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Emancipation

III

When he awoke Johan felt better than he had in weeks. His muscles had that last lingering ache of a good workout regimen, the expected dull throb of bruising little more than a 'you are aware you beat yourself up' twinge thanks to the dog's massage. And his psyche actually felt centered. He slipped out of the bed and stretched. Salen sat up and rubbed his eyes, yawning with a distressing display of wicked looking little teeth. Dogs were not supposed to open their muzzles that wide, Johan mused at the display. Foxes, perhaps, but the skunk physiology made it look like he could eat a melon without breaking the rind.

“Alpha watch galley call was two minutes ago." The dog observed in a muted growl. “If you're networking, that's the place to be, unless you'd like this one too cook." The gleam in his brilliant blue eyes hinted at other activities he could offer other than cook. Johan merely smiled, watching the lithe motions of the dog slipping out of the bed. Naked, his apparent gender was little more than a shadow in the deep fur of his crotch, a hint of a ridge upward toward his navel. Plucking the folded coveralls from where they had been laid on the floor he let them fall open with a deft snap, holding them up.

Not for Johan to take, but to step into. He let the dog help him dress. “I'll brave the galley, so long as there's no red meat." Salen peered at him with some alarm, blinked, and then winced. Yes, they did that here.

The galley was, if the term could be applied to a freighter, packed. Johan ambled in, hands in his pockets, and picked up a tray. A few of the people he had sparred with the previous up watch waved greetings and he returned them tiredly with a pointedly affected roll of his neck. Behind the serving line were three moreaus, looking better fed and bathed than any others he had seen besides Salen, and a human. The primary meat offerings seemed to be limited to pork; bacon, ham, and sausages. He eschewed the latter, not knowing if they contained only pork. Swine was an unpopular moreau model so there was a high chance that the meat came from purely non-sentient stock. There were fruits, vegetables, cereal grains, and drink mixtures of the same. He filled his tray, selected a pureed berry concoction for a drink, and made his way toward a table.

Contrary to popular practice he found the commodore seated among other members of the crew, a tray piled high before him. Steam wafted from a cup of java in one hand. “Johan jump scram, settling in well? I heard you took on some of our crew yesterday."

“I did, Cap, and didn't make out as well as I had thought. Too much null-G for some reason." At a rolling wave of the commodore's hand he joined them at their table. “Jump scram?" At least it was not an entirely derogatory nickname, he figured.

“What, call ya a space hobo? Nah." The man was positively ebullient, smiling often and warmly; a man without a care in the world and a huge profit waiting for him to just cash in. “That tuxedo working out for you?"

Johan took a pull of his drink and nibbled on a strip of bacon; it was crispy without being dry. “Quite. Beast's got skills." He waggled his eyebrows with a leering grin.

“Skills, eh?" The man seated to Bochas's right queried in a heavy baritone growl, one brow raised. His frame was solid, though not huge, and if there was an ounce of fat on the guy it came from his bacon. His forearms were exposed below the rolled-up sleeves of his combat jacket, pocked and slashed with old battle scars. Most striking were the four long, pale scars on his rugged face that traced parallel lines from right brow to left jawline as if he had been clawed some beast, or a moreau, in its final moments. That lent him a truly intimidating look framing the cold, intense piercing brown of his angry eyes.

“Oh yeah." Johan grinned around his bacon, drawing his eyes away from that hard stare to settle on the commodore again. “What good are the damn things if you can't use 'em, eh?" His expression sold the story and the table laughed, though claw-scars did not. Johan was male, Salen was a moreau, and also male. There could be any reason in there that the scarred face would find distasteful. “Sometimes you can't be too picky between ports." Finishing the bacon he took another swig of his drink and a forkful of mixed fruits piled on a skillet cake. “If I didn't know what you were expecting for that remarkable pelt at your destination I'd be considering buying that one's contract. I'm sure it could… work the debt off rather well." He leered again.

“Not much in the practice of selling off cargo in transit, but I'll consider an offer."

“Kinda hard to check my chit this far out, and the salvage wasn't mine, so… I'll consider the prospect open?"

Their conversation meandered throughout the meal and Johan gleaned a few more names and job positions. Scar-face was actually Leon, the contracted head of security on this run. He and his stone faced, silent sentinels had been hired in a month before the run based on their reputation as a well-disciplined, coordinated merc squad with a penchant for collecting moreau ears. Johan had not seen any marks on the uniforms, or dangling necklaces of trophies, but could hardly say that they did not do exactly that. Warriors had strange rituals.

From there Johan returned to one of the other rec areas near the gym where a typically heavy-handed action holo was being shown. His guard for the watch was the same dark-skinned human. It seemed that patrol had been his assigned duty and, now, Johan was. He could hear a couple of people in nearby tanks complaining in irritable, if hushed voices. Apparently they were from two different watch rotations on the waste control deck, commiserating on a common complaint. They were irritated because the stench of moreaus was leeching from the air purifiers because their power usage was throttled to power the jump drive. The toxicity warnings were being ignored, apparently, by the people in the command section who did not have to live in the foul air.

