FSE

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Emancipation

II

With his dark-skinned human shadow precisely ten paces behind him at all times Johan wandered the spinal access corridor aimlessly, admiring the healthy greenery and aquatics with an appraising eye. He had never cared much for plants, or growing things in general but he could appreciate the work that went into establishing and maintaining them. On ships, where space was very often at a premium, agroponics was a seldom afforded luxury, as was water. Here there were both in abundance. Commodore Bochas was clearly prosperous at what he did. Transporting huge quantities of data was as profitable, if not often more so, than cargo mass and a lot easier to move – or destroy. It also took up very little room aside from the storage arrays. A few or many hundreds of zettabytes would occupy, perhaps, a few cubic meters of storage and a few tons of mass. His own, at peak capacity, could barely carry a mere fifty zettabytes, mostly due to mass constraints. Most of the jump capacity was to move him, and the hull, rather than the data storage.

It was far safer than transmitting, where the data stream could be intercepted and its encryption eventually cracked. Transporting it via fast courier, over distances of light years, was fast enough to be considered 'immediate'. Such information could be used to react to, or manipulate, costs of commodities across entire regions as well as maintain accurate intelligence.

Reaching the aft end of the spinal corridor Johan meandered down the wide, circular ramp found there. This was the route automated or manually pushed trolleys would take to for whatever purpose they had. The stairs at the bow were clearly only for bipedal use. Likely the elevator was further limited to human crew, since it appeared there was utterly no liking here for moreaus as anything other than labor animals no better than cart horses. Johan, however, was more pragmatic. If it was intelligent and had hands that could grasp anything there was a high likelihood that it would eventually come after you in anger.

And moreaus had more reason to be angry than pretty much any species in space.

“Inquiry; armed security?" he asked of the ever-present sensation of a ghost at his shoulder.

“Security compliment; twenty-one. Five per six hour watch rotation; two lieutenants, one captain. Current assignments; Commander's quarters, residential entry point, cargo commons fore and aft, one patrol."

“Ordinance?"

“Standard ordinance; Gaur Arms Defender R-4a squad assault rifle with Hornaday Hullsafe plas/frange load, Unidyne pulse discharge pistol, and combat blade." Armed to the teeth, in other words, which was hardly surprising since there were thirteen thousand moreaus aboard and only twenty armed humans to maintain security. The rest of the crew would have access to weapons, via one or more armouries, but did not normally carry something that a concerted effort could take away from them.

“Which got pulled to chaperone me?"

“Current? Patrol."

“Armoury?"

“Primary forward, security area, deck twelve. One secondary aft, engineering office deck nine, and two tertiary small arms lockers amidships dorsal and ventral. Light anti-personnel equipment for primary crew; various manufacturer sidearm and squad assault pulse discharge weapons. One anti-armor rifle, forward armoury."

“Ready scramble."

“Forward store mechanically secured." Lock and key, useful for boarding parties that entered from the stern and cut primary power. The commodore would likely be carrying that key, or his chief of security if not both of them.

The entire conversation was exchanged without the guard behind him being aware that Johan was doing anything more than admiring a junction of piping overhead. Here most of the doors had red radiation warning and 'no entry' decals. Johan did not bother to approach them, instead ambling toward the loud cheering he heard echoing from the depths of the gangway labyrinth that made up the stern of the freighter; a full quarter of its length and mass given over to nothing but power production and the jump drive. Though the wireframe schematic kept up with him, showing where he was within the hull at every step, he purposely made wrong turns and backtracked as if lost, finally stopping. “Where's the party?" He asked of the heretofore silent guard.

The man stared at him for several long seconds before shifting his gaze toward one of the corridors. Johan huffed irritably at the intractable silence and trotted down the indicated path, the guard's equipment rattling as he jogged along behind. The corridor opened onto a gangway of expanded metal over a towering void several decks deep. At the safety rail Johan was looking down three decks, or up seven more. Clearly the open area was intended for repairing excessively large objects like reactor feed arrays or bent jump rails. At the moment, however, the void was empty and on the shop floor below were perhaps twenty or thirty humans in a rough circle around two barely clothed combatants.

A burly, muscular human wearing only ragged work pants was facing off against a single male deer which wore nothing whatsoever. The human had a gleaming blade in his hand but the deer had nothing, not even the antlers his ancestral forebears had been given. Of course, being awkward in the extreme, they had long ago been genetically removed. The surrounding humans jeered and cheered as the human lunged, blade forward, forcing the buck to leap back out of reach. The beast was already lathered and panting, blood gleaming along his arms and shoulders. Through the open mesh of the floor beneath the combatants Johan could see other moreaus watching, but he could not tell if they were more audience or captives waiting to feed the blood sport above.

After a look around to find the stairwells Johan moved once more, making his way down to the maintenance bay floor. The deer was in much worse shape by the time he arrived, a large gash bleeding across his heaving chest. His human opponent, while sweating profusely, was not breathing hard at all. “C'mon, Bex!" Someone in the crowd cheered, “Do 'im and have done! Ain't got much blood left to drain, now, anyway!" Johan looked around for the speaker but a firm hand on his forearm brought him up short at the back of the crowd.

Harmon was seated on a tool chest, a pipe dangling from his lips trailing pungent smoke. “Ain't yer fight, stranger." The ruddy Scott muttered without looking at the object of the crowd's jubilation. Slowly Johan drew his arm away and scowled down at the deck hand.

“A show's a show. You think I'd want to bloody my knuckles for that thing?" He hooked a thumb at the deer, now down on one knee, its head bowed and chest heaving. Blood and lather ran in rivulets down its back and thighs, dripped from its chest. “Nah, just was going to see if there's a wager."

