Notes: Beware of shaky science. Takes place in season one about a
week after the new crew comes on board, when Dylan's bed was small
and in an alcove. I'm assuming certain safety equipment on board.

***
 

GRAVITY
 

 
He was running on a deck that slid under his boots, slick with
blood and formic acid, through smoke that poured from broken
filters and sirens that shredded the dark. He was firing at
uniforms through the corridors of the ship, his ship. The
passageway convulsed and he was skidding down the tilted deck,
hitting a bulkhead that crumpled under him, peeled away like foil,
and dropped him spinning into endless, bottomless black.

Dylan spasmed and bruised his hand against the wall. His heart
hammered, his ears rang; he was blind and adrift in the sheets.

"Dylan, are you all right?"

"Go away!"

Yelling at the wall com. Yelling at the med minders his ship set to
monitor his sleep. He shuddered and wiped his face. "Fine. I'm
fine, I'm okay." He lay flat and tried to breathe. Kept his eyes
open and the room began to settle into sense--desk, battle dress,
shelves; green glow was the clock. Dead center of his downtime,
again. The bulkhead opposite the bunk had a screen programmed to
the hull scanner feeds. Captain's privilege, that long swath of
spangled black.

Time was, it offered comfort.

He tried. He reached from habit for something to wrap around
himself, to tuck him back under far enough to lose thought and
sense. A smile; a touch; warmth under his hands--nothing came. He
bore down further until he was hauling on a chain, pulling the
night over him, straining his arms, bowing his back, locking his
knees as his feet slid, desperate for a place to stand.
 

**0200**

Trance flicked her tail against the cabinet bank. The coffee brewer
looked empty and she didn't know where anything was stored. Worse,
she couldn't keep the schedules straight; she wasn't even sure who
was supposed to be awake this shift.

"Andromeda? Hello?"

A shimmer and then the ship AI appeared, translucent in the dimmed
light. "What's the problem?"

"How do I get coffee from this thing? And get something sweet,
maybe?" It could be her imagination, but the image grew a little
sharper around the eyes.

"This is a laundry station; that dispenses solvent. Galley's
through the breakroom, opposite." She pointed at the doorway. "Go
on, I'll meet you there." The hologram snapped out, leaving Trance
alone with the dubious gadget on the counter. By the time she
reached the right place, the scent of coffee warmed the air and the
android was taking a pastry from a sliding panel. "Heated food
here, cold down below. Brewer's automatic." She held the plate out
for a second before Trance took it; this Rommie set her teeth on
edge. There was something wrong about living tissue over a machine.

"You can get whatever you want from the autochef in the officer's
mess; you don't need to wander around down here."

...lost and annoying the Ship. Trance shrugged. "It's too empty.
Spooky feeling." Haunted. "And it's warmer in this section, too."

"The base temperature's the same." Rommie crossed her arms and
leaned against the counter while Trance filled a mug. "Shouldn't
you be asleep? You, Dylan, Tyr this shift, while we're on alert."

Busted. "I'm not tired now." Off the topic. "What's going on? Have
Beka and Rev found anything alive out there?" The little system
used to host some military base Dylan knew, but it looked like
another dead end, last she saw.

"Nothing but wreckage; an old minefield." Rommie looked down.
"Ancient history."

"I'm sorry." She nibbled on the pastry and watched as Rommie got
that distracted look that meant she was monitoring something
somewhere else. Then distinctly upset.

"Is something wrong?" Trance ventured.

"Dylan says you have a talent with living things."

Trance blinked, and smiled. "That was nice."

Rommie hesitated. "Could you...check on Dylan? See if he feels
right to you?"

"Something medical?"

"Not exactly; but he isn't sleeping. Nightmares, I think, about
falling. He yells at me." Affronted, definitely pissed at that.
"Nothing physical I can find. I've had a few psych cases on board--
but they were the doctors' job, not mine. And it wasn't..."

"Dylan?"

"The Captain. He's the Captain; I'm his Ship." She hesitated again.
"You're the Crew. We need you."

"I'll see what I can do." Trance patted her arm and tried to
picture trumpet vines on metal frames.
 

**0325**
 

"Dylan's afraid of horns?"

"What?"

Trance gestured at the screen. "It's a note here. Insomnia,
nightmares: Hornblower's syndrome." Rommie looked over Trance's
shoulder as her hologram appeared above the console.

"I checked Dylan's current med profile against everything in your
records, and this came up."

"That's not it." In stereo. Rommie glared at the holo. "That's an
old Service joke. It's a rookie problem--like seasickness; ships
were low-grav compared to the Academy."

