it during training, before their first shipment. Iora had demanded that he buy rope one night, and she had made the purpose behind it quite clear. Therefore he did so without hesitation, purchasing the first bundle he found. It was only after he had brought it back that he learned of the mistake he had unwittingly made.

"I almost didn't pack it, you know, out of principle," Iora said, watching him unravel the ropes.

"Rope is rope. Besides, it worked fine on me last time."

"Well, 'last time' took half an hour to get you out from that collapsed mess. The rope is made for boats, Weaver."

"Call it a mooring, then. I'm sure it'll be alright. Ready?"

Iora huffed and nodded.

Weaver took one of the shorter lengths and looped a bight around the bony part of her left hind leg, tying the loop closed until it was snug but not tight. He tried to recall the exact knot Iora had shown him last time, but something about what he had made seemed different. He wove the end through a few other loops haphazardly. What was a knot if not a tangled bundle, anyways? This one seemed sturdy enough, at least.

"How's that?" he asked her. "Not too tight?"

"It's fine. I'll holler if it isn't." Iora said. She grimaced as she saw what Weaver had tied. "I wish you'd use the real knots I showed you though, and not whatever that thing is."

He scraped a claw against the deck in frustration. "You said it yourself, your knots collapsed. Besides, I thought you wanted me to take charge. Aren't you supposed to let me do my thing?"

"Ugh, fine. But when we have to cut them off, don't say I didn't warn you."

Weaver snorted, leaving the working end to dangle off the side of the bed. He'd tie it to the frame at the end, when he could balance and position everything more readily.

The three other loops were each easier than the previous, though getting at her foreleg near the far corner of the mattress involved a bit of straddling and giggling. Each knot was slightly different, though Weaver wasn't sure if it was an improvement or a regression. There was enough mass to each one that they would surely hold.

Weaver then moved on to her wings, which Iora had wrapped around herself. She relinquished them to him after a bit of prodding, shivering as her belly was once again exposed to the cool air. These he didn't tie to the bed; it was enough to bind each wing closed. Their limited range of motion coupled with her own weight would do the rest.

Next he grabbed the base of her tail, pushing it flat against the bed, and stole a quick glance at her slit. It looked unaroused.Of course it was, he told himself--they hadn't even started yet. Still, he hoped he was doing alright.

He wound the last length of rope around her tail a several times until he was certain it wouldn't slip. Unlike the others that relied on the concave geometry of her body to stay put, this one had to rely on friction to hold on. Satisfied, he locked the knot and grabbed the dangling end, running it through the bed frame. He lifted firmly, using the frame as a pulley to cinch it and tying a final locking knot.

"Not too tight?" he asked. It didn't look like the most comfortable position for a tail to be in, but there wasn't any other great way to tie it down.

"It's fine," she huffed. "I said I'd holler."

"Just double-checking."

Weaver moved on to the two ends for her hind legs. The exposed side of the frame made for a straightforward anchor, but the other side was mounted directly into the wall, so he had to go under the mattress and loop around an inner support instead.

Iora grunted as Weaver tightened the knot, experimenting with the limited range of motion. The ropes dug into the sides of the mattress as she tugged against them, rotating each limb to ensure they would hold from every angle. Finding she could do little except lift her hips slightly, she hummed in approval.

Two left. Weaver straddled her to get at the one in the far corner, where the frame was against the corner of the room. If he could just get it under the mattress! He dropped lower, letting some of his weight rest on Iora, wishing it was for the sake of something more than convenience. With that angle, he managed to wrap the end around a slat and tighten it.

He climbed off of her. The last one was easy in comparison. He had it taut and tied in seconds.

"Done," he said, taking a half-step away from the bed.

Iora surged against the bindings, testing them. The bed creaked, but there was little give from the restraints.

"I am indeed tied up," she concluded.

Weaver cracked a smile, taking a moment to take in his handiwork. Some of the knots were unsightly, but the overall effect was there: Iora was completely prone on her back, all four legs pinned and spread, with her tail lashed flat against the mattress. He watched her chest rise and fall with slow breaths, letting his eyes trail along the gentle curves of her belly and down towards her tail. Her slit had had engorged somewhat, widening and revealing inner lips.

"So now... uh... hmm."

Iora closed her eyes. "Weaver. You're in charge. That's the point. You can do anything you want to me."

"Anything?"

"If you're okay with it, I'm okay with it. So go wild."

He turned back to the open suitcase, rummaging through the various toys. He had no idea what to pick. Maybe something would inspire him? Worst case, he could just pick something at random.