Harmon gave a derisive snort of smoke, “A wager on wot?" The man flicked a hand toward the denouement of the fight. “Think that any of them beasties, considerin' that they're olders and cast offs, are going to scratch me, much less Morgan, there?" The man named Morgan Bex ceremoniously straddled the deer's upper back, grabbed his snout, and raised his head to draw his blade from tall ear to tall ear across the vulnerable ridge of his throat. Blood fountained from the clean chasm of pink flesh that gaped below the deer's jawline, spattering through the open mesh of the deck. Johan had to turn his gaze away as the human continued to saw at the hapless, twitching deer's neck. With a victorious bellow Morgan gave a final twist, snapping vertebrae and jerking the moreau's head free. He let the body of his prey collapse to the deck and playfully pranced in a circle, bloodied blade and bodiless head upraised. Harmon pushed himself upright from the tool chest and turned his back on the crowd. “Best keep a gimlet eye on what comes across yer plate, stranger. If it ain't fish and it ain't reconstituted swill, well…." He turned to gaze back over his shoulder for a moment.

Johan glanced toward the crowd, watching as they hoisted the now headless corpse into the air by its slender ankles. When he turned back toward the Scott the stocky man was gone. Only the guard remained stoically staring at a spot on the wall where the scene playing out was not even in his periphery. “Yeah, bet you didn't sign on for this either, eh?" the rescued pilot mocked, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coveralls and watching the butchery. He completely missed the momentary hard look of restrained fury the guard cast at him without ever turning enough to witness what was taking place.

After all, as a merc he had no Garrity rights. Some Corporate stylus pusher, CODA, or random justiciar with an agenda would be out there just waiting to pounce.

The pilot sent a thought toward the hovering presence in the back of his mind. “Crew manifest?"

“Accessed, cross referenced with accessible local archives. Verification of individual identity veracity below twenty percent."

“Profile assessment?"

“Ongoing. Primary parameters?"

“Alpha, charlie, x-ray."

“Secondary parameters?"

“Omega."

“Confirm, omega for x-ray on primary association?"

“Confirmed. Continue recording, establish profile by jump minus six. Reserve assessment override."

“Recording, compiling profiles. Minus six."

Johan watched the crowd until it began to disperse, four men toting off the body of the deer while a fifth tossed the head into a chute labeled 'waste mass'. From below the sounds that reached his ears were not those one would expect from willing spectators. He stared through the blood-stained mesh but could discern no individual among the huddled mass of furred species below. A few momentary glimmers revealed that they, however, could see him quite clearly. Without another quip at the guard Johan wandered back the way he had come, climbing toward the ventral gangway which, by the schematic in his head, was a vast open void through the entire cargo length of the ship; well over seven hundred meters.

It was, indeed, open but it was hardly the only fore to aft walkway. From the ventral gangway up to what passed for a ceiling far above there were no less than thirteen walkways suspended down the center of the open vault. To both sides were the secured faces of hexagonal cargo pods, open to the interior of the ship. Two gangways extended from each pod to the central gangway at each tier and, on them, Johan watched countless moreaus shuffle out of or in to the cargo pods. Huge circular tables manned by moreaus overseen by one human were parked where the walkways met. Emerging from a tier of pods the moreaus would approach the serving line, circle around and pick up whatever it was they were being fed, and continue back into their pod.

There were no leisure areas, no recreation areas, and the light was a gloomy sodium yellow that did not vary save where a panel flickered.

The stench made Johan gag violently even before he had stepped out to observe the goings in in the belly of the freighter. Within minutes, however, his sense of taste and smell simply shut down but the very texture of the air was impossible to ignore. It was like drinking ammonia and breathing sewage laced oil, even if he could neither taste nor smell it. For once the guard had not kept with him, remaining fifty paces behind where the air drawn in from the engineering section kept the effluvia at bay.

“Waste treatment adequate for current biologic cargo and crew?" He 'stabbed' a thought at the ghost.

“Efficiency has been at twenty percent while they try to recoup time lost responding to your beacon."

“Take it back to levels sufficient to maintain air quality."

“Probability of detection; high. Confirm?"

“No!" Gagging, Johan staggered down the corridor to a less noisome area near the guard and bent over to clasp his knees with his hands and gulp for air. “Attrition?"

“Unchanged; 0.003 percent."

“Under those conditions?"

“Yes."

Johan wiped his leaking nose and took a breath of clear air. “Insert an alert into the atmospheric diagnostic for toxicity."

“Inserted."

Johan raised his head to the guard who stood resolutely nearby, unfazed. He had been smart enough to avoid the stench. “Is there any way back to the bow that's not through," he waved a hand toward the packed moreaus in their own fetor, “that?" In an uncharacteristic display the guard raised one forearm and hooked his thumb upward; no way around but up.

“Damn." Taking a last gulp of air, he straightened, “And I guess the crew rec area is in the bow, right?" The schematic in his brain pointed right too it, of course. There were actually three separate crew recreation areas. One at the bow on the upper decks; for command staff and paying guests. Another at the bow on the lower decks, for crew. And one more in the aft, albeit the smallest, for labor crews and engineering who didn't want to slog to those in the bow. Considering the testosterone he had just seen on display he felt the need to avoid the aft rec bay.

It took them the better part of twenty minutes to retrace their steps up to the spinal concourse, down its length, and finally down the stairs to the residence deck. Johan was not sure he wanted to attempt the rec area on the command deck, and he did not want to engage the command crew anyway. In the spacious rec area set aside for standard crew, however, they encountered half a dozen people using the various weights and machines. Two emaciated moreaus, both goats, wandered about picking up sweaty towels and dispensing water. Walking to one of them Johan tapped him on the shoulder, startling the poor beast so bad he almost spilled the tureen he was carrying.

“Find me some shorts, like yours." He said to the disconcerting barbell pupils staring up at him in shock. With a hasty bob of its head, replete with stubby horns, it set the tureen down and darted through a distant door. While he waited Johan observed the crowd. His minder had remained back at the door, though inside the gym, arm resting relaxed over the stock of his shoulder slung weapon.

