Magda And The Captain Ch 01 Lightheaded

You sometimes wonder if they ever missed you at the conference the day after the spectral prism whisked you away from Atlanta to the good ship MGD-068845066LN, otherwise known as

Magdalene

. Out here in space, it's hard to keep track of the passage of time, but you're pretty sure you've already burned through any earned vacation days by this point. You didn't dare bother the Captain with anything as trivial as submitting notice of your departure to Corporate.

Screw 'em. They acted like they were throwing you such a bone by sending you to that insufferable event – you, a solidly middling middle manager with only modest ambitions. You saw right through the charade. They just needed a warm body to fill a slot at the booth and keep up appearances.

Little did they know that someone else would find a much better use for your warm body that weekend, a much better slot to fill, and give you a promotion beyond your wildest dreams.

And as for appearances, the Captain of the

Magdalene

afforded you an upgrade there, too. The wardrobe she's lent you is a veritable treasure trove of only the most exotic, unearthly fashions, and seemingly bottomless in its variety. You could spend a year on board and never need to wear the same outfit twice. The one theme running through every item in the collection: it's either daringly revealing, or ruthlessly skintight, and in some cases, both. The same can be said of the Captain's own tastes in fashion, which out-glams yours every time, suggesting that luxury is the only language of commerce she speaks.

Indeed, since making you her Lieutenant, the Captain has spared nothing on your comfortable accommodations. Though your quarters aren't exceptionally large, they are lavishly furnished. In addition to the bottomless wardrobe, you've been enjoying a bed that makes memory foam completely forgettable. Your bed is piled deeply in pillows and decked in linens as soft as a lamb's ear, and surrounded with a gold-trimmed purple silk canopy. You never slept so well in your life as you did after you first came aboard. Ornately framed mirrors adorn the walls, making the room seem more spacious than it is. The prize piece among them belongs to a deluxe, marble-topped vanity, its gold baroque details charmingly antiquated in this otherwise ultramodern setting.

And the food! You may have expected freeze dried, artificially flavored pseudo-food rations for space travel, but the Captain was offended at the very suggestion that she'd treat her crew so poorly. That particular offense cost you the opportunity to dine with her for that meal; she took her plate elsewhere on the ship and left you alone in the galley to contemplate your sins, although the meal itself certainly took the edge off your punishment.

Of course, on this ship, you're never actually alone. That's been the hardest thing for you to adjust to – the omnipresence of the ship's Artificial Intelligence, whom the Captain affectionately calls Magda. Communicating has not come naturally to either of you, partially because Magda's vocabulary consists not of words, but of sensory signals enacted through the ship's systems. A change in light, temperature, vibration, atmosphere – all of these can convey her attitude and intentions. Her language is still largely a mystery to you, and it doesn't help that the Captain often communicates with Magda wordlessly herself. Instead, she relies mostly on the wireless frequency that links the ship's systems to the Captain's own internal computer and to the other AI-enabled components on board. Sometimes you suspect they must be sharing some secret joke about you, just because of the way the Captain will smirk at you without provocation or explanation.

But while the communication barrier with the ship remains out of reach for the time being, nearly everything else you could possibly want is available to you with barely a wave of your finger.

Everything except the Captain herself. Her availability is her call and no one else's. Nor do you have

complete

free reign of the ship; the bridge, the engine rooms, and the Captain's quarters are all off-limits to you, and you've run into more than a few other locked and unmarked doors along the ship's labyrinthine decks. Not that you demand such access, of course. What do

you

know about the inner workings of a spaceship, anyway? Especially in the first few days, the feeling that you've tumbled headfirst into some video game or anime world has been a hard one to shake. Each time you wake up in that luxurious bed and regain your bearings, you're amazed all over again.

You bombarded the Captain with questions early on about how everything works – the gravity, the engines, life support, navigation, her cyborg body – but she had little patience for your curiosity. "Honestly, I've had so many passengers over the millennia, and explained this shit so many times, I'm over it," she said dismissively. "You wouldn't understand it anyway. Just trust that between Magda and me, it works, and you'll know if it doesn't."