"So you're fine with anything in here?" he asked.

"Duh. I mean, I packed it all."

"Ever mocking me," he chided.

"You make it too easy."

"Well, I just found something that ought to make it harder," he said, lifting a light-blue ball gag from the suitcase.

Weaver did not fail to notice Iora's sharp inhale, nor the way her eyes followed the thing in bated anticipation. He wavered, wondering if she was indeed comfortable with it. Iora had packed everything and now given explicit approval of it all, yes, but was this a combination she was okay with? Maybe she was fine with the gag_or_ being tied up, and not both.

Iora noticed his hesitation. "It's fine, Weaver. I meant what I said before: I trust you." She opened her jaws wide.

That was true, he realized. He had been in her place the last time they had done this--and just as he had trusted her then, she trusted him now. The ropes were there to restrict her, to remove choice, but she had encouraged him to tie them in the first place. The whole thing was a demonstration of trust. The look Iora had given the gag was not one of fear, but one of anxious excitement. She didn't know what would come next, but trusted him enough to know that she would be fine regardless of what it was. And if that was enough for her, it was enough for him, too.

Grabbing it by the straps, he lowered the gag into her waiting mouth. The azure color contrasted nicely against her navy scales. He wrapped the plastic straps around her head, clasping them together near the base of her skull--snug, but not tight. He looped the last one around her muzzle, tightening it to keep her jaw pressed close against the gag.

"Good?"

"Mhm-hm."

"Oh, we'll need to figure out a new safeword somehow"--

Iora made a shrill, rhythmic series of muffled noises that sounded like they had come from a smothered alarm clock.

"Yeah, that'll work."

That was it. They were ready. Something about the image turned him on. Maybe it was Iora looked at him through half-lidded eyes, jaws open and plugged to display the gag so readily. Or maybe it was her bound posture. Or maybe it was how he now understood the truth behind what Iora had said earlier: he was in charge. If he wanted to fuck, they could fuck, over and over and over again. Iora had removed herself from the decision-making process. She had put herself entirely into his claws.

For a moment, he considered jumping atop her and rutting her until their bodies gave out from exhaustion. It was what instinct told him to do and what his body yearned for. But it would be such a waste of the preparation, such a waste of the situation. He needed something more creative. Something he could surprise her with.

Weaver thought back to last time, when their places had been swapped. He had been the one tied to the bed--though not gagged--while Iora had been the one atop him. She had teased him for ages, making sure he had enough stimulation to stay erect but never enough to actually orgasm, all the while making as much use of his face and tongue as she could. He saw no reason not to try something similar now, with a few modifications.

There were still plenty of toys left in the suitcase, but one in particular caught his attention: a white vibrator wand, battery-powered. He remember that one, too. While he had been tied, he had complained of his tongue getting tired, and so Iora swapped to the vibrator instead. What had started as a break had then turned into torment when she refused to stop using it, content to let whatever excess fluids dribble onto his face while she got herself off, not allowing him as an active participant. If she liked the thing so much, surely she wouldn't be opposed to a little more?

"How long do you think the battery life is on this, Iora?" He held the toy so she could see it.

"Mmh!" Her look was one of eagerness and apprehension.

"I agree, it's pretty beefy." He weighed it in his claws. "Probably depends on the setting. I bet we could get at least an hour out of it, no?"

Iora's eyes widened. "Mmh! Mmnh!" She pulled against the bindings and bucked her hips.

"More, you think? I guess we'll find out." He turned it on and pressed it lightly against her slit.

Iora threw her head back and groaned, using what little motion the restraints allowed to thrust her hips against the oscillating surface of the toy. She ground her clit into the thing, trying to get as much contact as she possibly could.

"Might want to pace yourself, Iora," he said, matching her force. "We'll be here a while."

Weaver knew that she had heard him, though she paid the warning little heed. If anything it spurred her on. She redoubled her efforts, rubbing into the toy with an intensity that made it hard to hold the damn thing steady. Soon the entire tip of the wand was slick with her fluids. He continued to hold it against her, making sure it made constant contact even amid her squirming.

It wasn't long before Iora's heady scent had flooded the small room. Weaver sniffed at the air and felt his erection throb in response. What he wouldn't give to jump on top and ram it into her, to let those muscled walls greedily coax the seed right out of him! There was nothing stopping him, after all. Iora had relinquished control, putting her trust in his whims. What a shame it would be to repress them!