“Salut, stranger." A tall, slender woman wearing a one-piece bathing suit for working out. Her bare legs were long and powerfully muscled without being bulky, her arms similarly toned, while her chest seemed ready to burst the confines of her suit. “You reason we half a day behind schedule, da?"

“Yeah." He nodded with a smile, “Still counting what few lives I've got left after that fiasco." When she approached, a towel around her shoulders, he thrust out a hand. “Johan." He dispensed with the nomenclature honorifics, they tended to get pedantic rather quickly.

“Brigitte, Ruskii."

“Lippizan, Elmier."

“Ah, long arms have they. Much reach."

Johan let his eyes pointedly rove down and then back up, “Like you, m'dear."

Perfect white teeth gleamed brightly back at him with a coy smile, “Long good, like reach. But no in bed, da?"

“Da." Johan chuckled, shut down flat. He had too much in the south and not enough in the north to pique her and she had laid it out pretty bluntly. “Damn nice boat, discounting the refuse in the hold."

“Da, da. But scow of garbage must money be making." She shrugged, hands grasping either end of the towel around her sweaty, muscular shoulders. “No cargo you? I scan. Data?"

“Da, data courier. Now without cargo, or hull to put it in."

“Worries no," she shrugged with a toothy, good natured grin. “boom happens. One micro-meteor through screen and fffft, is all over." She held up her hands and pantomimed an explosion with a flick of slender fingers. The goat Johan had startled trotted up and halted, casting a fearful eye toward the woman, a pair of shorts dangling from one blunt fingered hand. Johan reached out and deftly snatched them away, glancing inside the waist for the size.

“These'll fit. I've been puttering along in zero-G for almost a week, I need to put my muscles back to work." There was no one in the changing rooms so Johan was in and out. The goat had a good eye for size because the shorts fit perfectly. In that short time the good looking lady with the female preference and the heavy accent, however, had apparently chosen to exit with a couple of the others. Johan shrugged, it was no matter. He went to a familiar machine and entered his physical characteristics and zero-G duration to begin his workout. The machine started out quite easy, working arms and then legs and then chest, butt, abs. The device tested his current condition and began its recovery routine. He found himself push him deep into G-atrophy trough with surprising speed, but never beyond his capabilities. Each zone would consist of three sets, the resistance sufficient to stress his muscles but not push them – yet. The first iteration was to halt the atrophy. Further sets would begin the repair.

An hour later he felt wrung out but very, very good about it. A few others had come in for their own boredom breaking routines, chatting amongst one another and for the most part ignoring him.

In one corner nine or ten had squared off for short sparring matches and, toweling the sweat from his brow, Johan ambled over to stand among them. There were no bruisers like the deer slayer Morgan, but Johan would account none of them a slouch. Most of their techniques were more refined than street brawling but less fluid than a single martial style. Elevated street fighting, he would call it.

“New guy, eh? Cap didn't put you to work?" One of them asked as they secured a set of sparring gloves, boots, and a face shield for him.

“Nah, I didn't want to work. Paid him pretty well, what with the useless salvage I was riding in."

The man who had challenged him sucked down a couple cups of water provided by one of the goats. “Avionics, computer core, whatever spare parts survived. Yeah, that'd pay for a five-star trip on this pig."

“Hah!" Johan grinned, “Nice to put a face to the angel calling 'Harrier, Harrier!'" he quipped with a mock bow, taking a generic mouth guard and shoving it home. The impact material quickly shaped itself to his teeth, precluding further conversation. A pale haired woman in the group laughed and pantomimed little angel wings at Johan's sparring partner, earning a glare and muffled oath.

The two men circled, sizing each other up for the first minute or so. The radio operator, whose name Johan had missed, had passably decent footwork. A couple of quick jabs also showed that he had good speed but lacked accuracy. On the third punch Johan did not block, merely leaning aside to capture the arm. A quick turn, dip of his knees and thrust of his shoulder drew the man up, over, and dropped to the mat with a grunt. Johan turned with the throw to keep the arm and soften the throw, however. The man gave him a 'what the fuck?' blink and scrambled back to his feet while the others applauded and jeered.

Johan knew that he could take the guy blind drunk so he made himself work less surely, earning a couple of quick throws in succession. On the last his opponent leaped in to deliver a quick, short axe kick that never landed because Johan spun and kicked the man's leg out from under him. His kicking leg went up, followed by its mate, and his shoulders came down heavily with another huff. Laughing, the man tapped out and Johan stood, his opponent replaced by a woman.

And so on they sparred, tapping out and stepping in once they'd gotten their wind back. In all Johan had allowed his ass to be kicked, punched, and thrown by all of them until he was an ache from neck to rump. Breaking up after an hour they shook hands all around and left, alone as Johan did, paired up, or in a small group. Towel and coveralls draped around his sweaty shoulders he returned to his cabin.

Delightful smells filled his nose when he entered, finding Salen the skunk-striped-dog at the small kitchenette prodding the contents of a skillet with a cooking utensil. The dog turned and offered a slight bow without breaking his work. The bed was turned down and all of the cabin lights, save those over the cook top, set to twilight dimness. Johan tossed his clothing on the bed, the towel by the hatch, and stepped into the shower. The hot water was a relaxing luxury on his overworked muscles and he found himself nodding until the water stopped. He lathered up and rinsed, then stepped out, his shorts joining the towel by the door.

Whatever Salen had been cooking was complete by that point, artfully laid out on the small desk to one side of the bed. It was fish, he noted, relieved. “This one lacked the materials to cook as we used to in my former household, sir, but we were able to convince one of the agroponics workers to secure a few items for me."

Johan looked up from the delightful smelling plate; two fish fillets and a neatly arranged heap of vegetables he could not identify. He winced as a jolt raced down his neck and upper back. The sparring had put more stress on his muscles than they were ready for, even after the machine's conditioning. “You left the cabin?" He growled with a glare at the faux-skunk.

