[i]"Hello and welcome to Derelict's Dalliances, the hottest wavelength next to Maasym! I'm your host, Jeravik Malaki-Meems, and with me today is a very special guest, our would-be first Prefect, should the citizens so decide, Sureivalhi Jaya!"[/i] announced Jeravik, his spittle moist on the mic. Limited by his seated posture and the necessary inclination of his voice, his movements were nevertheless adroit and abrupt as he plucked the latest political periodical from his desk, such as both were, and focused his dilated black pupils on his guest. [i]"Thank you for having me, Jeravik,"[/i] Sureivalhi replied, the timbre of her voice somehow simultaneously smooth and guttural. Although this was technically a radio broadcast, there were still video feeds available for those who still presumed to have the attention span to watch such things. In that knowledge, she sat upright in her gold-trimmed iridescent lehenga choli, eyes just as intensely dark as the publicity jockey who presently shared air with her. [i]"Always a pleasure, I hope, Sureivalhi Jaya. Such a musical name. For the sake of brevity, if you don't mind the slight of ceremony, may I drop a few notes and call you Suri?"[/i] [i]"Certainly."[/i] [i]"My gratitude. Now, to let our viewers in on a little secret, you're with us today, Suri, in an act of shameless self-promotion in your campaign to be Prefect of the Maasym System; is that right?" [/i] [i]"Absolutely right, Jer -- you don't mind if I truncate your name, do you?"[/i] -- she smiled beneficently, then continued without awaiting an answer -- [i]"As I have always believed, the best government stems from an informed vote of my fellow servant-citizens, so I am here to today to share with them my views as to how we can improve life in the Maasym System. I, as every servant-citizen has, offered my particular dues to Origin in service as a combat medic and eventually retired at the rank of major; however, I feel it is my experience as a life-long Spacer that makes me uniquely qualified to serve a system where the only extra-stellar body has more in common with a space station than a planet." [/i] [i]"Well,"[/i] Jeravik cut in, [i]"there are lots of Spacer colonies, but wouldn't you agree Maasym is unique and comes with its own challenges?"[/i] [i]"Naturally. Take, for example, the lack of quality psychological wellness framework. Derelict's negative influence on the minds of those who have made this their home is an issue that has touched everyone. Friends and family lost to doomsday cults, machine god cults, and their ilk."[/i] Jeravik interjected, [i]"Derelict has made everyone more, well, religious, if you ask me. We don't whisper 'Sleep, Grand Automaton' for nothing."[/i] [i]"True, although I wouldn't frame that as religious,"[/i] Suri gently retorted, her crossed hands nearly concealed beneath a large sabraxian jet opal, the dilithic circuitry of which shimmered like a nebula, [i]"A healthy respect of an alien artifact such as Derelict is natural and inherently human. But when it is worshiped and ridiculous phrases such as [/i]'Wake, Grand Automaton, and enslave us, enthrall us, assimilate us,'[i] and so on, are uttered, common cause with our species is abandoned. That, I believe, is where we encounter great danger."[/i] [i]"Surely the cultists are harmless, Suri?"[/i] Jeravik tactfully opined, his voice soft, his jowls conspicuously stilled from their apoplectic frenzy, as though he were actually suddenly shaken from his firm belief in the premise that lurked behind his half-question. [i]"And yet,"[/i] Sureivalhi accepted the proffered bait, [i]"their numbers grow, people and supplies go unaccounted for, and the psychotherapy med-booths are overwhelmed. Even the most dedicated servant-citizen understandably accrues doubts when they observe another human, particularly someone close to them, relinquish individuality and personhood in exchange for -- for what we do not know. Hopefully nothing. Still, we must recognize that they are victims in all this, even as the threat of their numbers and ideology grows, which is why I intend to build out the infrastructure around Maasym to make sure everyone gets the care they deserve. To make sure everyone has the resources to help their friends and family get the care they deserve."[/i] [i]"A noble cause, Suri,"[/i] Jeravik concluded as the feed transitioned into an advertisement for ferro-conductive paste and pressure-sensitive ejaculators -- [i][b]able to plug any hole and keep air exactly where you want it: inside with you![/b][/i] [center]. . .[/center] One thing at a time. First, step inside the shuttle. Next, seal the hatch. Next, activate the autopilot. Then stand, magboots live, safely bound to the durbar-plate deck by the immutable properties of physics. Wait. Don't think, don't see, don't feel. Just wait. Don't wonder just how mutable those properties really are. Embrace the silence. A minute outside The Throat, Feurtes noticed his hands trembled in his gauntlets. As with a wave, he inhaled deep and let the lack of control crash through him. By the time the shuttle docked at their facility on Maasym Orbital Station, they hung at his side, as stoic as his haggard but otherwise expressionless visage. On the way, he struggled with the question of whether to sleep or divert his thoughts. By the time he was at the top, he knew he would rather pass out with his mind on something other than Derelict. Off the shuttle, the airlock sealed behind him. Clumsy with anticipation, he stripped