"But I'm not just another passenger," you pressed her. "I'm your Lieutenant."

"If you think that entitles you to anything special, remember whose ship this is. I can demote you in a split second, and I don't think you'll like what I do with recruits who get uppity," she replied with characteristic coldness. She has that way of switching from friendly to threatening in the span of a sentence that always throws you off balance and leaves you wondering when, if ever, to take such statements as jokes. But if you're unclear on that part, you're certain of the underlying message: she outranks you.

Always.

+++

The lanyard you were wearing at the conference dangles from one of the gold filigree leaves framing your vanity mirror, but you've turned the ID badge around so you can't see the name you came here with. The Captain has never once used your name. Since granting you your so-called rank, she has taken to calling you by the abbreviation

Lieu

. Given the novelty of your circumstances, the new name seems only appropriate, and you avail yourself of the contents of the wardrobe and vanity to give yourself a new look to match. The top of the vanity is lined with perfume bottles, vials, compacts, and jars of all colors. In its drawers, you've found enough brushes, pencils, sponges, and accessories to rival any salon you've ever visited.

You sit on the velvety stool, makeup brush in hand, and find yourself leaning forward and squinting to make anything of your reflection. You've searched every wall in this room and have yet to find any kind of light switch or dimmer knob. The walls of your room, like many of the ship's interior surfaces, are actually paneled with a series of digital displays that serve both decorative and functional purposes (such as providing light), but control of them seems to lie solely with Magda.

"Um...lights on?" you say, looking at the ceiling, although uncertain of where you actually should be directing your question. You wonder if any of the Captain's previous passengers were able to communicate with Magda – if they were even

allowed

to.

Several seconds pass, and it doesn't seem like she's heard you. You clear your throat and try a different approach. "Magda, are you there? I need more light, so I can see what I'm doing." You still don't feel right addressing her by name, and as it is, you feel a little ridiculous sitting in an empty room talking to the inanimate, inarticulate vessel.

Another few seconds, and the room

seems

to get a little brighter, but only by a degree or two – it could just be a trick of your eyes. Never mind that it's still not enough for the task at hand. Your lips purse a little in frustration. Aren't AIs supposed to be, well,

intelligent

? You've seen that Magda can pretty much fly herself with barely any direct input from the Captain, so how hard could it be to just get the lights working?

"How about a little more," you try, "over here by the vanity? Can you see where I'm pointing?"

Without warning, the panels you've gestured at suddenly glare with floor-to-ceiling white light that brings instant tears to your eyes, like looking at fresh snow on a sunny day. You instinctively wince and throw your hands up in front of your face to shield yourself from the onslaught.

"She likes it when you say

please

," the Captain's voice reaches you from the doorway behind you.

You tense for a moment. Is she teasing, or directing? The light is too much – you can't see her face clearly enough to gauge her intention.

"Alright, Magda, you can tone it down now," the Captain addresses the ship, and the walls dim instantly to a comfortable level, though greenish afterimages are still burned onto your vision for a few moments longer. You briefly wonder if the Captain suffers the same effects, or if she's programmed such weaknesses, temporary though they may be, out of her systems.

Once your retinas clear, the mirror lets you see the Captain crossing the room towards you with her usual precision and grace, hips rocking with each silent stride. She stops just behind you and puts her hands on your shoulders. The cold glass fingers on her artificial hand make the hair on your neck stand up, and you suppress a chill. Sometimes even involuntary reactions can rouse the Captain's disapproval – you've even caught yourself holding your breath around her more than once.

"You seem to have made yourself comfortable here," the Captain says softly, and you relax a little – she doesn't seem to be in one of her more wicked moods.

"Yes, Ma'am," you reply.

"And I trust that you have no regrets about your decision to stay aboard?"

"Yes, Ma'am." She doesn't insist on the formal address, but you find it comes to you naturally – and so far, she has not objected. Without such formalities, your conversations suddenly seem far too personal, too intimate. Likewise, it's easier for you to look at the reflection in the mirror as she stands behind you than it is to gaze at her openly, eager though you might be to take in the sight of her. She's dressed in a short, sheer, and fairly simple (by the Captain's standards, anyway) black shift that barely obscures the finer details of her body, peaking over her nipples and clinging to the curves of her ass. You're still in the champagne-toned bra and panties you slept in.