“No, sir." The dog quickly replied with a servile dip of his head. “This one used the intercom to the galley."

“Good, good. They were amenable to your request?"

“They're house service moreaus, like us, sir. It is their life's ambition to be amenable."

“Just ration your requests. Every beast on this boat is under scrutiny, no matter how well or whom they serve." The plate came complete with a full array of utensils, far more than Johan was used to seeing. Two spoons, three forks, and two knives arrayed around the faux china plate; all of them were identical in shape and function. The objective was a proper setting, clearly, rather than utilizing the proper materials for it. The beverage was merely cold water served in a tall, nondescript glass.

“Our apologies for the simple place –"

Johan cut him off with a silencing wave of his fork, “I'm not complaining, dog." The fish was light, flaky, cooked to perfection, its flavor subtle and clearly fresh water in origin. The vegetables were crisp yet savory. “You eat?"

“A ration packet was delivered, yes, sir." Johan turned to cast the attentive dog a glance from the corner of his eye, forcing himself not to wince at a repetition of the muscle twinge.

“From now on, cook two portions. You cannot serve on the low protein reconstituted shit in a ration pack."

“This one shall, sir. Does your neck bother you? We can see, and smell, that you exerted yourself while out. The darkening of the flesh about your arms and shoulders suggests physical interaction with another. Were you sparring?"

“Astute." He nodded, finishing off the delicious meal. “Yes, with other humans of the crew."

“We deduced as much, as there was no scent of moreau about you nor fur remaining on your skin." Salen deftly collected the plate and used utensils, returning to the small kitchenette to place them in the sink. “As this one sees no injuries and smell no blood; you were not in direct combat. Thus; sparring." He returned to collect the remaining utensils.

Johan chuckled, then grunted when his ribs protested. Being thrown repeatedly to the mat for an hour had its consequences. “I assume you learned such deductions in your previous employ?"

“Among many other skills, sir. The duties of a house servitor are multitudinous, complex, never ending, and mistakes punished mercilessly." Returning from the sink he resumed his post two paces away, hands at his back. He did not keep his head downcast in a servile pose, Johan noted, but would not meet his eyes. The skunk-dog's gaze always remained fixed on his chin. “We can see that the effort has left you with considerable muscle tension, sir, which this one is also skilled at easing, if we may?" Johan pondered how much he wanted the dog to do just that; his upper body was a solid ache and his legs were beginning to tighten up. In the end he set aside his reservations and nodded. Taking one step back and half turning Salen extended a single arm toward the bed, “If you will, sir, it is easier to work if you are lying down. Seated limits us solely to your neck and shoulders."

With a dubious glance at the monochromatic dog Johan moved from the chair to the bed, stretching out on his belly and resting his chin on the pillow over his crossed forearms. If Salen was discomfited with his nudity the dog had not shown it while serving his meal, nor when he shifted on his knees onto the bed to straddle Johan's thighs. The slightly course warmth of pads separated by margins of fur pressed down firmly between his shoulder blades and worked upward. Johan very, very quickly discovered that the heavily modified dog was indeed incredibly skilled, chasing away the lingering twinges along his neck and back. He grunted at an especially firm press of the dog's pads against his flesh.

Within moments he slipped into the pleasant place somewhere between awake and fully asleep, his mind wandering. If the ghost could make sense of his aimless mental meandering it had never responded to them; he had to consciously think about the thing to make it react.

He came fully alert, however, when he felt something other than hands close to his ass. The dog-skunk was down to massaging the back of his thighs but he felt whiskers tickling the curves of his rump. He almost tensed but stayed his reaction, feeling the short huffs of warmth as the working dog exhaled. The sensation soon passed, the massage working down to his calves and then the soles of his feet. Once again, the beast displayed its skill at acupressure, sending pleasant twinges racing upward through his very, very pliable muscles. Once more he drifted.

Only to once more be awakened from his half-slumber by the weight settling down upon his thighs, once again straddled while strong hands gently worked where they had earlier been firm. Leaning forward over him, hands slipping up over Johan's shoulders, Salen leaned closer still. Whiskers tickled the back of his ear and a very prominent ridge settled into the cleft of his ass. “If you wish, this one –"

With a sudden burst of motion Johan spun about under the skunk, an arm coming up and knocking him aside. His legs scissored about the tumbling, startled dog's chest and Johan grabbed one arm reflexively flung out to grasp at the bedcovers in an attempt to prevent being kicked across the room. Hauling up the arm and clamping his legs down, the terrified moreau's chin now tucked tight against the back of Johan's knee, his head bent back as his body arched up. “I did not ask you to do that!" Johan bellowed into the wide blue eyes. He pulled the arm and tensed his legs further, sitting up to lean down and glare into those eyes. “Do not ever again think I want that from you, dog!" With a jerk he released his legs and the animal's arm, letting him fall off the bed. Salen scrambled up into the same kowtowing pose he had shown earlier, scuffling back away from the bed on his knees, his lush tail dropped flat to the floor behind him.

“Apologies, master! Apologies! This one assumed –"

“Shut UP!" Johan barked, “I am not your gods bedamned master!"

“Sir, this one –"

“Stand! You're not a fucking worm. Get off the damned floor." Salen immediately bounced to his feet, faster than some acrobats Johan had seen. Certainly faster than the pilot could after being thrown. He could see fear writ clear on every line of the black and white furred half-animal, his hands quaking and his eyes, now cast directly toward the artificial star field above the bed, glimmering with unshed tears.

“Compromise feed! Dorsal port side."

“Compromised. Detection probability increased three percent."

“Come here." He pointed a finger to a spot at the foot of the bed and Salen scrambled to perch there, huge tail wrapped about his midriff. Crossing his legs Johan leaned forward and compounded the frightened animal's confusion with a gentle grasp of his jaw. “Salen, look at me." Salen did. “Never do that again, do you understand?" Salen nodded against his fingers jerkily. “If I want you, I'll ask. If you want me, your damn well better ask, okay?" Johan had pitched his voice low, hopefully too low for the audio devices to pick up clearly.