"Says here he was pretty sick. And it's the only mention of
nightmares...."

Rommie frowned. "He didn't get along with that med officer. She's
making fun of him."

"Says she recommended a psych consult that he refused."

Rommie shifted. "That was during the Kalderesh tour. A few officers
had emotional reactions--Dylan's problem cleared up on its own."

"How soon? And how do I access the psych records?"

"Dylan's is restricted; you need his authorization or High Guard
codes."

"Can't you read it?"

"No."

"Yes."

Trance snapped her tail through the holo; "Well, which is it?"

"I can't recall the full records into current memory without the
codes; but I do have indices and parameters to monitor, and he's
well within normal tolerances on all of them."

"But you're worried about him?" asked Trance.

The holo crossed her arms. "He just needs more sleep."

"And I don't like seeing him upset," Rommie said.

"And it hurts when he yells at you?"

"He's irritable and having trouble sleeping; he's not insane, and
he's certainly not suffering from Hornblower's. Raw officers adapt
within a week or so, and I wasn't Dylan's first command."

"And nothing's wrong with his inner ear: beyond that, it's a minor
discomfort. Like seasickness. Or vertigo."

"Or homesickness?" Trance added.

Both Andromedas bridled. "This is his home." Rommie leaned closer.
"And I'm not making him sick!"
 

**0500**
 

Harper looked again at Trance's message and jacked into the control
port. He hummed and his hands twitched; after twenty minutes he
broke into a grin and braced his foot against a strut. Next to his
hand a spot welder floated up a meter, then slammed back onto the
deck with a clang.

***

Twice in one night wasn't normal. Definitely wasn't fair. This was
bad enough to have him retching in the sink, clutching the rim for
balance. And broke the com, he'd have to make that right with
Rommie...he opened the med cabinet and looked at the sleeping pills
Ship had stocked for him. He had a horror of sedation. Three
hundred years, and it was supposed to be frozen time, but he was
physically there, and so was Rhade; his ghost frozen too? His last
breath before or after everything...stopped? He shut the cabinet.
Maybe an extra blanket.
 

**0600**
 

"Good, you're up." Beka swiveled the pilot's chair to face Tyr.
"Looks like we have a problem."

"Let me guess: stranded missionaries? Starving Magog? Orphans in
the minefield?"

"Somebody piss in your cornflakes?"

"Something damn near drowned me in the shower. What the hell is
going on?"

"It's the artificial gravity." Trance interrupted. "I asked Harper
to run a check on it and he found a weak matter alignment. He says
he can fix it. But since we're nowhere near a drift..."

"We ride it out while Harper offlines part of the force and try not
to bounce off the overhead."

Tyr glared at the system display. "And how does that affect our
position? Is there anything of any possible use out there?"

"Nothing but wreckage so far; an old minefield near the rim. Could
be tricky insystem, if anyone shows up to play."

"Does the Captain know yet?"

"Didn't answer his com. Maybe he slept through it. I told Harper to
set alarms..."

A klaxon screamed and there was a sickening drop as the gravity cut
to half.

"Got that!" Harper sputtered from the com. "Trance, get down here,
this is cool."

Tyr grabbed the back of the chair; Trance bounced, tethered to a
railing by her tail. "I think I better go; he's having too much fun
with this."

"Then tell that lunatic he has ten minutes to knock it off and
strap himself in; I'm taking us out."

"Is that safe like this?" Trance asked.

"Safer than sitting here with the a-g fried, if we have to move,"
said Tyr.

"Slipstream is functional; but the accel will send you flying if
you're not tied down. Chair, bed, gimbal seat--get your ass into
anything with a safety and hang on." Beka rapped on the pilot
display."Dylan! Rommie! Where's the Rev?"

Weight flickered into being, then bucked them off the deck again.
Andromeda came onscreen. "Rev Bem is in his quarters--awake now; my
android is secured in Medical; Dylan..." she paused. "Room com's
out; paging him subvocal. Someone should check on him."

"Trance, get below if you're going. Tyr..."

He hopped the railing and snagged Trance's arm. "I'm on it. Come
on." They bobbed out the door at a run, skimming the deck.

***

It was getting too damned familiar; the noise, the lights, the fall
into space--his body jerked, his eyes flew open, but the blaring
hell was real and the mattress was drifting under his back. Dylan
vaulted off the bed and tumbled onto his knees, jouncing on the
carpet, scrabbling for his belts. "Andromeda: report!" he yelled,
but the wall com just spit static. He slammed the door lock one-
handed, half awake, struggling to fasten his weapons over his
pajama bottoms and get his legs under him. The deck came up hard
beneath his bare feet and he staggered, then stability went
sideways again.

