Jack awoke to a twinkling, navy-blue night. She lay still, perceived the idle murmer of gulls and surf, the sweet air, the soft and runny sand against her back. With every little rush of the surf, a liquid touch caressed her. Startlingly chill. Goosebumps prickled her naked form. She pulled a long, resuscitating breath, sat up.
She nearly gasped. Out on the surf, submerged to the dimpled saddle of his hips, stood a bare and strapping figure. Head tipped to the moon, he raised and clasped corded hands, stretched. He twisted, hummed as he arched the broad, inverted triangle of his lats. Yawning luxuriantly, he turned, dropped his arms, smiled at Jack.
Jack's pulse fluttered. She returned the crinkled hazel eyes' smile. The figure blushed a hint, turned a bashful eye to the sea. He approached. Surf split and foamed about his hips, thighs, knees, ankles. All softly corded, olive, and bare.
He stopped inches from Jack's toes, let his gaze drag over her, slow. She blushed in return, twisted a little, pulled and bent her knees to touch. Responding, his eyes flicked to her face, stopped there. Though not a turn of betrayed sentiment showed on his lips, a soft bundle of creases remained at the corners of his eyes, somehow more intense. He lingered on her mouth, nose, eyes, canted his head just a hint. A hoarse, longing sigh rose from his chest.
Some melted excitement splashed into Jack's chest and belly. Returning the gaze in full measure, she straightened her legs, arms, lay back on the sand. She raised a challenging brow.
Slow, the figure knelt, touched one knee to the beach, then the other. He straddled just one of Jack's legs, bent, placed heavy hands beside her head. Jack could hear the wet sand squish under his weight. He bent ever so close, stopped, just breathed. Not a slip of skin touched between them. Droplets fell from his locks and long nose, fell just inches before rolling down Jack's cheeks. He smelt of salt and earth.
Jack's lips parted involuntarily, asymmetrically. Never breaking her gaze, she stretched, wriggled just a bit, tilted her groin and chin. She heard the figure's pupils dilate, heard his shuddering breath, sensed his heavy arousal. A small smile of glee split her face. She squirmed in the sand beneath him, like a sea star, free beneath his hanging weight. Then, suddenly deadly serious, she stopped. With dearest care, she shifted just a little, pulled the inside of a smooth thigh to meet his knee. The figure shuddered, shut his eyes. Jack struck, pushed her lips into his. For a moment, she could taste the warmth, the salt. Then, the world spun.
The figure disappeared. The stars went out. The black sky fell away. Jack awoke to a riveted, titanium ceiling studded with white lights. She flailed momently, gasping wetly. Tubes hung before her face, wet with the spit of her own trachea. Pressure lifted from her wrists, ankles, and abdomen. She began to float from the padded pod where she lay.
Jack's clumsy fingers found rails on either edge of the pod. She held herself within, panted. She swallowed dryly, blinked, surveyed the pod, her white sleep shorts and top, the room about her. After a moment, she groaned in recognition and disappointment. Any arousal she'd experienced had flown with her dream, left her with naught but a sodden crotch in a chilly room.
"Good morning, Specialist Jaqueline Kent," said a voice, at once sonorous and very dull.
Jack tried to sit up and look over the side of the bed. The inertia of the action strained her fingers. Her hands split from the rail. She floated from the bed, frowned.
Across the room was a crop-haired man in red. His cotton jumpsuit strained where it failed to accommodate his chest and back. He had cold, blue eyes and a pointed nose. He held onto a support rail, feet firmly affixed to the vaguely-concave floor in magnet boots.
"Who the fu..." coughed Jack, barely audible. She rasped. "The fuck are you?" She inadvertently turned upside down in the microgravity, crossed her arms over her floating tits.
"My pardon, Specialist Kent. My designation is Sam."
"You're..." said Jack, trying to find a more dignified stance. She failed, ended up sort of weakly kicking off the side wall. She made a face as she clipped the stasis pod, wheeled into Sam. Her face collided with his broad chest. He caught her there. For a moment, Jack's cheek and nose pressed into him. He was firm, but soft. He smelled of soap and salt.
"You're a service unit, an organic android?" she said, frowning, as Sam pulled her away from him.
"Indeed."
"Why isn't this place being spun for gravity?" raged Jack, shuffling from his grasp. Strong fingers released from her upper arms.
"The habitat is spun for only eight hours of the 24-hour cycle, per regulated health minimums. Generator and battery capacity are prioritized for the lighthouse array, rather than gravity rotors. The next spin commences tonight, in several minutes," said Sam, smiling thinly. "For now, please accept these mag boots."
"Fine," said Jack, cold. She bumped against the wall, struggled to pull a boot on. The other floated away. She made a face, huffed, weak from stasis sleep. "Please, allow me," said Sam. For just a moment, Jack twisted her face as if to protest, but relented. She moved close, allowed the android to wrap an arm around each of her calves in turn, slip a boot over the foot, and strap it tight. For a moment, she relaxed, felt the long hands wrap near-entirely round her bare ankles. They were firm, but not rough. Sam moved away. "There."