The Captain begins idly stroking your shoulders, sliding her fingertips along the sides of your neck and along your hairline towards your ears, and you can't help a tiny swoon at her touch. Since the day you enlisted, she's barely given you more than a suggestive look, and has not brought you back to the chamber where you were first seduced. You freely admit to yourself that this is disappointing, though you'd never say as much to her. Her fingers against your flesh bring other sensations rushing back to your memory – your knees on the oriental rug, being pulled up by the lanyard around your neck, the chains tightening against your wrists, the sticky evidence of her pleasure glazing your lips and chin...

"My, but you

do

blush easily," the Captain says with a sly grin lifting the edge of her lips. Of course, this only brings more heat to your cheeks, and you avoid her eyes in the mirror as you continue to try to apply your makeup.

Her hand moves from your neck to your wrist, and she leans down, her face coming over your shoulder to align with your own. With utmost precision, she guides the movement of the brush across your skin, producing blossoms of color along your cheekbones, first one, then the other. You try to relax and not tremble. Her proximity brings her signature scent, citrus and mint, to tickle the inside of your nose.

She releases your wrist and reaches down to the vanity to dab her slender middle finger in the pot of tinted balm, then lifts it to your mouth. "Open," she murmurs, and as you obey, her smooth glass fingertip glides along the right arch of your upper lip down to the corner. Then, the left, creating a perfectly symmetrical archer's bow of shimmering scarlet. Then she drags the remaining pigment across your lower lip, slowly and with only the lightest touch.

"There," she sighs. "A sight for sore eyes if I've ever seen one. Can you remember the last time we had such a pretty little thing on board, Magda?"

You can't tell whether the AI responds, much less if she agrees.

The Captain turns on her heel to lean back against the vanity, facing you. "I think it would be such a shame to have you all dolled up with nowhere to go. Once you're finished, why don't you join me in the Observation Lounge?"

"It would be an honor, Captain," you reply. This is the first you've heard of such a place, but you've learned better than to trouble the Captain with trivial logistics like that. "Is there anything in particular you would like me to wear, or should I come like this?" You gesture at your underthings.

She laughs, a sound that is at once musical and mechanical. "By all means – as much as the minimalist look suits you, I won't say no to an opportunity to see you in something a little more glamorous." She sidles over to your open wardrobe and crosses her arms in thought, scanning its contents. "Something with feathers, I think," she finally says. "Beyond that, the choice is yours – just don't take too long to decide. I'll be waiting below decks."

And with that, she moves to leave you to your dressing.

+++

Magda helps you find the way to the Observation Lounge via the displays along the walls of her corridors. You have to descend several ladders to arrive there – not an easy feat in the stilettos you've chosen to complement a sheer purple robe trimmed in fluffy marabou feathers. Beneath it is a short strapless dress of ruched black silk that keeps creeping up over your thighs as you climb down each rung.

You arrive in an enormous oval room that reminds you of an opera house in its cavernous height and sparse amber light. It is furnished with rich, plush sofas, chairs, ottomans, and the casually piled pillows the Captain so favors, arranged in groups and circles as if to host a party. Curiously, the walls are completely unadorned by either screens or curtains.

At its center, she is lying across a

chaise lounge

, a crystal goblet cupped in one hand. Its twin rests on a small side table alongside a sculpted blue bottle. She too has changed outfits – she now wears a full-length gown that appears to be constructed entirely of threadlike golden tassels, bound together at the neck and waist but otherwise left to fall where they may. The tassels pool in curled piles upon the velvety surface of her chaise, leaving more of her glass-and-flesh form exposed than covered.

You have an inkling of where her mind might be.

"Just in time," she says, her voice carrying across the room. "Come, before your drink gets warm."

