Slate

From the moment the request had left her pouty pink lips, Slate had a feeling their impromptu meeting would not end well. He had almost successfully shooed her out of his office, out of his personal affairs, until she brought up soul stretching.

It was hardly an ask he could refuse. Soul stretching was to be shared with everyone. It was akin to refusing to share food with the hungry.

And now he was hiding an erection beneath his desk like an adolescent. His lips were slick, too; he could feel them sliding against one another in his underwear. Three months in deep space, at least six months total without a partner, and suddenly he had zero control over his genitals.

The delicacy of her form against his had lulled him into momentary weakness. It would not happen again.

Dr Bonnie. Officially she was Dr Callon, but she insisted on the informality to follow the Ailu’t way. They had all had their first names loosely translated into Earth English as a kindness to humans. Perhaps she saw it as an equal offering to use their title system.

Slate froze, eyes searching the empty space ahead of him for a reason as to why his mind was dwelling on such an insignificant topic. Her name did not matter; the nuisance she caused to him did.

The level of time-wasting that woman brought to his ship was infuriating. Meetings. Formal and informal ‘chats’. Mental health leave for his officers who never would have requested such a thing without her suggestion. Counselling. Specialist therapies. Referrals to other members of the medical team. Mandatory check-ups. Non-mandatory check-ins. The list of ways in which she was able to draw his crew from their other duties was never-ending. She wasn’t even a counsellor. She was a psychiatrist. Which Slate had only recently found out meant she was on-board to diagnose, refer, and prescribe only. Not converse for hours on end with people about their childhoods and day-to-day anxieties. If this ship had a parrot, he would refer it to her as a patient to keep her jabbering mouth occupied. A pretty mouth, with plump lips. But far too much noise coming from it.

The door to his office beeped with the unique tune of his second-in-command’s request for entrance. Slate tapped his acceptance on the tablet upon his desk and shifted carefully in his seat so as to disguise the erection threatening to drill a hole in his desk.

Ellie entered briskly.

Everything about his human second-in-command met Slate’s exact expectations required for productivity and a cohesive working relationship. Major Ellie Johnson was a Marine, which Slate had learned was another word efficient, experienced, and easy to direct. With levels of perception and strength such as hers, he had already begun the draft of his letter of invitation to his Ailu’t command. If all went well with the mixed crew trials, she would be allowed to accept. She would be a very valued addition to his already machine-like Ailu’t crew. A fair number of them had been selected for The Sentinel; he had zero doubts that those left behind were maintaining his ship to his immaculate standard.

“Commander,” she greeted. Her posture was straighter than a pin. A true soldier.

“What is the status of our current mission, Major?”

“We are approaching the marked planet in better time than expected. The recovery team have been chosen and briefed, an equal selection of both human and Ailu’t. We are ready, sir.”

“And who will lead them on landing?”

“I would like to nominate myself, sir, with your agreement.”

“Of course, I would have chosen you myself if you had not asked.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I await the training drill report.”

“Of course, sir, I will be here to deliver it at eighteen-hundred- apologies, six sharp.”

They shared a synchronised nod and Ellie excused herself. That was the kind of speed and formality he needed from meetings. Dr Bonnie couldn’t take a fast piss, let alone a quick meeting.

The latest mission assigned to The Sentinel was pick-up of stranded Ailu’t soldiers on a relatively close planet. As ‘close’ as you could call anything in deep space. It was almost poignant, Slate mused, that one of their trial missions would be to rescue marooned Ailu’t, when they had first discovered humans having come across a group of human researchers trapped on a small moon. Perhaps that was the key to a strong alliance - constant rescue of each other’s men.

While the mixed crew trial included an explorer ship and a cargo carrier, The Sentinel was unique in that they did not have one long mission to complete. They had to be always ready for short bursts of action. The Ailu’t and human astro-military organisations would put in requests to The Alliance, who would then screen the tasks and send on those suitable to The Sentinel to carry out.

They had not seen a great deal of what new recruits may call ‘excitement,’ but that did not mean Slate allowed his crew to rest. There was always exercise to be completed, drills to be run. You could always better yourself. Slate believed whole-heartedly in the idea of being in constant competition with himself. Until he met someone with his same level of drive, he provided his own healthy rivalry.

Like a well-oiled machine, he and his ship were always perfectly balanced and controlled.