In fact, Johan learned after querying the ghost, the reports were being filtered out entirely by the chief of operational management before the commodore ever saw them. Unfortunately, the ghost felt that if he made any attempt to circumvent the diagnostic report filters the woman had put in place someone might get suspicious. So the moreaus, and the waste management crew, would have to suffer in silence.

At the very most forward point of the freighter's inner hull, below the huge radiation screens that defined the freighter's distinctive silhouette, was an observation platform with a clear view of the space ahead of them. Johan found a comfortable lounge there, unaccompanied by anyone save the unspeaking guard, and leaned back to ostensibly mind the stars.

He reached for the ghost. “Profile progress?"

“Current probability curve forty-three percent. Basic grouping assessment for charlie and x-ray established, veracity fifty-nine percent." Alpha would be the hardest group to define, because their activities would be carefully concealed, likely resulting in a charlie assessment. “Advise; certain cargo elements warrant x-ray assessment." Oh, really?

“Copy. Maintain assessment, determine segregation policy."

“Minor segregation implementation currently under way. Gross segregation detection likely."

“Develop gross, maintain until necessity established."

“Development evolution in progress, maintaining."

“Script." Here was where Johan would have to do his most complex work and it would take time, and some privacy to avoid distractions.

“Active. Actor one."

“Commodore Bochas." Closing his eyes, focusing inward, he began laying out his script for the ghost. He never realized how much work acting could be; the classes had been fun. The job had been rewarding, but hardly fun. He long ago lost count of the number of roles he had played, the number of propaganda films he had been cast in. Corporation disinformation, CODA anti- this or anti- that propaganda. It was all lies, from the 'news' holovids to the attached press in the middle of conflict zones that were little more than holographic sets with more actors like him. The Colonial 'conflicts' were a sham of lies built on lies to keep its human population comfortable in their little sanctuaries far from any real conflicts, but scared enough to be eager for the protections of corporate guns and CODA protections.

Meanwhile, CODA was being pressed to serve both the defense of the Colonies against incursions from outside forces like the Pictar, the Russian States, the Sanganese and fulfill corporate contracts to grind its iron fist down on less well armed corporations or holdings wanting to escape the crushing boot of tyrannical corporations.

And no matter what he had done, did, or would ever do it would amount to less than a raindrop in an ocean to repair the situation, or even the damage he had done in his first decade as a holo star.

Nine hours later he returned to his cabin followed by a silent, but less stern looking, white guard to replace the dark-skinned one. His work had left him with a splitting headache that sent a sharp stab through his head every time he had to think or stop to read. At least the huge yellow sixty-three stenciled on the hatch was not difficult to make out. He was met just within by an alert, attentive dog whose tail looked somewhat comical slowly wagging behind his shoulders. Half blind due to the throbbing pain in his temples he brushed past and sat on the foot of the bed with a thump, dropping his head into his hands.

“Are you well, Johan?" Salen asked after dogging the hatch closed.

“Just a headache." He groused irritably, rubbing his temples. “Overtaxed myself."

“Smells like more than 'just', Joh. Here, come, let us help." A light hand touched his upper arm and, when he did not move to rise, gently grasped and tugged. Johan allowed himself to be levered upright and staggered over to the chair in front of the small desk. The striped dog helped him sit and drew him upright, letting his shoulders rest against the chair's back. Immediately those nimble fingers began to work at his head. They simply traced, at first, along the line of his jaw, the back of his neck and head, and finally up and over to his brow. “Yes, you have considerable tension, again." The dog chuckled a light trill. “This one is skilled, Joh, but we can only work miracles so often."

Johan grunted, letting the dog work. “Did well last z-watch." He felt the momentary twitch of the dog's light fingers and let a chuff escape his nose, “Not that, Salen. Well, yes, that but… my muscles have not even the slightest ache after what I put them through." The fingers pressed down, working along his brow and above his temples slowly but firmly. Initially they only made the headache that much worse but he felt confident the dog knew what he was doing.

“Exertion stress is easily remedied, Joh. Whatever you did to bring this tension on, however, will not be so easily undone." The faux-skunk's fingers belied his statement, however, crushing the occasional stab of pain when he tried to put two thoughts together at once. He was loathe to open his eyes, however, relaxing back into those padded, fur softened digits. As with the massage of the previous night the touch of his blunt claws was so light, and rare, as to be overlooked. “What did you do?"

“I was thinking." Well, it was true, even if his thinking was interactive, two-way, and took up so much bandwidth it had left him in his current state.

“Gods below, about what?" Salen churped softly. The ghost had never lifted the gain on the local audio so Johan felt secure in being able to speak in plain English and not the challenging Rakath. Thus far, the ghost reported, no efforts had been made to figure out why the entire channel carrying audio from the dorsal cabins had become so poor.