You cross the room as quickly as your stilettos allow, and feel a small rush of satisfaction as the Captain observes your approach with apparent approval. She curls her legs up towards her torso to make room for you on the chaise, and offers you the other goblet, pouring you a serving of an unrecognizable rose-colored liquid that sparkles with bubbles. You move to lift it to your lips.

"Ah-ah-ah," the Captain warns. "Mind your manners. Magda, would you do the honors?"

Instantly, the floor beneath you hums with motion, and you hear a hydraulic hiss. As you watch with widening eyes, the entire Observation Lounge begins to lower down from the belly of the ship – not unlike the cabin of a zeppelin. The walls, it turns out, are not walls at all, but floor-to-ceiling windows encompassing the entire space.

As the compartment continues to descend, you are treated to a breathtaking view of...well, the Universe. Stars, galaxies, nebulae and novae wink at you amid an endless expanse of black in all directions. One star is notably closer than the others, a motionless disc of pure white illuminating the curved surface of some planet or moon which the

Magdalene

appears to be orbiting.

"How...where..." You forget yourself for a moment, the hand holding your drink slowly drifting to your lap without your notice. Nothing could have prepared you for this. You try to swallow down a sense of vertigo – suddenly, the "enormous" room you're occupying feels no bigger than a broom closet. A flea's broom closet. Goosebumps prickle your arms and raise the tiny hairs on the back of your neck.

You have to tear your eyes away to keep your mind from melting. Your gaze lands on the Captain, who appears quite pleased at your reaction to her showing-off. "Living on a spaceship comes with certain perks," she says with a shrug, but her pride is evident on her face. She lifts her glass towards you in a toasting gesture; numbly, you meet hers with your own, and take your first sip. The effervescent drink tastes like starlight itself. It seems to evaporate from your tongue before you can even swallow, the vapors rushing right up to your head.

"Speaking of perks," the Captain continues, "I expect you've been enjoying all I've offered you so far."

"I have," you agree eagerly. "The food, the living arrangements, the clothes, this—" you gesture around the room "—is above and beyond anything I ever had at home."

"I should certainly hope so. Earth isn't known to be good for much, other than picking up useful trinkets now and then," she says, looking pointedly at you over the rim of her glass. "You ought to be grateful I picked you up."

"Oh, I am, Captain."

"Good. Then show me."

At some invisible signal, music begins to filter through the windowed chamber – music you don't recognize, electronic and melodic, with a gypsy kind of mood, as closely as you can categorize it.

You feel yourself burning under the Captain's expectant, and not at all patient, stare, not sure what she wants. Finally, she issues the command: "Dance for me."

Oh, God.

Even in the best of circumstances, you wouldn't call yourself much of a dancer. It's one thing in a club full of people who aren't paying attention. But just you and the Captain? Just like that, the room is immense again, a huge space you're being asked to fill without quite knowing how.

"Are you listening?" she says with a hint of annoyance. "Dance."

There's no stalling her. You set your glass down and rise precariously, now regretting the choice of stilettos. "Go on," the Captain urges. "I can't have a Lieutenant aboard who won't follow orders."

You take a few steps away from the chaise and try to concentrate on the music. Not only do you feel the Captain's eyes on you, but the ever-present gaze of Magda, and the weighty expectations of both.

Your hips begin to sway with the slow rhythm of the music. Your arms rise above your head; you stroke one forearm with the fingers of the opposite hand, bend your elbows, then let both hands slide into your hair, curl around the nape of your neck, and graze your collarbones. You sink deeper into the bend of your knees and continue to twist and circle your hips in languid figure-eights, toying with the feathered edge of your robe.

"Turn," the Captain orders. "Let me see you."

You comply, pivoting in place little by little until you're facing her again, eyes still closed. One hand slides back into your hairline behind your ear, while the other roams from your collarbones down between your breasts, pausing there only a breath before traveling around to your waist. Despite your self-conscious nerves, you find yourself absorbing the music and interpreting it with fluid movements. The sound fills the room, coming from no direction and every direction. That and the bubbly drink you've sipped seem to allow the music to flow right up through the floor and into your limbs.