He pushed the thought from his mind. The lust was getting to him. He was not an animal--he could delay his gratification. The sex would come later, and it would be all the sweeter because of the wait. But right now, he had given himself a different job: to make Iora cum, again and again, until she was positively sick of it and yearned for something more.

"Mmph!" Iora's cry was joined by a particularly strong pelvic thrust that nearly knocked the vibrator away. She rumbled a low growl and began to quiver, pulling the ropes taut and clamping her eyes shut. It turned into a muffled yelp as her first orgasm began.

Weaver grinned, holding the vibrator fast against her throughout her throes, watching in fascination as spasms of pleasure wracked Iora's body--spasms of pleasure that he knew was his own doing. Watching Iora cum,making her cum, was satisfying beyond belief. It was almost enough to make him forget how horny he was.

Once Iora's orgasm had trailed off, Weaver hopped onto the mattress, partially to get a better angle, and partially to show off. He maneuvered himself until his tapered, engorged penis dangled over Iora's chest. If he was going to have a perpetual noseful of her scent and constant view of her genitals, he could at least be courteous enough to give the same to her.

"Enjoying the scenery?" He continued to press the vibrator still against her slit and chanced a glance over his shoulder.

"Mh-hm." Iora's eyes followed his cock hungrily as it swayed back and forth. A strand of pre dripped onto her blue chest-scales.

"Glad to hear it." He returned his focus to the vibrator. "After all, I aim to please," he said, flicking the intensity a step higher.

Iora shuddered, pulling her hips back, away from the toy. Weaver followed her motions deftly, keeping the thing pressed firmly against her clit. He wouldn't allow a moment without contact.

"Mrngh!"

"Don't worry, Iora. I'll make sure you stay stimulated, regardless of how much squirming you do. So let yourself loose. I can handle it."

So long as she looked to be having fun, he would keep going. She had no choice but to accept the pleasure he was giving her, and he would make sure that it was plentiful. Excessive, even. He didn't plan on stopping until she was exhausted--or the battery ran out. Whichever came first. Then, and only then, would they finally fuck. It would be worth waiting for.

The minutes began to blur into each other. Weaver focused himself entirely on his task of stimulating Iora as best he could, trying to ignore his own desires and push the arousing sight before him out of his mind. But he could only do so much. His erection had already passed the point of discomfort, and he was tempted to drop his hind legs down and thrust against her belly until his own climax--which would probably only take an errant stroke, at this point. Enough pre had collected down there that it would probably be pretty smooth, too. And it wasn't like Iora could stop him, or tell him to save it for later. It was only by distraction and sheer will that he held himself off.

Iora's breath caught as another orgasm coursed through her body. She no longer ground against the vibrator with enthusiasm, like she had previously. That had stopped some time ago. Instead she laid on the bed, limp and fazed and motionless save the heaving in her chest and occasional orgasm-induced twitch of a wing or limb. A web of her clear arousal strung between the vibrator and her pussy, trailing around either side of her tail to a small puddle that had seeped into the bedding.

How was the damn toy still going? It had been at least an hour, and the thing didn't sound one bit weaker. Iora was going to run out of charge before the vibrator would, at this rate. He imagined she still found the stimulation vaguely pleasurable, but surely it was getting quite old by now.

He flicked the vibrator off. The room went eerily silent without the incessant buzzing. He dropped the toy on the mattress, on the side against the wall so that it wouldn't fall off. It had been a hard worker, and deserved at least that much respect. He then turned around until he and Iora were face to face. He had forgotten how much he liked the way she looked with the gag on.

"I bet you're feeling more satisfied than I am," he said, glancing down to line his cock up with her drooling pussy. "This, uh... might be a bit short. Sorry. I hope you don't mind."

"Mmh," she hummed weakly.

"Glad to hear it." Weaver pressed in lightly, planning to take it slowly, but the moment the tip of his penis slipped past her labia, he instinctively hilted himself to the knot. There was no resistance; Iora practically dragged the tapered part of his penis all the way into herself. He groaned from the sudden texture, the sudden warmth, fighting the urge to cum immediately.

"Mrgh!" Iora moaned, throwing her head back and weakly straining against the bonds.

Weaver leaned back, letting his penis slip most of the way out of her before sharply thrusting back in. If her body was supposed to be tired, her vagina had apparently not gotten the message. It massaged his penis, greedily tugging on his foreskin, coaxing him deeper. And she was so slick, too! The vibrator was indeed very good at its job. Soon the rhythmic plaps echoed tinily through the room.