“What I'm planning on doing."

Salen's hands stilled a moment, then dropped down to rest on Johan's shoulders. “Who are you, Joh? To think of doing such a thing is… this one cannot fathom why, or how. And we knew much of how such things were done in our former House." After a moment those hands resumed their work, though much of the muscular tension had been skillfully banished. The discomfort behind it, within the shell of his own skull, could not so easily be eliminated.

“I am Johan." He affirmed, letting his head rock back to rest against Salen's thickly furred chest.

“You are not." The dog argued, though deferentially.

Johan cocked his head slightly to turn and look up with one eye, “Say you."

“One does not do what you intend under their given identity, Joh." The moreau smiled.

“Loyalty?" He thought with a tiny twinge of pain behind and to one side of his brow.

“Exceeds ninety-six percent, by physiological response."

“I am, or was, an actor." Johan finally offered with a sigh, letting his head rotate back to stare at the wall through narrowly lidded eyes. The light still hurt, regardless of the massage.

“Are not we all, in our own ways." The faux-skunk stated rather than asked, fingers delicately working his brow.

“I mean actor, as in Paragon Matrix Interactive." One of the largest media production companies of the inner systems, based on Terra though Johan had only been there a half dozen times for premiers of particular importance. He took a long, slow breath through his nose, the strange dusty earthy musk of the dog's scent filling his nose. It was not strong, which was surprising considering what Salen looked like, and not exactly entirely dog-like. There was a spicy undertone to it; a very subtle combination of cinnamon and vanilla. Idly he wondered if that was an engineered pheromone or something else. “You ever heard the name Jorvald Avalon-Amber, of Amber Agro?"

Salen chuffed softly above him, “Who has not, if they've got access to a holo or sim tank?" The hands slowed to a stop. “You?"

“I, yes. Though I've had some radical reconstruction."

“What happened?" The moreau gaped incredulously. “Avalon-Amber was among the most known names on the hologrid!"

“Eight Matrix awards and counting. But, Salen, I got sick of it. The propaganda, the lies, the misdirection. The corporations, their private little armies, secret wars, and CODA, contracting me to star in these huge holos and deep sims to paint lies." He slapped the desk with one hand. “Painting small homesteads and entire quasi-independent colonies as terrorist groups against huge corporations who wanted to turn the eye away, or public opinion against them, so that when the corp swept in and crushed them, or had CODA or some PMC do it, no one would care. How many evil, vile animal villains did I vanquish? Did you ever count?"

“No." Salen admitted quietly.

“Over seventy." He leaned his head back until it was stopped against the dog, “I wanted out, but I had one last holo I wanted to make. Two, really, but no one would pick up the second."

“Dog of War, we remember. This one saw it, simmed it in a tank even. One of CODA's first, and most highly decorated, moreau combatants. You played her commander, if we recall. That was more than a decade ago."

“Julie Verne; Runshana Nikkakharat. The holo didn't do her a whisker's worth of justice, but I tried. It's intimidating as hell sitting alone in a room with any one of flag rank, much less a moreau Major General dubious about your intentions with her story. But eventually she relented and allowed me to move forward. I spent a lot of time with her and Brigadier General Usher going over intimate details of her first theater action on planet Jefferson. But I did it, with Dark Horse Imagery, a pro-moreau production house. Matrix burned me for contract violation and I could never get anyone, not even get Dark Horse, to pick up the second script I wanted to produce. Matrix leaned on them so hard they nearly crumbled entirely. Only Dog of War being so highly received kept them from being squashed like a bug under Matrix. So… I just disappeared." He chuckled ruefully, “Even got nominated for an Eden Star, but you can't claim those in absentia." An Eden Star for Media Excellence made a Matrix award look like a cereal box prize.

“What was the other one? The one you never made?" By now Salen had finished his careful scalp ministrations and was merely… caressing. It was nothing more salacious than gentle contact, as one might extend to a lover, or a household pet while reading a novel.

“The truth of Daeron Bander."

“The traitor. We are familiar with the story." The hands dropped to Johan's shoulders and massaged gently.

“The official story, I wager."

“The only story. News of it was much spread, during our second year from gestation. The battle of Solaris was practically next door to Marris, like ten light years or so. He ran a light cruiser into the Dion Agricultural capital ship, right?"

“With most of the crew still aboard, yes. But why he did it has never been released."

“But you know?"

“I read his unofficial autobiography. They've tried to bury it, but there are copies floating about the shadow grid. I found and talked to a few from other ships in that engagement, on both sides, using my name as leverage. I even found one of the few survivors of the Spartan Lance and he corroborated much of what I had learned."

Salen's hands continued their work, though Johan did not have any aches to minister to. It just felt good to have those nimble, skilled fingers working his shoulders and neck, easing even his internal headache away. “And that was?"

