You Dream.

"Merciful God-Emperor of Mankind, what happened to..."

Slide-slip-skid-pain. You are sharing a leisurely breakfast of pancakes with Yasha. Her quarters this time. They are hot and fluffy, and you are glad that they are not the out-of-a-box premade shit. The ploin juice is fresh, the bacon crispy.

She has an old leather-bound book open on the corner of the table, detailing what looks like a dynastic tree or a dog-breeder's bloodlines. She dances around your questions about her projects. You decide to try again with Vir.

"... stuck here until she gets..."

Jump-drift-agony-peace. Your quarters. Same Yasha, different morning. Pancakes, Grox sausage, ploin juice spiked with a touch of Whitesnake. Family trees again. Confusion abounds. Titles? Stable genetics? Explanations, simple language required.

"... 01101101 01100001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01110111 01101000 01101111 01101100 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001 01110100 ..."

Flex-shock-pax-sleep. Yasha's quarters, lunch, and serious discussion. Salt grox buns, tea, and amasec for social lubrication. The topic of Yasha's research, her titles, bloodlines, and who she may be required to breed with to create the next generation of Navigators. That she favors you over other suitors is flattering, if disconcerting.

"...going septic again! Get me another sixteen pints of..."

You awaken.

You go through the process of taking stock of your situation as your breath rasps in your dry throat. Where: Aegis' medbay, same bed as last time. When: Dead of shipboard night, all the lights are low or off. What: shirt, underpants, pants, metal scarab necklace, and a dull ache in your right leg. Who: Yasha, on the bed next to you, rigged with medical equipment, tubes everywhere. A black-robed figure in a chair between you and her.