Space station of the sluts

Megan sighed. That was depressingly thoughtful of him, all things considered. He could have sent a message out to all forty-odd inhabitants without running it by her first, if he’d wanted.

“Thank you,” she managed. “Was there anything else?”

“Mmm…I can probably have my gear set up to start daysuit repairs tomorrow,” Shaylan said. “I have a blank spare if you want me to start with yours.”

Megan nodded, then remembered to speak out loud. “That would be useful. Thank you.” Daysuits were individually coded — they had to be, to run the kind of close neural interfacing that the visual/kinesthetic controls required — and a blank could be set up for her commands within an hour or two. It would certainly beat spending a day, or days if the repairs proved complex, in a bulky pressure suit. “If that’s all…?”

“Yes, sorry. Enjoy your rest. Oh — did you want me to feed the analyzer data on the algae byproducts to your Medical Officer?”

Megan tried to keep her voice level. “I’ll pass it along to her,” she said, eyeing Zanthia’s antics on the cabin carpet. Curled around Megan’s ankles like a dog, the redhead had one hand busily exploring between her own thighs, while the other played with Megan’s toes. The room smelled strongly of sweat and pussy, though half of that was no doubt Megan’s.