“Bander had a lover on the Spartan Lance, a shepherd line moreau in the quartermaster corps. Apparently, this was discovered and some of the crew took exception to the idea of human and a moreau, a male moreau at that, in such an intimate if closeted relationship. This was years after Nikkakharat brought moreaus into the forefront of active, acknowledged military service with the Colonial Defense Authority. She even had a human intimate partner of her own, did you know? Other PMCs were picking up on that movement, recruiting their own moreaus. Bander was a part of the Blades, a PMC hired by Marris when CODA declined to get involved. Anyway, a few of the crewmen decided to… teach the dog a lesson, and thereby every moreau on the ship and in the fleet. They beat the poor dog to death while one of their cohorts broadcast the beating throughout the ship, with the captain's tacit approval. This was going on while the Dion fleet was inbound to Solaris. CODA had withdrawn, their contract conveniently lapsed, and would offer no aide, not even an overseer to force Dion to the diplomatic table."

“That's a wonderful morale booster." Salen muttered with a sigh.

“When Bander sought to terminate the feed he was countermanded by the captain. By the time the Dion fleet reached Solaris orbit Bander was in a fury and they tried to lock him in the brig, but failed. He went berserk. Being the weapons master and a master sergeant of infantry training he had access to heavy equipment and weapons, and the skills to wreak havoc. After finding and brutally killing those involved with the beating, he sealed himself in the secondary bridge, locking the primary bridge systems out shortly before evacuating the atmosphere on the entire command deck. All moreaus were issued an abandon ship order. Since they were service support only it was easy for them to reach escape pods before the rest of the ship lost atmosphere.

“It was one of those whom I found and spoke to, a moreau who podded out. Bander then armed some torpedo warheads in the forward armory and set the Spear on a collision course with the Dion flagship, the battlecruiser Vineyard's Envy, at flank speed. Dion had a pretty bad reputation for being pretty brutal to its moreaus so Bander figured; two birds with one stone. Without its flagship, and firepower, Dion was forced to withdraw from Solaris. But Bander was labeled a traitor and mutineer. His body was never recovered, considering they expected that it was aboard the Spear on impact. The bio reveals he jettisoned himself in a stasis casket with his dead partner and that was later picked up by salvagers."

“He survived, then, if he wrote that bio?"

“Unofficial bio, but I assume that he did. Went merc, by all accounts. Formed the Black Eyed Dogs. Other than that autobiography turning up in shadow feeds nothing's ever been heard from him again and even the Dogs are damn hard to pin down. Run piracy on short haul freight, typically moreaus for resale. But one day they're deep spinward, like around Dachau, the next above the ecliptic near someplace like Spectre's Ring hundreds of light years away. Ghosts."

“That would've made a marvelous accompaniment to your story about Julie Verne."

“Runshana Nikkakharat, not the crap that humans pinned on her_."_

“Runshana is a far more beautiful name, we agree. And now you're here."

“And now I am here."

“Jump minus twenty minutes." The ghost awoke him from a peaceful slumber after almost another day turning his brain to mush. He had to get the scripting just right to make the actors believable. Johan was, truly, Johan. His identity as Jarvold Avalon-Amber was a pure fabrication, though given some veracity by the Amber family, adopted in from the Avalon family when their holdings were absorbed; so to say, hostilely taken over under CODA contract. The real Johan Rashid had been nothing more than a bit of gutter trash running short, but very involved, cons in the Darwin IV habitation domes. He had gotten into working low budget porns, which often involved moreaus if always in subordinate positions – victims, slaves, bottoms and the like – where his ability to act came to light. With some slight surgical alterations, he became Jarvold.

And from there, his career had shot into the proverbial stratosphere. Within a decade he was a household name. His views on moreaus, and moreau rights, was always adamantly opposed; yet it was all scripted. No one cared about his personal feelings, certainly not Paragon Matrix who used him as a human hero against every type of villain – typically non-human; alien or moreau – they could imagine. He kept those feelings hidden away, lest he become a pariah in the ever-competitive, back stabbing circles of the media elite.

And then someone had slipped a copy of Dog of War into his script tablet.

And that was that, the end of one career and the beginning of another that was far more exciting, far more dangerous, and used far more of his acting skill than he had ever used in front of an imager. Now, he often had only one take. A bad wrap would not lead to the end credit scroll so much as a cut without a reset via the nearest airlock.

Five minutes later the cabin lights sprang on, joined by a soft red pulse and muted alert tone. “All Stations, all stations. Jump in fifteen minutes. Secure all stations. Non-essential personnel to secure quarters." A computer voice intoned, though with a gentle masculine tenor. Salen stirred as it repeated, one hand tightening against Johan's chest to pull him back against the soft, warm fur behind him. The faux-skunk nuzzled his nape gently.

“Ever done it in jump transit?"