“We, sir, this one does not… do not understand?" The moreau whined piteously, caught between fear of Johan's sudden violence and the strange gentleness of his new touch. “That is what we –"

“- Were programmed and trained to do." Johan finished. “You have no say so in it, you simply do, whether you like it or not."

“This one, uh, we… are not permitted to ask. To have a say in such matters, of yes or no." He swallowed convulsively, still staring straight at the vista displayed in the screen over the bed. “This one admits, enjoyment, sometimes. Our former masters did allow that, in their personal servant moreaus. Sometimes." When they weren't whipping them so badly that it left scar furrows in their pelt, Johan thought.

“Regardless, Salen. If you want to come to me, in that way, you must – must! – do it of your own free will, not because of the messed up shit they put up here." He tapped the heavily furred temple below one ear lightly with a finger. “I am not your master; I cannot – will not - demand the performance of your body. I can only ask. It is up to you to accept or not, and likewise, for you to ask, and accept no or yes in turn." His hand waved vaguely outward, “That is how things are, beyond the enclaves and domes of your former life. If one takes, retribution should be paid to them. Just as if someone had taken from your masters."

“That much this one understands." Salen whispered, swallowing. His tail unwrapped itself slowly from about his waist as his fear slowly abated.

“Good then, let yourself calm a bit, then go get some shuteye." He waved a hand toward the open door to the neighboring cabin.

Salen glanced down at his tail, fitfully running his fingers through it for a few moments. “May this one may," the monochromatic dog paused briefly to glance down and marshal his obviously scattered thoughts, "may ask, sir –"

“Johan, when were here alone."

“Johan. If it is something this one might ask? Might we stay here?" He patted the rumpled coverlet tentatively.

“With me?" One of Johan's brows edged up, though he was not displeased.

“Yes, s- Johan. Among our crèche we slept together. In those honeycomb cells this one felt terribly alone, there was not enough room for even one of our crèche mates to join us."

“Very well, since you asked." Unfolding his legs he shuffled to one side to take his weight off of the coverlet. From the corner of his eye he noticed the tiny camera above the door; that one was supposed to be obvious. He mentally kicked himself even as he pushed the coverlet back and slipped under it. “Activate cabin overlay, identify monitoring devices." A moment later a wire frame of the cabin was superimposed on his vision, three small red dots bracketed by circles appeared; the camera in the above the door, another concealed in the molding above the shower that had a very clear line of sight to the bed, and a third hidden in the mattress under the pillow. “Damp gain on three, superimpose audio."

“Immediate audio overridden, plus five hours thirty minutes." The ghost had already been obfuscating that pickup, for which he was thankful. The proximity of the bedstead audio would've picked up their whispers otherwise. Johan held up the coverlet and Salen smoothly slid under it, moving with unconscious seductiveness as he stretched out, sinuous as any cat, and shifted to put his back toward Johan. With one hand the dog shifted his huge, lush tail across Johan's unclothed hips beneath the covers. While the human, fresh from the shower, was completely nude the dog still had on the shorts he had been given.

“Disengage overlay. Maintain local obfuscation." The wire frame faded away, as did the sense of the ghost in the forefront of his mind.

Shifting in small, undulating motions Salen pushed himself back until he was pressed close against Johan from chin to knees, his tail curved down along the back of the human's legs. Johan was, not uncomfortably, very aware of the coarse material over the fur softened curves of the dog's rump grinding lightly against his unclad groin.

“If they are watching, they will expect activity." Salen whispered in a quiet, churring growl.

Reaching out an arm Johan draped it over the heavily modified dog's chest and drew him back until one of the short, rounded ears tickled his nose. “Of course, and that is what they will see. They will hear what they expect to hear."

The dog turned his head slightly, the corner of one blue eye looking back. “Expect?" The tail pressed down against the back of Johan's legs, one of the dog's own legs lifting and stretching to drape over the human's. “Johan… what are you about? What is going on?"

“Probability of affirmative response?" Johan thought to the ghost while he mulled over the question. How much could he tell the body slave dog; how much trust could he extend.

“High." The ghost replied promptly, “Physiological responses indicate a greater than ninety percent probability of affirmative response."

“Salen, did they tell you where this ship was going?"

“Low impact agricultural colony on a frontier system planet. Farramaut system, we believe."

“Farramaut system three hundred twenty-nine light years, Colonial protectorate. Population influx status; minimal. Density plus two percent."

“You were misled. It's plotted course is Yazi."

Under the covers Johan felt the dog twitch, tensing abruptly. “That sounds almost Sangan? Is it?"

“A satellite of Huánglóng, one of the Sangan core worlds."

Johan shifted his arm further down the dog's furry body, surprised at just how soft and warm it felt. He knew many different species of moreau quite well; the fur of most dogs, while soft, had a hard coarseness to it that the modified faux-skunk lacked, as if his fur had been genomed with that of a rabbit. With a firm, clearly visible to the cameras, jerk he pulled the dog's midsection back, his flaccid cock grinding against the dog's shorts. “Yes. You served a criminal syndic, I hope you've got a good poker face."

“The slightest error was death, Johan, from external foes and internal politicking, even among the moreaus." His head turned slightly again, brushing the nearest ear against Johan's lips. “This one survived."

“And will, if you work with me, okay?"

Smiling, Salen half turned his upper body to look back at Johan with a flash of distressingly sharp teeth. Not exactly canine teeth; more like feline. They had been retained when the gene manipulation gave him a skunk's head. “On the life of this one, s - Johan." He churred, voice modulation deepening as he twisted further, leaned close, and brushed the short, satin fur of his lips across Johan's. His whiskers were far longer, and more numerous, than a dog's. They did not tickle, they caressed. “What are your intentions?"