"Rommie! Rhade!" He pressed his neck to activate the subvocal com
and messages intersected:

"Repeat: secure to quarters." "Dylan: We have an a-g malfunction;
Beka's moving out." "Captain, are you all right?"

For a second he clung to the doorway; then he swung outside,
launching himself into the corridor, and slammed full into Tyr, who
snarled and made a grab. He straight-armed off a leather gauntlet
and cracked his skull against the doorframe on the rebound. Stars:
He fell forward against something warm and hard and broad as a
planet; felt a hot grip on his arms, holding him steady; then his
knees buckled and he fainted into black.

Tyr looked down on the man sagging against his chest.

"Tyr: status. Where are you?" the pocket com crackled and he
flinched.

"Quarters; Captain's secure." He hitched them both through the
doorway, hit the lock with his elbow, and dumped Dylan on the bed.
Giving the room a quick scan, he picked the helmet and shoes off
the floor and pitched them into the bathroom, then slipped off his
weapons belt. He bent over Dylan to unbuckle his belt and ran his
hand up Dylan's thighs, feeling for the holster release. Dylan made
a sound and twisted, trapping Tyr's hand between his legs.

"One minute."

Tyr cursed and pulled the weapons free of the belt. He stowed the
arms, then fell on the bed next to Dylan and snatched the safety
webbing across them from its housing against the wall. "Secure,
Beka. Do it." He thumbed his com off and lay back, bracing himself.
A few heartbeats later he felt the febrile rattle of the Slipstream
drive engaging and they were flung hard into the mattress, swaying
and swinging as the ship rode the stream.

Dylan woke to an arm jagged with daggers bent across his chest and
he struck out, raking his wrist, flailing, trying to free himself
from this trap that reeled crazily through the abyss: falling and
bound, tied to an enemy.

"Rhade!" he yelled.

"Rhade's dead." Tyr blocked an elbow to his ribs; he shoved Dylan's
head down and rolled over to cover him, holding the other man to
the wall with the mass of his body against the thrust of the ship.
"You're all right. Listen to me." He yelled and Dylan shivered
violently. "It's all right. The a-grav is faulty; Beka's moving us
outsystem so Harper can make repairs. We're strapped in the
safety."

Dylan felt the deep voice vibrate through him, chest above his
chest, throat against his lips, driving the tremors to stillness.
"Tyr?"

"You understand, Dylan? You're all right." Not yelling, now: "I've
got you." His mouth was in Dylan's hair, and Tyr moved a hand to
wipe the strands clear. The hair was fine and warm and slick with
sweat; his own braids lay across their faces in a fan. Tyr slid his
fingertips along Dylan's scalp, cupping the back of his head while
they quaked and swung with the ship. No blood, but he hit a tender
spot and Dylan gasped. "Breathe," said Tyr.

Dylan's world settled. Tyr's heart beat steadily against his own;
he was pressed down, weighted, safe, the wall firm against his
back. He moved his hands, feeling the solid curves of flesh bearing
against him, the chainmailed back; and brought both arms around to
cling, finally, to this anchor in the night.

Tyr shifted his arms, spikes buried in the blanket. "Careful," he
growled. The ship continued to buck; Dylan arched against Tyr,
rubbing his naked chest against the chainmail shirt. The metal was
hot between them; the shirt rucked up, snagging hairs and trapping
Tyr's nipple in a ridged fold. Tyr hardened against Dylan's waist,
his sex riding the top of Dylan's belt. He edged down, scraping
himself across the belt into the hollow of Dylan's hip and rocked,
a helpless flex into the ship's pull.

Dylan's grip tightened; Tyr's hair cloaked his face, his beard
brushed against his jaw, his scent closed around them. He edged his
thighs apart and pressed up into the chainmail, grinding himself
against the metal links, grating his chest until two points of
flame pinned him tighter in place, staked him to the body against
him, pulsed in time with the growing hunger of his cock.

"You're insane," Tyr rumbled, and closed strong white teeth on the
curve of his jaw.

He arched again and dragged a hand down across Tyr's ass, digging
his nails into the cleft through the leather, embedding the seam in
sensitive flesh.

"Wait," Tyr hissed. "Slow down." He raised his head and tossed
aside his hair. He looked down for a heartbeat; then angled his jaw
and bent to Dylan's mouth.

Dylan felt soft, broad lips and a deeper heat behind them; a tongue
gliding thick and full over his own; and the room convulsed and the
thrust rippled out, leaving them sealed together, bouncing lazily
between the bed and safety net.

