For the first time in his adult life, Grey seriously considered staying away from the administrative section of the Bridge. He fussed over his morning meal, read reports at the table and dragged his heels getting dressed, trying to delay the moment he stepped out the door and walked down the corridor to the office wing.
Then he actually stood at the door, just far enough inside it that it didn’t open and debated with himself, face to face with more than just the door.
He didn’t want to look her in the eye, that was the problem. He didn’t want to see the same awareness in her eyes as he had seen last night.
So he turned and planted himself in his chair at the table and brought up the reports again. He could work from here just as easily. He sent a curt note to Yuli to tell him where he was and not to disturb him, then buried himself in minutiae. For the first time ever he was grateful for the infinite detail and endless problems he faced most days.
On the second day, though, he could no longer duck the more formal duties of his job. Yuli reached out across the Forum, using his private channel. “There’s an arbitration matter that needs your attention on the Bridge.”
“Arbitration is for mediators. You don’t need me.”
“Master Spartak Frost is the complainant,” Yuli replied, his voice sounding small and distracted. Grey could see him in his mind, reading two screens at once and waving aides to where he wanted them to go, all while telling Grey the bad news.
Grey sighed. All the senior masters had a right to have any disputes settled by the captain. Most of them managed to keep their arguments civilized and contained within their professions. Master Spartak Frost was the most senior coder on the ship, in charge of every other code writer, of which there were only a few dozen. Coders were an odd lot to begin with. They thought in symbols and systems and socially, they were often inept. They were too smart. Which was why squabbles seemed to break out among them on a regular basis. Frost, as clumsy with simple humans as the rest of them, couldn’t seem to resolve arguments himself and instead took full advantage of Grey’s services as a mediator every time someone disagreed with him.
It was tiresome, although if he settled the issues he could exert some control over the wayward coders.
“I’ll be in the Bridge in ten minutes,” he told Yuli and went to retrieve the uniform from the corner where he had tossed it after the party, two nights ago.
Frost was waiting on the Bridge when he got there, along with Yuli and Leanne Bachman. Both Yuli and Leanne wore rigidly controlled, neutral expressions.
The stranger in the room was very strange and the cause of Yuli and Leanne’s odd stiffness. Grey looked her up and down as he settled into his chair.
The woman had to be Makara Arts, the youngest coder to be granted senior classification in the history of the ship. While most of the coders looked quite normal, their intelligence hidden behind plain countenances, brilliance blazed from Makara’s blue eyes and alert expression. She seemed to be absorbing information out of the atmosphere itself, reading more into a single gesture than most people would absorb about another human through hours of intense conversation.
Grey had the uncomfortable sensation she was sizing him up and finding him utterly lacking. He resisted the impulse to tug his jacket into place and looked her over once more.
She was dressed…he didn’t know how she was dressed. He could barely make sense of the details. Whatever it was she was wearing, it was a dress of some sort because there were not separate sections for each leg. The hem brushed the ground. Peeking underneath the hem were bare toes. Her toenails were painted bright chartreuse green.
If the dress had been made of normal fabric, or even made of the shiny, gleaming and rich concoctions Emmaline invented, then he would have said it was figure-hugging from hem to shoulders. Except there wasn’t really any fabric there. The entire figure-encasing sheath was made of strings of fine fabric…or perhaps it was string of some sort, draped from one side of the dress to the center, then over to the other side of the dress. There were gaps between the strings, so Makara’s creamy flesh was visible, save for a band of matching fabric at crotch level and at breast level, that just barely covered the critical areas.
She was staring at him, her head tilted to one side. He realized she had been waiting for his gaze to lift to her face and could feel his cheeks heating.
Master Frost shifted from foot to foot impatiently. “There, you see what I mean?” he cried, waving toward Makara Arts. “No one can concentrate on their work when she insists on parading around in that…that!”
