Pilot-Commander Coloratura handed the smaller Maker the detector unit, placing it firmly in his outstretched hand with the bare prongs not touching the skin of either the Singer or the Maker. Pien did not look at her, did not even say “Thanks” as almost all Singers would have done. Coloratura, a Golden, genegeneered to work with Makers, understood. She watched Pien intently as he worked. The detector unit slid into place. Pien monitored the repaired system, then nodded sharply. The prior unit had decayed to only 97% efficiency and had been down checked during one of Pien’s daily inspections of the War Birds. “Shoddy quality control”, he grunted in Allspeak. “We’ll have to keep an eye on this Bird for a while. This is the fifth detector unit I’ve had to replace in the last two years. My report will blister some ears when we get home!”

Pien straightened, stretched and turned to Coloratura. “For a Singer, your work is almost adequate. Next time I’ll watch while you work and repair your mistakes.”

“Thanks. Your praise is overwhelming. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Pien laughed. He clapped Coloratura on her shoulder. “No, no, I will heroically control my overpowering lust for overgrown bald yellow lizards out of respect for our working relationship! Now, let’s go get some breakfast.”

Coloratura and Pien picked out a table near the edge of the area of the cafeteria habitually filled with Makers and the occasional Golden. Coloratura, unlike a standard Singer, enjoyed the scent of Makers and was sensitive to their rapidly changing aromas.

Like most Singers, Coloratura picked up new languages in a matter of days as opposed to the months and even years it took a Maker to learn another language, especially the Singer Common Tongue, so she and Pien chatted in his native Allspeak.

In between devouring her meal and chatting with Pien (when his attention was not on a female Maker), she activated her com-unit and placed an appointment for herself with a Healer for her next free period. Over the last few days, she had noticed a peculiar tingling in her sexual parts, probably one of the thankfully rare fungal infections Singers were subject to. It was not really unpleasant yet, but it was best to deal with such things as quickly as possible.

She smiled as she watched the byplay between Pien and a female Maker sitting at the next table. Pien deliberately cut his round yellowfruit in half, removed the pit and slowly licked the cavity from bottom to top with his long, triangular tongue while maintaining eye contact with their neighbor. The stranger picked up a cylindrical fruit, peeled it with her teeth. She positioned her open mouth over the tip of the fruit, grabbed the back of her head with her other hand and frantically pushed her own head down, then up again at a rate Coloratura found to be disconcertingly fast while sucking on the fruit.

All the nearby Makers broke out into laughter and several of them gave the female Maker a parody of the Singer salute.

Coloratura didn’t understand most of what the two Makers had been doing with their food, but she recognized it as some sort of sexual joke. While Singers were not exactly stodgy, sexual humor was completely unknown to them as they only had sex when the females chose to reproduce. Promiscuity, flirting, unrestrained sexual desire were totally alien concepts to Singers.

Coloratura thought that was just as well. Makers spent so much time cultivating their sex lives it was a wonder they had any time left over to actually make things.

Several tables over, an argument broke out between two Makers, apparently over the favors of a female Maker. Both males stood up, pushed at each other. They began slapping at each other’s hands and arms while remaining at arm’s length and screaming insults. Makers were abysmally bad brawlers. If two Singers had somehow come to that level of hostility, one or both would be on the floor bleeding by now.

Coloratura was again impressed by how multipurpose Allspeak was. It conveyed practical information. It helped Makers obtain sex with one or more desirable individuals. It also allowed Makers to quickly yell extremely complex insults. She eyed the strange female Maker with detached interest, noting the obvious signs of sexual excitement on her face and body as her gaze flickered back and forth between the two males.

Coloratura felt confident if the two males stopped fighting before one won, the Maker female would have sex with both of them. Possibly on the table she was sitting at, despite it being a violation of Fleet regulations, not to mention being bad manners.

It wouldn’t be the first time during the last two years that something like that had happened, after all.

Among other reasons, this why a small group of Space Marines were always on duty in the cafeteria to make sure things did not get out of hand, that a riot – or an orgy – did not break out.

One Space Marine walked over, picked up the two male Makers, one in each hand, and carried them out of the cafeteria. They continued to scream insults and slap ineffectually at each other. They missed from time to time and slapped the Singer, who ignored them. The carrier’s AI, Discord, would not allow the two Makers to enter the cafeteria until their next meal period, a minor punishment which did cut down on the number of brawls.

The female Maker looked at the Space Marine and licked her lips as he walked away, effortlessly carrying her two would-be sex partners.

Singers said, with a considerable amount of truth, that some Makers would have sex with a repair droid if they could find the right attachments.

A sudden flash of unexpected red rage filled Coloratura’s mind.

She hissed at the female Maker: “Back off, bitch! He’s mine! ALL the men are mine!”

Everyone stared at her, as well they should. She was obviously the dominant female here! She would have her choice of men, would have all the men! Anyone who dared object would face her wrath.

First, she would make an example of the presumptuous bitch who dared to lust after one of her men.

She had almost reached the wide-eyed Maker female when she noticed something dragging at her right arm.

It was Pien, trying with no hope of success to pull her away from her target. Pien looked up at her and screamed in Allspeak “What are you doing, Coloratura? What are you doing?”

She would have thought it to be obvious. She was going to rip the bitch’s furry little parody of a tail off and strangle her with it . . .

Wait.

What was she doing?

To kill a stranger because the Maker had looked with lust at a Singer who Coloratura had never even spoken to?

That was . . . insane.

The Master was not perfect. Perhaps zie had made a mistake when zie designed her, designed her brain; perhaps her mind was disintegrating into homicidal madness.

A part of her welcomed the flood of terror filling her because it pushed the rage, the jealous rage to a distant corner of her mind, made it controllable, kept her from red murder.

“Pien,” she whispered. “Get me to the Infirmary. Get me to the Infirmary fast!”