Johan snorted a laugh, “For all of the few seconds that takes? No." He could feel the velvet ridge of the dog's sheath against his lower back; neither thick with morning arousal or soft and flaccid with what Johan would have. The dog was, as dogs were, always rigid. It was all a matter of girth for them, and exposure from their sheath. “Have you?"

The dog's warm finger and palm pads, soften by transitional fur, drifted from his chest to his groin and lightly toyed with his flaccid human flesh. “No."

“But you'd like to." Johan found himself smiling, even with the growing restiveness that came with an impending Action call.

Salen shifted a little, pressing closer, that ridge grinding against Johan's back again. “Yes. Will you?"

“No." Johan reached down and back over himself to trace the tips of his blunt, featureless human fingers through the fur of Salen's hip. “You will." His fingers splayed, flexed, and dug into the fur softened curve of the dog's thigh. At the same moment he shuffled his hips back slightly, letting the ridge drift downward until it rested against the higher curve of his ass. “Have you?"

“Mated?" Salen seemed pensive though the delicate touch of his fingers on Johan's quickly awakening cock did not share that caution. “Yes. Rarely, but yes. You - you want this one -"

“With humans?" Johan interrupted.

Salen huffed a self-conscious chuckle, “Rarer still, but yes. Three times. Never female." His chuckle faded slightly. “Never by choice, either."

Johan turned his head and met the curious faux-skunk's eye, “Let's make that four. By choice. In transit." He winked the one eye Salen could see. “Initiate Shed/Bed, frame seven ninety. Act three, scene one, and amend secondary role using local actor. Overlay audio. Aggressive." If anyone was paying attention to the video feed they were going to get quite the show, but have no idea what was really going on. The low grade, cheap porn 'If it Sheds it Beds' had been one of Johan's early porn jobs but it was still available through various channels. He kept it, as he kept all of his work. Even shit old masturbation fodder had its uses.

“Channel secure, video compiling. Three minutes seventeen seconds."

“All Stations, all stations. Jump in ten minutes. All non-essential personnel to secure quarters. Jump in ten minutes." The gentle masculine tenor announced again after another pulse of the red lights.

The two shifted in the bed, heedless of the coverlet, though Johan caught the dog worriedly casting a glance toward the spy camera above the cabin hatch. “They'll see what they expect, Salen, nothing else. Only what I want them to see." The faux-skunk's facile, serpentine frame rubbed against Johan's back as he maneuvered himself with clearly seductive brushes and strokes of fur softened muscle and the firm grind of a hard ridge finding its way into the valley of Johan's ass. Despite the white stripes on black, the angular muzzle of cat-sharp teeth, and the monstrous tail Johan could plainly feel that Salen was one-hundred percent dog where it counted. “And, Salen, you said before that it was never by choice… if you feel the need to –"

A soft finger came up to touch lightly at Johan's lips, silencing him. “This one was always on our back being used like a cheap toy, Joh. This is not. This one asked, did we not?"

“You did." And Johan parted his lip to catch the first knuckle, and claw, of the dog's finger as he felt the slow upward grind of that warm, firm ridge against his ass. The sheath peeled back naturally, slick hot flesh replacing fur as the warmth of its natural lubrication slid across the human's tight, though far from in experienced, anal ring. He tasted the natural, relative tastelessness of fur, the subtle fleshiness of pad and coolness of claw upon his tongue. The dog-skunk's hips shifted back slightly, then ground forward again, the slim tip of his exposed canid shaft nudging the back of Johan's balls and gliding along the ridge of his taint with a seductive, seeking nuzzle. Relaxing his jaw Johan took more of Salen's digit into his mouth, catching it between his teeth and his cupped tongue pinning it to the roof of his mouth.

The third stroke found home and Johan tightened the muscles of his lower abs, taking firm control of muscles that never wanted to be controlled, relaxing them against the slick, narrow, hot pressure.

“All stations. Secure, secure. Jump in five minutes."

Salen's slender, though rapidly thickening, length slid easily into Johan's asshole making him half grunt, half sigh with pleasure as the dog shifted subtly, perfectly, to glide that rigid spear across the curve of his prostate. His own erection, grasped lightly in the faux-skunk's gentle fingers, jerked eagerly at the inner, probing stimulation. He released the finger, felt it hook down slightly to draw down his tongue and pull his lower lip before tracing damply down his chin. Sharp teeth and copious, long whiskers teased and tickled the back of his neck. “Don't stay yourself, Sal." He groaned as he felt that thickening presence draw leisurely back, leaving behind a sensation of swift wetness surging into him. “I know you've got it, dog."

With a surprising jerk Johan felt it, too; the not-at-all-subtle bulge of the moreau's knot driving past his slick asshole as the spear it hafted drove firmly across everything Johan found pleasurable deep within him. His muscles strove to clamp down before the knot stretched him again with a muffled, lewd, wet slurp. He felt a trickle of pre trace its way down the lower curve of his ass. “You want it?" The dog whispered huskily in his ear, following with a teasing trace of his tongue from lobe to crest.