The shipwide all-clear sounded, and day lights came on in the
cabin.

Dylan broke the kiss, turning his head and groping for the safety
release. The net slid back. Tyr got a knee on the bed and a foot on
the deck, pushing himself slowly upright. Dylan pressed the implant
in his neck to contact the bridge and sat up. The nightmare flooded
back to hit his head and his gut at once; he grabbed the wall and
struggled to stay upright. Tyr dropped a pocket com into his lap
and he grabbed it like a lifeline. "Andromeda, what's our position?
Screen to my quarters." The display swam on the starfield. Dylan
watched Tyr drag the back of his hand across his mouth and shake
his shirt into place. "Looks quiet. Beka? Everyone okay?"

"No complaints so far. Tyr still kicking?"

"Fine," Tyr said. There was a pause.

"Com's out in your quarters; might be a bit before we can make
repairs."

Tyr looked at the dagger spiking the wall com. Dylan ducked his
head.

"Not a priority. How's..."

"We're clear. Harper's fixing the a-g; Rommie's cracking the whip."

"Anything else I should know?" His hands were shaking now.

"Gravity's at 50 per; might fluctuate some."

Crew was working. The float--his mind finally kicked in--making him
dizzy was real. And being fixed.

"Dylan?"

"Good enough. Call me...*call me*...if anything else comes up."

"Understood. Beka out."

He tossed the com to Tyr, who lounged against the desk, watching
him. "You..."

"Dylan." Rommie flashed onscreen, blotting out the stars; her voice
came tinny from Tyr's fist. "Are you all right?"

"Leave me alone!" he snapped. She blinked. "Sorry, Rommie, sorry.
I'm fine. No problem."

"Yes, Captain. Just checking." Reproachfully. "Trance suggests you
get some sleep." The image blinked out.

"Apologizing to a machine?" Tyr asked.

Dylan raked a hand through his hair and winced. "Not a machine; my
Ship."

Tyr waved at the ruined com. "That Ship?"

"An annoyance." He couldn't feel the bed underneath him. He was
dizzy again; his groin ached, his chest was sore, and he'd been
acting the fool under a safety net with a...with Tyr... His head
throbbed--"You, too..."

He hadn't seen Tyr move, but he was standing in front of him.

"You're a mess. Concussed, maybe?" He gripped Dylan's chin and
lifted his face. Dylan's sight blurred on brown eyes and sculpted
curves. Tyr's thumb brushed the corner of his mouth and Dylan
knocked the hand away.

"No. Just tired." Focus. His eyes flicked to Tyr's shirt, the
shadow of his navel through the chainmail, and lower to the rigid
bar and bulge in the soft leather black...

"More than that, I think. You're not tracking very well."

"I'm very tired." Step into a threat. Into heat. He saw his hand
reach out to hook Tyr's inner thigh; he pulled him in and licked
the whole broad outline of his cock through the leather, tightened
his fingers on the inseam to bring the bulge of his sac higher,
dropped his jaw to try to suck one sliding perfect oval into firm
relief.

"Captain," asked Tyr, "are you flirting with me?"

Dylan spluttered a laugh into his crotch.

"Ah, good: signs of life." He wound a fist in Dylan's hair and
pulled his head back. "Lie down, fool."

He tried to weigh risk against want, but Tyr put a hand flat on his
chest and shoved. Down didn't feel so bad, this time. Tyr sat next
to him, stiffly, to take off his boots, then stood. The shirt swept
off and dropped; the leather gauntlets followed. Dylan hitched
himself up and grabbed Tyr's pants by the waist. "My court; my
rules," he said. Tyr cocked his head. "Meaning?"

"No blood."

Tyr showed his teeth. It might have been a grin.

Dylan dipped his fingers inside the waistband, searching; he
reached the silken head tucked tight against Tyr's stomach and
rolled its flared edge through the leather against his thumb.

Tyr twitched and pulled his hand away. "Control yourself." He
unsnapped the waist. "You don't know the kind of mess that makes."

He grinned. "Not my pants."

"You'd clean it up." He opened the fly. "Waiting for something?"

Dylan wrestled off the holstered belt; then pulled his waistband
wide with his thumbs and stripped off his pants, rocking a little
in the light g. He was getting thinner. He lay back against the
pillow naked, his swollen cock bobbing on his stomach. He reached
down and cupped his balls, then slid his hand up the shaft, closing
a fist around it from habit, for comfort, rolling his thumb over
the tip. He watched Tyr peel out of his leathers, then fold his
pants over a chair.