“Cease local image degradation." he thought at the ghost, which was ever present and ever aware of his thoughts so long as they were aimed properly.

“Resolution restored. Internal error investigated, dismissed. Detection probability detection; below two percent."

Switching to the canine language, Rakath, Sean returned the light kiss. “Er daza ka tuk sra sudna" If the rough, throaty sound of dogspeak coming from a human surprised him, Salen did not show it. He ground salaciously back against the human, the simple material of his shorts a pleasant friction against Johan's flaccid cock. Under such stimulation it would not remain flaccid for long, Johan knew, and was making no effort to limit the contact.

“Jaer?" Another brush of those deceptively soft lips with the delicate, added warm caress of his tongue tip. “Ankhir?" His whispered hiss sounded incredulous, and concerned.

“Erjah, es." Johan replied to the concerned inquiry. “<It will not be easy, nor safe. I need you, dog.>"

“Nahnekh entii Salenbur." Salen offered his moreau name, a rare extension of his own trust. Dipping his head, the dog nuzzled under Johan's chin, stroking a slow lick along the human's furless throat. “<And I feel your need.>" He joked, one hand sliding along Johan's flank and hip, then flexing to dig blunted claw tipped fingers into the muscles of his hip and pull Johan closer while his rump ground firmly back.

Johan hissed, his flaccid manhood quickly awakening against the material of Salen's shorts. “<Tsah, Salenbur! That not need ->" Though useful the language created by, mostly, the canid moreaus did lack the pure vocabulary depths of more established languages. And it also had components that Johan could not replicate such as ear or tail motions, or even scent. Even without the distraction of the soft curves grinding against his crotch or the gentle, insistent grip of that claw tipped hand, he stumbled to explain what he needed; dog speak was not easy even without his physical limitations.

“Haud. Er anlen." Sharp teeth nipped lightly at Johan's throat even as the soft curves under those shorts flexed and rocked against Johan's awakening tumescence. “Voh." Well, at least the faux-dog was willing to play along, even to do nothing more than save his own pelt.

“<Comms in cargo?>"

“<Some. Containers for sentient transport, tablet for entertainment in sleeping cells.>" Fully aroused, Johan's cock jerked and twitched against the dog's rump, pressed solidly against the material clad curves beneath the tail upraised and draped over his hip. The human splayed his fingers into the soft fur of the dog's lower chest and belly and nibbled on one of those short, rounded ears. The light pinch of his teeth elicited a shiver and coo from the moreau, and an only greater press of that fabric clad rump against his erection. His thoughts were not scattered, however. They were laser focused, and not on that distracting contact.

“Locate skunk modified moreaus; 'tuxedoes', conforming to local specimen."

After a lengthy pause, during which Johan's throat was nibbled and kissed, his hip grasped, and his cock stroked by fur and fabric. “Located. Cargo container bravo six, tier eleven, cells eighty-two through eighty-six."

“<Salenbur, which of your crèche mates do you most trust?>"

“<Nansekai. She politick better than any others of crèche.>" Shifting beneath the coverlet Salen released Johan's hip and began pushing his shorts down. He spent many very physical seconds in the effort, apparently solely to titillate the spy cams. At length he drew them from beneath the covers and dropped them over the side of the bed. Well, Johan thought with a smile, whomever was watching the video feeds would be satisfied that Johan was utilizing his dog as expected.

“<Cell?>"

“<Ninteen eighty four.>"

“Overwhatch video in cargo housing?"

“Negative, too many feeds to maintain. Commons area monitoring only."

“Activate tier nineteen cell eighty-four. Utilize local audio monitor to capture moreau. Precautionary channel masking."

“Splitting channel. Channel split, masked; recording local moreau. Recording recipient audio."

“<Salenbur, speak to your sister. She will hear.>"

“Nansekai?" Salen's teasing salaciousness ceased as he gave Johan a dubious look, but spoke as he was bidden. For a few seconds Johan heard nothing through the ghost and he feared that the hapless skunk-dog in the miasma of the cargo area was too fearful to respond.

“Nahnekh?" A husky, trilling voice similar to Salen's own but in a slightly higher register.

“<She replies, 'Nahnekh?' I cannot extend audio, the listening device is one-way.>"

“<Nansekai, listen, brief must be. Human rakath speaks, listen to him! Sangan vessel is going! Human 'Johan' seeks to stop. Concordance.>"

After a momentary pause while the female on the other end took in what her brother had to say and considered before she replied. “<I listen, human Johan.>"

“<Nansekai,>" Johan added his previously silent voice to the discussion. “<Does crew understand nakath? Hanakh?>" Hell, he thought, did the skunk-dog crèche even know the feline sign language, either?

“<Nakath, some. Hanakh? None. Cats speak always, no human reacts. Few dogs see, few grazers see. No humans see.>"

“<You see?>"

Johan got a sense of cold, sinister mirth bleeding into the unseen speaker's feminine trill, “<Oh yes, Nan crèche sees!>" That was good, Johan was pleased; all of the modified skunk-dogs could 'speak', for lack of a better term, the silent feline language. <What human Johan want Nan to show?>

So Johan laid it out for her, all the while feeling the now stilled, warm furry body against him now bereft of those shorts. His cock, momentarily almost uncomfortably engorged, was allowed to soften slightly in the silken nest of fur along the dog's rump cleft. A slight tuck of the broad, muscular tail root pressed it teasingly against an area that was hot and very noticeably furless. The unseen female, Nansekai, was relieved that her brother's removal from cargo had been to serve in the capacity of their previous lives, and not on a plate. Once Johan had laid out his desires, and repeated them, and her repeat them back which she did verbatim, the ghost broke the link. For them, it was now a waiting game, once word spread through the feline rumor mill.