“Yes!" Johan growled, bucking back into another thrust, feeling the thickening girth stretching him ever wider until the bulging curve of the dog's knot thumped against him and, with a firm, slow shove of the dog's hips, drove into him once more. “Gods!" His muscles clenched, all control lost, and Salen let out a trilling gasp into his ear. One hand grasped Johan's cock firmly, the other his chest, and the not-skunk drove a skunk/dog knot deep into the human before him with short, eager, rapid and amazingly powerful thrusts. Somewhere a voice called out a one minute warning but it was ignored within dorsal cabin 63. Johan's body shook and his muscles continued to clench each time the growing bulge pulled back. The sensation of fluidic fullness rapidly suffused the confines of Johan's stretched rectal depths as they grasped desperately at the thick length twitching and plunging within their embrace.

And then, with a thump that went through them with a sensation that was both soaring and impacting simultaneously, the Commodore's Choice left the Tomb system, dropping them into a new star system light years away. The powerful impact sent Johan hurtling suddenly over his limits. The massive bulge hammering his prostate at the base of the thick, long length throbbing deep into the core of his loins seemed to swell to unimaginable proportions and drive into his heart with the sudden exit and arrival pulse. Salen positively shrieked when the climaxing human clenched down upon his cock, but he did not immediately climax.

After all, canids had much more stamina in that department than their human counterparts.

So he lasted three full seconds longer. And the result was prodigious. Johan luxuriated in the hot, liquid feel of it pulsing into him in time with the dog's rapid, gasping pants and jerking cock.

“Spike primed, t-minus sixty minutes." Thanks for the buzzkill, ghost, Johan groused internally while other internal sensations were not in the least protesting.

“Initiate act one." He mentally huffed.

“Act one, active."

“What the fuck?" The navigation officer exclaimed after a few seconds, glaring down at his data screen.

“What?" Commodore Bochas barked, not at all pleased hearing words like that after a successful jump. They were always stressful, no matter how smoothly they went, because they never had intel coming from the other side.

“We are off course!"

That was not uncommon, but disconcerting nonetheless. “By how far?"

“About a light month, give or take. Came out at the plus primary lagrange seven." Turning, the navigator swiped the display from his console. It leaped over to the main view screen where it appeared below the distant yellow blot that was the system's primary. “I did not plot that, cap! We should've been below the ecliptic, not above it."

“Recoverable?"

“Not easily, our next outbound is below the ecliptic and we're pretty close to the system axis in opposition to our next sequence."

“Explain."

“From my initial plot we'd realign below the ecliptic toward Canton." On the main display a red bracket square illuminated, slightly below and to one side of the system's primary. “To take the same course we'd have to go through the primary." And, as everyone knew, jumping in close proximity of a gravitational body, such as a planetary gravity well, would result in not emerging on the other side as anything more than a fountain of atomized debris. While a normal jump transit might bisect countless gravity wells they would have no impact save course modulation. But initiating a safe jump sequence and then almost immediately transecting a gravity well as large as a star would be suicide. “We're too close to pass through that well."

“But we can short hop to a new referent safely?"

“Well, yes, but we've got to charge the drive for two jumps instead of one. That's going to eat into our fuel margin, and add another week."

“How's our margin?"

“Good, but… something fucked with the nav system, cap. I sure as hell didn't make a cockup like that!"

“Then calc for the quickest path around the primary." The commodore glared at the betrayal staring at him from the primary display. “Terri?"

“We don't have an extra week's worth of rations." The quartermaster responded quickly. “If we go half rations immediately we can – just – eke by, but our attrition might climb a bit."

“Well, how about controlling that attrition?" The damage control tech seated near the navigation console piped up without being asked. “It's not like we're short on shit to eat, leastwise for the cargo."

“He's right." The quartermaster said after a few moments with a disgusted looking moue. “Crew rations are in good order, we could go another month on the agro systems. But if we, ehhh, supplement the cargo rations with failed cargo before it spoils…" If anything, she was looking a little green at the idea. Bochas himself did not look very fond of the idea, either.

“Cut to half rations. I guess we can use what drops, but I'm not going to just go in there and start harvesting." He glanced down at a yellow light blinking on the pad inset into the arm of his command chair. He tapped it, but nothing happened save that it stopped blinking and turned red. “I'll be in my ready room. Hector, get that plot laid in and let me know."

“Already got it, cap. We can do a short hop to the ecliptic legrange beyond the oort limit in," he looked at his console for a few seconds, “fifteen hours at full recharge."

“With or without slaving in life support?"

“Without, though it'll reduce cargo support to nil. I've heard the techs complaining about containment limits because we had to cut back on cargo air maintenance on the last leg. If we cut it further things could go south in a hurry." Bochas had stood but not moved from the command podium.