Jack tentatively pushed away, set a foot to the floor, felt it stick. "Thanks," she said, quietly.
"Allow me to show you around the lighthouse. Afterwards, you may recuperate. It will only take a moment. The station is not large, and I understand by your Company service record that you have served in this role before."
"There wasn't an android on my last lighthouse. I do this job because I like the solitude."
Sam looked genuinely regretful. "I am sorry. You must understand I was attached to this station by the company. I am their property."
"Yeah, yeah," said Jack, seeing his face. A spike of empathy broke through her grumpiness. "You don't seem like bad company, anyway. What model are you?" she said, as Sam opened the hatch for them to exit.
"I am a Serault Corporation Ceres-6," he said, stepping through. Jack followed. The concave floor of the room beyond was double-walled transparent alloy. It acted as a gigantic window out onto the red and purple nebula which the lighthouse was meant to warn of. Along the walls, set so one might look down into the nebula, were leather benches, a few pod chairs, and a bed with microgravity webbing, all somewhat worn. Crimson light played over the white upholstery and sheets.
Jack looked over the living quarters, far nicer than she'd had before. She gaped at the nebula for a moment, watched a streak of magenta light cross Sam's eyes and face. "So, you're one of those white-blooded ones?"
"My internal serum is a sucrose base. It serves modified roles in all my body fluids. It is indeed an off-white."
"Sucrose? A real sweetie, huh?"
"If indeed it were to be tasted, my serum would taste of sugar." He looked her in the eyes, terribly sincere.
Jack looked away, grinned uncomfortably. "Right. Have any other special features?" she said, sarcastic.
"As Ceres-6 models are designed for small crew missions, our personality precepts are mutable. We change in reaction or in request to facilitate maximum compatibility."
"Ah, well. Good to know." Jack looked about awkwardly, arms crossed. "I take it this is my room?"
"Indeed, this is the lighthouse keeper's room," he blinked at her, slow.
"And where do you sleep?"
"Though I do not often enter my hibernation cycle, I have a pod in the crew maintenance room we just exited."
Jack suddenly uncrossed her arms, waved one about. "Listen, do you need to stare me straight in the eyeballs all the time? It's freaking me out."
"Would you prefer I focus on a different portion of your body?" said Sam. He concernedly looked at her left foot.
"Like, shit. No. Just let your eyes wander like a normal person, okay?"
"Understood," said Sam. He glanced at her eyes, then about the room, then down into the floor-window.
"A little less wildly, maybe."
"Yes, Specialist Kent." His eyes flitted over Jack, focused momently on the nipples poking through her airy sleep top. Jack crossed her arms, blushed. "And call me Jack, not Specialist Kent."
"Understood, Jack."
"And smile a bit more."
"Of course," he said, doing so. Jack shivered, not from the chill air. The lines which pulled about the android's eyes and nose bridge turned the cold face quite warm. It stayed that way.
"Well," said Jack, hesitating. "We're getting on better already," she said, only half as sarcastic as she meant. "Can we continue the tour? I could use a shower."
"Of course." He continued to a hatch on the other side of the room. Jack stepped through as well. They entered a circular room with a ladder in the center. The walls were ringed with computer panels and other hatches.
"This is the primary communication room. Here, you-"
"Sam, I know how to use the comms."
"My apologies," he said. "This hatch leads to the EVA room. This one to the galley. This one to life support. The ladder leads up to the secondary systems and down to engineering."
"I take it life support has the shower?"
"Indeed."
"Great. Anything else?"
"No. We commence operation tomorrow morning, approximately an hour after the eight-hour spin." He broke off for a moment, canted his head. His eyes trailed over Jack's bare abdomen, likely by chance. She squirmed, regardless. Sam raised his eyebrows, continued. "The spin, which I believe should commence now."
There was a jerk, a hollow whine in the hull of the station, a rush in Jack's ears. Jack and Sam slowly settled under the centrifugal forces. Jack adjusted her shorts, surreptitiously. "I'm going to shower."
"There are requisite uniforms and undergarments waiting for you."
"Gee, thanks for laying out my underwear."
"Of course, Jack."
Jack shook her head, kicked off the mag boots, stomped to the life support bay. She shut the hatch with a good deal of force. The bathroom was behind a secondary hatch, near the spare air purification tanks and the waterless laundry engine. It was stark, shiny white, floored with nobly grip tiles. There were indeed clothes laid out for her: A red jumpsuit and white boyshorts. Jack passed them just a glance before dropping her shorts and top. Naked, she passed the small mirror, sneered at her baggy eyes, her body, depilated for stasis sleep.
She stepped into the shower. A touch panel reading "Shower Ration: 2 Minutes," met her.
"Same old station-life," she groaned, punched the
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