Grey hid his smile. The outfit was outrageous, it was true. But now he was over the shock of it. “It is more normal for professionals to wear the clothing of their status, at least while at work,” he pointed out.
Makara smiled. “Engineers, perhaps. Maintenance and manual labor. What clothes do I need? I talk to a computer all day long.”
True. “I believe Master Frost is protesting over the distraction your clothing creates.”
“Self-expression is my right as a member of the Endurance,” she shot back.
“I believe the founders were referring to artistic endeavors,” Grey replied.
“Creativity knows no boundaries of expression, yes? I am creatively representing my gender and appreciation of the female form. I have no issues with anyone else enjoying my artistic outlet.”
Grey nearly smiled again. He just held it in. He was, indeed, enjoying the results of her creative expression. The dress—what there was of it—made the most of a splendid figure. She was long in the leg and willowy and he even liked the way her thick, dark brown hair curled over one shoulder and lay against the flesh there, almost asking to be picked up and bent around his finger.
He realized where his thoughts were taking him and closed the mental doors in his mind. He leaned on his elbow and considered the two coders, one furious, the other slim and graceful and very self-aware. He looked at her blue eyes again. “I have no issue with creative expression no matter its form and yours is most delightful,” he told her.
Frost spluttered indignantly. Makara just smiled.
“However, your form of expression is impacting negatively on the work of your colleagues. Interfering with the peace and property of people aboard the Endurance is a civil crime. We all live within an enclosed and limited space and must be cautious about how our actions affect others. You are causing mental distress during work hours. Would you agree, Master Frost?”
“Yes! Yes, yes, mental distress. Exactly,” Frost agreed eagerly.
Makara’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t force me to wear trousers,” she replied.
“I’m not insisting on trousers. But you must have in your wardrobe more conservative outfits than this one, yes?”
Makara looked sulky and much younger than she had a moment ago.
“Outfits that still allow you the artistic expression you crave and your statement of womanhood, yet do not disturb the peace of those you work with?” he added.
“Yes,” she said shortly.
“You can continue to experiment as freely as you wish after your day’s work is completed, of course,” he added. He got to his feet. “I consider this matter to be satisfactorily dealt with. Are you both in agreement?”
Frost nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he added, sounding deeply relieved.
Grey looked directly at Makara, expecting her answer.
“Yes,” she said at last.
* * * * *
He went straight back to his private quarters afterward and left a message for Yuli that he was not to be disturbed any further that day. He stripped the grubby uniform off with impatient movements and bathed more thoroughly than usual, using all the shower cycles, letting the water pummel him into a more relaxed state.
Then he poured an expensive glass of dirt-grown Palatine red, settled back in the comfortable chair, sipped and closed his eyes.
When the door alarm sounded he groaned loudly. He didn’t open his eyes. “Who is it?” he demanded.
“Sir, it’s your day guard, Stewart, sir. I have senior coder Makara Arts with me. She says you wanted to see her.”
Grey sat up. All the tension he had finally managed to wash away was back, twisting his gut and making his heart race. “Enter,” he said, getting to his feet. He felt clumsy, as if his feet were on the wrong limbs.
The door opened. Grey saw the guard, Stewart, stepping away from the door as Makara Arts entered. She was wearing one of the long white lab coats that had been the uniform of scientists for time out of mind. It was properly buttoned. Her shoes were the slender kind Emmaline had re-invented, although the heels were flat and the color a conservative grey.
She stepped in far enough for the door to shut behind her. Her hair was lying over her shoulder again and her eyes were still blue. “I thought you might want to approve my apparel, captain.”
“It looks fine to me,” he said as evenly as he could.
“It’s what is under the coat you should approve.” She unbuttoned the coat, taking her time over the five buttons. When she reached the third, he could see no other garments lay beneath. By the time she unfastened the last, he was standing in front of her, his entire body throbbing.
She dropped the coat at her feet. “Do I pass?” she whispered.
“With flying colors,” he murmured, drawing her to him.