and stumbled nude under a spray of chemical sanitization; warm, pleasant, although a touch acerbic. Above, the med-spanner lurked, its splined and nibbed digits retracted into alabaster sheaths and its articulating arm collapsed: a menace to which he was blind as, an instant earlier, it pinched his eyelids together and adhered them with xerophobic adhesive. The gel would evaporate as soon as he entered a low-moisture environment. Roundabout, the clear plastic surface of the Class III biocontainment channel warped iridescent and fogged at the internal differential in heat and humidity. Then the shower ceased, the walls cleared, his eyes opened, and he became vaguely aware of Sophia's presence on the other side. [i]Judgmental b-cun[/i], he groused inwardly, then snorted in an act of repressed levity at his own ridiculous hypocrisy. Clean, he departed the channel and walked his bare ass to his locker, thick black hair wet and matted against his frame from head to toes. On the way, he offered a nonchalant nod and obligatory [i]"Doctor"[/i] to Sophia as he sauntered on by, the act barely an acknowledgment. He wasn't sure if she said anything. He didn't care. He needed to get Derelict out of his mind. So he eased into an olive green jump suit, slipped on a fresh pair of magboots, and left her to her thoughts. A thousand steps later, Feurtes hung in a virtual stimulation booth, every centimeter of his body in contact with at least one of the suit's twenty-thousand haptic feedback pads. As far as his deceived parietal and occipital lobes could tell, Maasym Orbital Station and Derelict, more importantly, were 370 light years away. Instead, he surveyed a vast verdant plain. Distant yet still prominently juxtaposed against a bright azure sky, Squaretop Mountain stood sentinel over some unseen vale, roots dipped in the dark green shimmer of opaque lake-light. Meanwhile, he lazed on a a porch, eyelids drooped, satisfied in the sensation of cool peat and dry grass between his toes and against the soles of his feet. Against his rump, the alder planks that formed the deck creaked and reassured him that they belonged to a home well-lived. Somewhat more capriciously, the intermittent breeze teased away the mid-day perspiration on his arms and face. Simple. Serene. Silent, save for the whine of the windmill as its rusty old vanes turned. Feurtes' gaze drifted to the barn, then in a fluid motion he stood, stretched, and scratched his balls through his worn denim overalls. [i]"Time to let off some steam, I think,"[/i] his drawled epigram swallowed by the big open sky. It felt good to stretch his legs and walk barefoot on his own property, unbothered by interlopers. When he exchanged the heat of the sun for the shade of the barn, that felt good too. Inside was plain and typical of a barn. Except the silhouette with pointed ears. Breath held in for a moment while his pupils dilated, he soon beheld a brief bipedal vixen. [i]Fleek[/i], he somehow recalled her name. Small and weak, she still boasted curves where it mattered. Quietly and with no minor amount of amusement, he watched as she lifted and cantilevered her big fluffy tail to offset the weight of the hay she forked from a bail onto a loose pile. Tail raised and torso extended, her puffy labia were exposed in all their glory. Within that glorious gash, tentacles twitched expectantly, eager to seize any invasive force. Up to the challenge, Feurtes grinned like an idiotic horndog and unconsciously grasped his shaft through the denim. No indication that she heard him as he sidled up behind her. Then, suddenly, he snatched the fork from her hand, tossed it aside, and pushed her snout-first into the hay pile. [i]"Woooooo-eee, gonna have us some fun time!"[/i] he hooted. Solitary shoulder strap of his overalls unclasped, he relished the sensation of the course material's interaction with his hairy legs as it pooled down around his ankles. Fleek gasped in muffled surprise. As she struggled to upright herself, Feurtes pulled one foot free and planted it atop the small of her back. With the little vixen restrained, he curled his toes in the soft warm fur between her shoulder-blades and scratched that hard-to-reach spot on her behalf. She squealed at first, but then purred as he continued his ministrations. One savage beast tamed, he insisted, [i]"Shhh. Hold still. You're going to like what I do next,"[/i] and prepared to tame another. Semi in his hand, he emptied his bladder all over her backside. [i]"What the!"[/i] Fleek protested, but was soon muffled as Feurtes shifted forward. Urine, his own, splashed his foot and ankle. Invigorated by the hot spray, the tactile disunity between one foot and the other, he watched attentively as soft and fluffy became sodden. Fragrant. The last few drops dripped out, he gave it a final shake, then he settled down on top of her. First his face, with a big exultant whiff, then his crouch pushed against her recently-christened nethers. He plowed away until he passed out, still inside, his prong clasped tight by coiled tentacles and a hundred modes of suction. Pre-pay consumed, the booth beeped persistently and jolted Feurtes into partial wakefulness. Not nearly time enough to feel rested, but purpose served. He made his way back to his own quarters in the team's shared facility. Sophia was there, doing whatever. Psychoanalysis, probably. The same brief salutation as before offered, he vanished behind the privacy blinds of his bunk and settled in for some much-needed sleep.