“How south, and how fast?"

“One to two percent attrition in twenty-four hours, sustained until filtration was back at full. If air quality is down as bad as the systems management guys said we're looking at three days for a full reclamation cycle. So… on the outside, I'd say three or four days at two-ish percent."

“Damn!" The commodore roared, slapping the nearby arm of his chair. “That's a couple hundred damned cargo!"

“Rations." Piped up the damage control tech.

“Zip it, Rinnart!" Bochas snarled and stalked off the bridge. The hatch door hissed shut as he dumped himself in the chair behind his cluttered desk. He depressed the solid yellow light replicated there from his bridge station. “What?"

“Cap," it was Devon, from the engineering deck. “I think we got one of those moreau things loose. It might be fucking with systems, bit I can't really tell. Need you to come down here and look at a couple things before I, you know, get the others all spooked." The man's eyes flitted away and back. “Some of the shit that's not adding up needs your authorization to pry into."

God damnit! Bochas' teeth ground and he took a breath to steel himself. The mystery moreau may have tampered with the navigation systems, and that certainly needed to be looked into. “I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Elsewhere on the ship others were receiving secured comm alerts as well.

Salen slumped against Johan's back, his body shuddering while the last of his orgasm petered out, the dog's heavy breathing hot against the back of Johan's neck. The massive bulge of his knot continued its steady throb in the twitching grasp of the human's rather overfull ass, short warm spurts still trickling into those confines while they both slowly came down from the profound, soaring high of a jump-transit climax.

“Uhf." Johan grunted, and then laughed breathlessly, the muscular results of which only caused Salen to chutter and gasp as his knot was squeezed anew. “That was," He sighed softly, still riding the dopamine high of release coupled with the thrilling conflux of transit effects on brain chemistry in that moment of orgasmic flux. “was very, mmmh, different."

“Yeah," He heard gasped softly only after his chuckle had stopped and let up on the faux-skunk's trapped bulk. “That time this one – we could actually – mmm, enjoy it." His voice was ragged, somewhere between a dog's growl and a skunk's trill. “For the – the first time, truly enjoy. Leastwise with a h- human, anyway."

Johan brushed the fur of the skunk's close pressed hip with one hand, enjoying the feel of his proximity. It was no different than the feel of any other moreau at his back, he had to admit, but it was still pleasant all the same. “Different with a tail in your face?"

“Yes and n- no. No anchor muscles, is all. Different – different scent, feel." Gentle fingers toyed with Johan's flagging erection, avoiding those areas that were the most sensitive with the skill of considerable practice. “And that jump impulse. Bright gods it was intense."

“Yeah, intense is right, an understatement." Johan agreed with a nod, panting a little. It felt as if he had been crushed down until his body was nothing but the sensation throbbing within his ass. And then the expansion that seemed to superimpose the skunk and the man together far more than their limited carnal lock. All followed instantly by that sensation of soaring up and falling inward at the same moment before impact. “Enjoy it, we're not going anywhere for a while." Purposely he squeezed down on the throbbing girth within him and smiled at the faux-skunk's responsive tensing. “I know dogs."

“You apparently do know dogs, very well." A warm tongue caressed his ear and then Salen brought his hand up from Johan's crotch. He turned his head slightly only to witness the long tongue slipping between those teeth to lick the glistening translucent white of Johan's pleasure from the fur and pads of his hand. And wrist. And forearm. The dog saw him watching and merely grinned hugely. “Pop." He winked, his tongue folding over the clawed tip of a finger with a slow lick.

Johan could only laugh, making the moreau's eyes roll and his body shudder.

“High level encryption package activation detected."

“Source?" Johan tried not to tense too much, considering how it affected the dog securely tied to his ass.

“Vessel data storage array. The package is scanning bridge telemetry systems."

“It was not previously detected?"

“The encrypted data block was detected during initial scans of stored data." Which he had asked to be left alone if encountered, Johan remembered.

“Has it been detected by intrusion countermeasures?"

“Negative. Vessel countermeasures and security protocols insufficient. Manipulation of reviewable data may initiate inquiry by crew, however. Currently only telemetry data has been accessed; three times." Clearly, someone was very confused that their current emergence location was not where it had been anticipated. Johan realized that he was not the only one concerned with the Commodore's Choice.

“Is the package being controlled by on-board interface?"

“Affirmative. Source location, however, has been masked or is otherwise in areas not identified as accessible." Another masked connection, then, but not as sophisticated as the one Johan was using.

“Monitor."

“Actively monitoring, maintaining obfuscation parameters. Act one in progress."

“Results?"

“Of forty-three successfully contacted, thirty-seven are responding within expected roles."

“Assessment groups?"

“Alpha, sixty-two percent. Charlie, eighty percent. X-ray, one hundred percent."

“Of identified groups, how are actors responding to given roles?"

“Alpha, one hundred percent. Charlie, seventy-three percent. X-ray, ninety-two percent."