“Are you going to keep teasing us, Joh?" The dog asked in a playful tone once Johan had stopped speaking, the shortened name softly trilled as 'yeeoh'. The human was still very much aware that his half-aroused manhood still rested in the cleft beneath the dog's upraised skunk-like tail, the blunt tip resting against naked flesh.

Johan grunted a rueful laugh, “I do not think I am the one 'teasing', Salen." He was rewarded with a slow, firm rearward grind that slid his length along the fur soft cleft of the dog's ass, ending with a firm nudge high beneath his upraised tail. “You prefer what I have, and not a woman?" Meaning human, rather than simply 'female', which would refer to any species. Woman tended to mean 'human female', or in the limited context of same species speakers a female of their respective species.

“Either. Each is very pleasant to please." When Johan stiffened slightly Salen placed a light hand upon his hip to stay the slight withdrawal of his contact. “This one is not asking, this one is begging, Joh. Please continue what you have started, for we desire it of our own eagerness." The higher of his shoulders rolled in a slight shrug. “The programming and training, clearly, but this one wants; we do not perform simply for the sake of performance, here." His hips rolled once more, so solidly Johan was actually pushed back a couple of inches when his very solid arousal was firmly driven into the furry cleft hard enough to feel the firm muscle beneath.

“Kinda dry," Johan protested, no longer pulling away, a soft hiss escaping past his teeth when the flare of his cock was flattened against the hot flesh of Salen's asshole. He could feel the tiny twitches and ripples of that muscular ring against his squashed tip for several delightfully long seconds before, quite unexpectedly, a rush of warm, slick wetness washed across his flesh so powerfully it spattered against his groin. “Salen?" He quipped in surprise when the building friction of their contact vanished.

“This one's line has been modified with skunk physiology, Joh. We have vents." Well, that much was abundantly obvious now, Johan observed as the slick flesh of the skunk-dog's anal ring pressed and withdrew, kissing and nuzzling his broad tip teasingly. “They produce prostatic fluid, not mercaptins." Slowly his hips rolled, smearing that unexpected, warm slickness against the human cock nestled in the dampened cleft under his tail. He chuckled softly. “Very convenient." Doubtlessly slipped in by the designers of their particular moreau model, either for their own prurient titillation or at the behest of their client, but certainly useful whatever the reason. The smooth, slow rearward pressure of the dog's hips rolling back, accompanied by a similarly slow forward thrust of Johan's hips, dimpled the very slick, hot flesh of the instinctively reluctant anal muscles drove a silken embrace downward over Johan's broad tip. He let out a slow, hissing breath at the grasping, silken heat and his fingers fisted in the fur of the dog's breast. “Mhh!" Salen let out a momentary, discomforted grunt and Johan paused, a mere couple of inches captured by the rapid twitching of the dog's anal ring.

“Too much?"

“Not… really," Salen sighed after a moment, “bigger than this one is used to, a little. More than we had, before, or in a very long while." He settled forward slightly before pressing back, “Very nice, though, after that initial moment." Johan eased in a few more inches before the faux-skunk paused again. “Should be more… uhhn, rough, though."

“Rough?"

“You said they're watching. If they see you're gentle with us, they'll think you're sympathetic. Might make them suspicious." His shoulders and head turned to face Johan a bit more directly though his hips did not rotate, slipping forward an inch or so before settling back. The grasp of the moreau's anal ring was neither too strong, nor weak, and the slow peristaltic rippling against the sensitive head of his cock made Johan's breath catch. “You're supposed to just… use this one. That's what we are for, to most. To be used, and then discarded."

Johan eased back until only his flared tip was held within the flexing, smooth grasp of the dog's anal ring. “That is changing. There are free moreaus, citizen class moreaus, breeding moreaus. Even moreaus in CODA, PMCs, mercs, freelancers. Even colonies specifically for an overseen by moreaus." He grunted softly when Salen pushed back with a firm roll of his hips, taking almost his entire length in a single smooth motion. The sensation was indescribable, as he had always found it to be. Hot, tight, and as smooth as oiled silk. And the dog knew how to use every muscle in that confined passage very well indeed. Despite his calm words of encouragement, he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his mind from focusing on the immediate pleasure of the moment. Well defined, toned muscle under a dense, thick pelt pressed back against him. The tail draped over his hip and shuddering each time he slipped or drew. A hand stroking the outer thigh of his upper leg, blunted claws dimpling flesh as they raked up to grasp his rump and pull with each slow thrust.

“Well, this one guesses they knew how you might use their spy, so see what they expected to see in that. Else would have brought one less… visually striking?" Salen's tongue teased his shoulder followed by a brief nip before he turned away and pressed his back against Johan's chest, the angular musteline head of the dog bowed forward exposing the nape of his neck. Johan's arm clutched at the dog's midriff and pulled him back, always staying several inches north of Salen's own loins. He was not averse to what he might find, but he did not want to offer too much. Until he had a script to run it would not do, he thought, for those cameras to witness him giving the moreau the same pleasure he was being given.

“Spy?" he managed to cough before his throat constricted again when Salen pressed his rump back, taking Johan fully beneath the wide root of his muscular tail. His hand grasped at the human's hip, urging him not to draw back. For good reason, Johan soon learned, as the skunk-dog's tail began to move against the back of his legs. The flexing of the motor muscles at its root transitioned into his rectal passage and, thereby, directly against Johan's imprisoned cock. Coupled with the soft, slow ministrations of the muscles along his entire length and tight grasp of the ring at his base, sent waves of pleasure pulsing through Johan's entire body. He could only compare it to a talented acupressurist giving a foot massage but on his cock, with radically different results.

“Mhh hmmm." Salen almost purred, his very voice seeming to vibrate through the solid length unifying them, flashing along the ridge of his taint and alighting somewhere behind the base of his erection. “They wanted this one to spy on you; for better food, better treatment. This one is a lure, to tempt you. We were to listen, and ease you to talking freely. Find out if you were more than merely an accident victim."

“And?"