Tyr swept his locks back over his shoulders and stood, silhouetted
against the starfield, fists on his hips, cock jutting sharply,
looking down at Dylan.

*Amazing,* Dylan thought. *Beautiful. And dangerous as hell.* A
throb stabbed from his ass to his balls and a drop of liquid
pearled over his hand. He shivered and muscles clenched; he gripped
himself tighter.

Tyr knelt on the bed and frowned. "Cold?" He arched over Dylan and
ran his palm down a pectoral swell, across his stomach. Hairs
raised in its path; a nipple puckered with a twinge.

"Fine. I'm fine." His mantra. He just wanted that weight against
him again, that heat...he looked up at the broad chest and the
ridged muscles. "No scars."

"None I wanted to keep." Tyr nudged a finger against the gouge on
Dylan's stomach.

"Me neither." *Going in,* he told himself. *Watch the arms.* He
curled up and reached between Tyr's thighs, brushing soft fur over
hard flesh, into the velvet fullness of his scrotum. He palmed the
sac, relishing the feel, and probed underneath for the sensitive
spot behind it. Tyr's cock twitched against Dylan's wrist and his
spikes extended. Dylan gave the shaft a firm pull, Tyr breathing
hard above him, then fell back.

"Dizzy," he claimed. "The grav..."

"Not a problem," said Tyr, and flipped him onto his stomach. Not a
safer position: but Tyr held him there, a hand planted above his
ass, and it felt good. "Do you have anything?"

"For...no."

The hand went away. He heard a rattle in the bathroom. He was
losing his erection against the sheets, drifting again, graying
out.

The mattress sagged. "Med gel. Been a long time?"

He had to laugh. "Three hundred three years--and counting..."

A firm hand parted his buttocks, long fingers drew along the crease
directly to the puckered ring of muscle; shocking, slick, cold,
twisting into him and bringing him instantly hard again. A steady
long stroke in, and out; in and out again, then wider, twice as
wide, stretching, probing, boring straight into him... He spread
his legs, trying to find some purchase in the bedclothes.

Tyr dragged his fingers out and pulled up on Dylan's hips, urging
him to his knees. "Tricky," he said. "Brace yourself."

And then he felt Tyr hot and solid between his thighs, hands
digging into his hips, and the blunt cock head breached him at
last. Tyr thrust slowly and he was invaded, taken, filled. It was
too much and not enough. Dylan shuddered again, his arms too weak
to hold him, his knees sliding back against the sheets, his body
quaking in waves radiating from that solid core. Tyr caught him as
he collapsed, one arm stiff against the bed. "Dylan?" The rich
voice was harsh, concerned. "Are you sure..."

"Damn it! Just do it! Now!" He wrenched away and jerked up a knee.
Tyr straightened, repositioned himself; he rubbed his hand once
over the base of Dylan's spine, then braced it below his neck and
shoved into him, jolting Dylan forward. "Yes!" Dylan cried into the
sheets. Tyr growled and threw his head back; he drew off and
slammed forward again, and again, and again, his hips pumping, his
braids bouncing, setting a brutal rythm. Dylan dug his face into
the pillow, panting, working his fist over his cock in sync with
the Nietzschean's pounding strokes, with each beat into the hot red
center of his world...the klaxon shrieked.

The g field cut completely and they bounded off the bed, joined,
floating; Tyr grasped Dylan around the waist, and he clutched after
the bedframe. Then gravity rushed back full force, slamming Dylan
into the mattress, Tyr angled into him, and the universe exploded
on impact.

***

Rocking, blinking in and out.

Tyr chuckling.

Lights out; a blanket.

Talking; was he talking?

Underwater, under night. He couldn't move, but felt the blanket
around him, Tyr spooned behind him--arms--he flinched, but he
seemed secure. Felt warm slopes of muscle against his back, under
his head. Tyr was talking.

"Rhade?"

"What?"

"Your lover?"

Dylan turned a shoulder to that. "A traitor. He put me here."

Tyr pressed him back against his chest, comfortably. "He had a lot
of help."

Dylan shrugged. His eyelids drooped; he faced the empty weightless
black for a split second and jerked in protest. Tyr absorbed the
shock, a hand over Dylan's heart. "You're alive; he's dead. You
won."

"They're all dead."

"All but you." His mouth to Dylan's ear: "Live and grow stronger.
Take your revenge."

He was fading. "What's in it for you?"

"Retribution. A Name. A place to stand."

"My Ship..." warm, steady, here. "Stay," he told him. And slept.
 
 

-end-