“Identify actors out of role and tag."

“Tagged. Spike in forty-one minutes eight seconds." By then the actors would, he hoped, pretty much be in place.

“Joh?" He snapped back from the ghost and became aware of a weight leaning up and across his chest, the skunk-dog's muzzle close to his cheek. The size of the bulging knot in his ass was considerably smaller but he was still securely clamped down upon it. The shaft which delved deep within him was likewise far less pronounced, the liquid warmth of its offering sloshing about in the greater area left in its absence. “Are you with us, Joh?"

“I think you're the one with me, Salen." He flexed, clenched, and relaxed carefully. “Until I let you go."

“Yes, well." The dog smiled with those sharp white teeth again and slowly, carefully, eased his hips back. Johan felt a slow, steady tug at his clenching anal grasp as the tapered, shrunken knot slipped free followed swiftly by the rest of the skunkish dog's cock. He maintained his clench, however, lest the considerable quantity of the dog's release emerge with his cock. As it was a thin trickle of warmth dribbled down the cheek of his ass anyway. “You zoned out completely on us."

“You're that good." Johan said, truthfully. “The script is in play and the actors are moving. In about half an hour shit is going to hit the fan."

“Script? Actors? You're imaging on this ship?" Salen looked utterly confused and, from the subtle slackness in the muscles of his animal face, quite relaxed from their brief exchange. He almost looked drugged. Considering what the corps did to entice moreaus to adhere their programming, he very likely could be stoned out of his gourd.

“No. It's just me, and my partner."

Salen shifted a little and, quite abruptly, bent down over Johan to bury his tapered musteline muzzle in the curls of his crotch hair. The warm caress of his tongue began fastidiously clean what had not spilled onto the faux-skunk's palm. “Partner?"

“My ship."

“Your ship is your partner? What can it do, this one thought it was wrecked?" Warm breath bathed Johan's empty balls as the warm tongue stroked his flaccid length from tip to root.

“It's a prop, housing a sophisticated computer and program suite built to my – heyyy now!- specifi- specifications." He grunted when the dog's tongue lapped up the soft flesh of his cock head and suckled it smoothly into the satin heat of his muzzle. He tapped the back of the awkwardly twisted moreau's head only to earn a chuckle from the full muzzle. Of those distressingly sharp teeth he felt on the barest prick well away from his extremely sensitive glans. After a few moments sucking him perfectly clean Salen slowly eased back, releasing him with a final light lick.

“How did you end up just floating around where they found you." Salen asked as he shifted himself up slightly and pushed against Johan's back, coaxing him over onto his stomach. Bending once more his whiskers tickled the human's ass while his skilled tongue swiped away the trickling traces that had escaped the confines of his ass. The skunk did not neglect that, either, the warm pressure of his leisurely licks making Johan clench and fidget.

“Light freighter dropped me there. A plasma mine and package of volatiles replicated the rest."

Resting his chin in the small of Johan's back, his hand tracing the back of the human's legs, Salen relaxed with the bonelessness of a sleeping cat. “And now? What?"

“We let the script play and see if the actors know the roles I want them to play." He turned his thoughts inward. “Current actor status?"

“Alpha group across all subcategories, ninety two percent on script. Eight percent off script are in manageable segregation areas. Charlie group across all subcategories, sixty seven percent on script. Sixteen percent are in manageable segregation areas, eight percent are in non-manageable areas, eleven percent are off script and cannot be located. X-ray group, ninety four percent on script. Two percent in manageable segregation areas, four percent in non-manageable areas. Spike in ten minutes."

Johan blinked and then frowned. “Actors are off script and off sensors?"

“Affirmative."

“Identify missing actors."

“Twenty-one armed security personnel are off script and are no longer detected. Ship mass is constant; they have not exited the vessel." Holy damn, Johan grunted eliciting a curious murr from the weight resting comfortably against his back. The entire ship's security compliment had just ghosted off the sensors, which means they were far better equipped than he had expected.

“Use alternative methods to identify movements of missing actors. Maintain track on off script actors, advise threat index. Scramble armoury access codes."

“Scrambled. Forward armoury under manual control. Spike in one minute."

“Advise if accessed, identify actor if possible."

“Activity and location of off camera actors not observable. No internal alerts have been issued by on- or off-script actors. Hypothetical scenario: script lacked authentication signal, security group forewarned by interaction dialogue." Damn, Johan thought. The soldiers had a heretofore unknown signal to verify that they were receiving authentic communications. And someone else was out there working on their own agenda. They could blow the whole shot if Johan could not identify them and re-write the script to manage their miscues. His eyes roved upward when the lights in the cabin flickered, dimmed, and were replaced by a single bar of light above the door. “Spike."

The ship's reactor core had just shut down entirely due to a safety breach deep within its computerized systems.

“Initiate act two."

“Act two, rolling."