With a soft, chuckling groan Salen turned slightly and to look at him with one blue eye in the deep black of his face, grinding slowly, heavily back before rocking forward again ever so slightly. “When they ask, we will tell them exactly what they asked of me. This one will admit that he tempted you. They'll find out you took your pleasure and then ignored us, as one might expect. You treat us with the same indifferent kindness one might extend to a family pet, nothing more, even if this pet can cook and clean." The dog slowly ratcheted up the pressure along Johan's length, somehow managing to stave off the rapidly building climax Johan felt desperately churning for release at the apex of his loins and in his balls. Yet, despite adjusting himself so that Johan was left hovering, the pleasure caressing every inch of his length was undiminished.

“And do things to my dick, using nothing but your ass, that not even a Shangiri whore could never do." Johan gave a firm roll of his hips, though he could not actually drive himself even deeper, even if the root of the dog's tail had not been pressing against his gut. Salen's body rocked with the short motion, relenting with only a brief relaxation of the tight grasp at the root of his length.

“We will tell them you're worried what will happen to you due to the loss of the corp's ship and data. You've distracted your anxiety with exercise in the rec area, sparring, and fucking this one's ass though it took you a long time to work it up because of your worries."

“Because you're keeping me on the gods damned edge, Salen." Johan argued, shifting and bucking, trying to coax the last bit of stimulation to let him leap over the edge. The moreau's skill amounted to wonderful, intensely intimate torture that Johan had not experienced before. He was, by far, not a celibate man, nor a choosy one. Men, women, moreaus of many species and both genders were fair game. He did prefer males among humans, typically, and females among moreaus, but there was always room to go either way. It was all about the job, generally.

But with this strangely alien faux-skunk dog he could find himself looking for him outside the job.

“Tag."

“Tagged." If the ghost could exhibit humor Johan was sure there would've been quite a bit showing. But, as ever, it was merely a dispassionate, cold acknowledgement of his order. He let the presence fade back once again and his attention turned toward the pair of narrow white bands tracing down the nape of the neck before him. He nuzzled deep into the dense fur, found flesh, and opened his mouth to bite ineffectually at it. There was simply too much fur to catch the loose flesh beneath, so he could merely tug at that with his needy bite. He lacked the length of muzzle or fangs to do more. Salen understood the gesture and growl-trilled his pleasure, arching his neck further, his rump and shoulders pushing back. Johan kept his weight planted, his free arm clutching at the monochromatic moreau, hips twitching and jerking, pulling an inch back and driving beneath that tail again with a short, swift thrust.

“Why are you keeping me on the edge, dog?" the human growled into the fur burying his face.

“Because, as good as we know it feels for you it is just as good for us." Those muscles clenched, stroked, rippled, and pulled at Johan's length, always keeping him a heartbeat from exploding. “It is very, very seldom this one gets to enjoy just… feeling someone there and not just their rutting."

“It's not like I'm going to just pull out when you let me over, Salen."

“You must." The dog panted, now clearly deep into his own climbing pleasure. “They'll see."

“Like they'll know when I nut."

“It won't be hard to miss." Johan could feel the shudder in the fur bordered finger and paw pads grasping his hip, the tension in the muscular curves pressed back against his loins, and the vibration of the tail's anchor muscles pressing his cock against the hot, slick flesh deep within the dog's ass. He could feel how close the dog was, himself. “You're using this one, in their eyes, Johan. Make the show a good one." Then, with a shuddering gasp and a shift of just how those muscles were teasing him, Johan felt the dog's release. The tight embrace of his anal ring tightened, then grasped solidly before relaxing in a rapid series of powerful twitches. He felt that echoed along his entire length, rippling upward and downward at the same moment, like waves in a small body of water rebounding upon themselves. It was too much, and the sudden wash of sensation was unexpectedly powerful. The flesh of his cock grew taut as new tension flooded into it and, a breath after the dog's gasp, Johan bellowed and slammed his hips forward, shoving the skunk a foot across the bed.

He climaxed as powerfully as he could ever remember doing as a randy teenager just off the streets of Molbarrow Hab. He clutched at the dog's fur, his first release peaking and fading, then slammed forward again, hauling the dog back, as a second contraction tightened his balls. It was over all too quickly, but the euphoria of it continued to build for many long minutes. They lay pressed close together, panting heavily. When he felt he had regained enough control over his twitching muscles to move he shifted and drew back, cock slipping free of the dog's undeniably skilled ass with a wet slurp. He rolled over and stood up from the bed, leaning against the wall near the kitchenette with one hand. When he glanced over he saw Salen looking at him with a mixture of adulation and wariness.

“Get up." He rasped, waving a hand at the striped dog. “C'mere. Clean this mess up." His hand waved at his rapidly deflating cock and the mingled fluids dripping from it. As quickly as he had bounced from the floor earlier Salen darted from the bed and crossed around to him. Snatching up a dish rag he ran it under the faucet until he felt it was the right temperature. Dropping to his knees at Johan's side he carefully began cleaning the man's satiated genitals. Head bowed, Johan watched. The dog would have just as been happy to use his tongue, he wagered. And it would've satisfied the watchers all the more. After a few seconds of very gentle ministrations he swatted the dog's hands away in visible, mock irritation. “Go."

Salen shifted back and then upright, setting aside the damp cloth. Johan moved to stand at the bed and watched the moreau walk toward the attached cabin. “No." He pointed at the far side of the bed. “Here." With that he fell back upon it heavily because his own muscles, after the workout, sparring, and that potent release, were not exactly working at their best. He slipped under the coverlet and turned onto his side, his back to the dog. A moment later he felt the weight of the dog on the opposite side of the bed. Not close enough to touch but, he hoped, close enough to satisfy his need for company. Under the covers he felt the brush of the thick, soft tail along the back of his legs drifting upward to settle against the small of his back. A minor touch, but a telling one.

It would suffice.