The scent of mating hung thick in the air, drawing the pair into a lustful daze. Iora had closed her eyes. She grunted softly in time with Weaver's pace. The edge of the light-blue gag was rimmed with her saliva, and she was forced to breathe through her nose, inhaling all of that intoxicating scent with every breath. Not that she would have done differently, were the gag not there. Weaver found that he couldn't get enough of it, either, and drew lungful and lungful through his nose on purpose.

Eventually he found his knot pressed flush against her vulva and felt a primal urge to go further. He wouldn't last much longer. Seconds, maybe. But that was fine. They had already had their fun. There was no need to hold back any longer. It would be enough to simply breed.

He pushed harder and felt Iora's lips splay to admit the added girth of his knot. Her breath caught from the change in penetration. A little more. Then the entire bulb slid in and Iora closed around him. Their hips squished flush against each other, slits kissing. There was nothing left to take.

The new warmth and pressure on his knot was too much. Weaver saw his vision darken, stars flashing as he felt his cock stiffen to a level that had to be unhealthy. Then his own climax began.

The first jet of cum shot out of his urethra with enough force to hit the ceiling, were he laying down instead of buried slit-to-slit inside Iora. It was a long and pleasurable spurt, twinged by some discomfort: his body's punishment for having denied himself for so long.

Iora clamped down on him hard, humming from the cool, wet sensation. She tensed against the ropes, quivering. Weaver didn't have to pay attention to the movements; his knot, unlike the vibrator, had no chance of slipping. They could both enjoy the pleasure for what it was.

The next two ejaculations were weaker, though no less voluminous. He listened to Iora's quick, shallow breaths as he laid against her and pumped the last of his seed deep inside of her. His legs quivered for a moment until relaxing. He loosed a slow, guttural exhale and slumped down on top of Iora.

Weaver felt a cool fluid around the tip of his penis. His own semen, he realized. It had to be quite the mess in there. He made an experimental thrust to test their tie, but it still held tight. With others it might not have been too hard to force himself out, but he was slightly larger than Iora, enough to make prematurely breaking the tie it a painful affair for them both. But there was no need for that now. He was content to lay in the afterglow.

"I bet you don't feel cold anymore," Weaver said.

Iora snorted through her nose. "Mh-mhm. Mhmmm."

"I agree. That was really hot." He suppressed a chuckle. It was funny listening to her try to talk through the gag. He'd leave it on a bit longer, through round two, at least.

"You're still comfortable?"

"Mhm-hm."

"And I wasn't too much, with the vibrator?"

"Mhm-hm," she said. "Mh-mhm."

"Yes and no? Sounds like I stopped at the perfect time, then."

Iora snorted and flexed, squeezing his cock lightly. Weaver hissed, feeling it throb and give a dry spurt. He was well and truly spent. All of his semen was in Iora now, and not himself.

Maybe that would be enough. Maybe it would take. The stimulation would have been more than enough to trigger ovulation, and he knew with certainty from tests that he was fertile. If they were on a station with spin gravity, conception would be nearly assured. But here, in the Apeiron, even the ship's genuine, curvature-driven gravity was of little help. Something made reproducing hard. Something that wasn't fully understood.

But maybe they would be lucky anyways. Others had done it. It was possible. He would get a bonus, and Iora would never have to make another trip like this again. She would drop off the eggs, content to never see them again, and go about her life. That was the way it had always been done. Getting paid to do it didn't make that any different.

But if they were to go to Earth together, they could raise their own hatchlings. They would have to--there weren't hatcheries or schools there, not proper ones for raising dragons. Splicing in the right genes before birth was inexpensive and far more effective than the respiratory surgery. Their children would hatch as natives, breathing real air from a real planet, and not that stale, recycled oxygen from a station.

He nuzzled at Iora's cheek, smiling when she hummed back at him. They could discuss all that later. There was no rush. This moment didn't need any more talking. He relaxed and closed his eyes, content to lie in their shared afterglow.

Something crackled in the corner of the room.

Weaver froze, and Iora perked up from under him. A weird sound from the ship, surely. It couldn't be the radio. Their overconfident captain wouldn't call them back so soon. Not unless there was an emergency. And emergencies didn't happen on these shipments, because nothing eventful ever happened on these shipments. Not for the ones that made it back, at least.

The radio screen lit up with a soft blue light, and Vanga's voice cut through the speaker.

"Iora, Weaver. I need you on the bridge. Now."