Brock stirred slowly. It was a good sleep, a shame really, to wake up and end it. Brock thought to himself, this kind of sleep hadn't happened in a while. Weeks, months, perhaps a year. It was a real treat. Brock blinked a few times, to make an effort to get the process started. His father had often said that if you make it look like you've done something, then the boss leaves you alone. Brock rolled on his back and looked at the ceiling and groped for his timepiece. 8:48am local time. Shit, this was a good sleep. He looked out the window and admired the view. Goldylocks 48B dominated the windows in Conference Room 5. Brock thought it was a waste that the best windows in the boat were wasted on a meeting room. Typical company bullshit. What did it matter this morning though, was that Brock had the view to himself; the planet itself, it's moons and the two suns of the local system. Or not. Mara moaned and embraced him. Brock slowly smiled, remembering more than the sleep. Shit, it was still a good view. Brock looked at a nearby display, the MTSV Richard Nixon had set itself up in a lock orbit around Goldylocks 48B at some point in the last 2 hours. This in and of itself was a final relief and Brock sighed with a feeling of accomplishment. Mara pulled herself closer. Brock started to take stock of things. Mara was an amazing piece of ass. Shit an amazing being. Nothing in the previous few days seemed to matter now that the end result was this view and a still naked Mara grasping at him.

Brock finally stood up and went to the windows. They were cold to the touch and had a dusting of ice on them. That view though. They had done it, and the cargo had no idea of the events of the last few days or how close they came to destruction. Richard Nixon was chartered as a Settler Vessel, yet another shitty decision on the part of the company. Take a mineral towing class vessel and turn it into a bus. Genius. The settlers had no idea of the shitstorm that unfolded since docking at Waypoint 72. When they refuelled and dumped waste and picked up the Gypsies and Mara with them. Mara was them. Brock remembered when he first saw Mara. The Gypsies could read minds and manipulate minds inside out. However Mara could not read Brock and Brock had no idea of the beginnings of the end. How all this mind reading and rinsing and bending would lead to the crew killing the Gypsies and themselves. Brock had stared Mara up and down, a fine piece of ass the likes of which had not been seen in a long time. Only retrospectively he recalled, this thought of his made Mara stumble when boarding. Like forcing two simliarly poled magnets together, one had to buck.

Sex with Mara was beyond anything Brock had experience before. He was used to bending women and occasionally men to his whims. Mara was different, perhaps Brock thought because she was used to bending others to her own whim. Brock stiffled a giggle, she. Was Mara really a she, a her or even a him? This far out into space, did these terms matter? Top, bottom, did this matter as well? Perhaps it was not actually sex as Brock knew it, but rather 8 hours of trying to bend each other, physically, emotionally. Mara depending on the ability to manipulate and program humans, and when Brock couldn't be read or controlled it was a wholly different scenario. Brock was used to using his own body as a tool, for the pleasure of himself mostly and sometimes others. He wasn't used to somebody rising to his challenge.

The other Gypsies had started about mentally exploring and manipulating the rest of the crew, Brock, as a Crew Deck Liaison, was deemed unimportant and it was just him and Mara. When Captain Martin shaved his head and decapitated the leader of the Gypsies and then reeking of coolant distilled napalm whiskey, set off the fire control system on the bridge. When the first officer grabbed the antiquated pump shotgun from the first aid kit and started dispensing frontier style justice. When the Gypies blew blood vessels trying to contain the mess and save themselves. Brock was largely ignored. Perhaps he thought, because all of his thoughts were on Mara. Pinning her to the wall outside the galley block. Bending her over the console on the pilot deck. Looking out the window at the planet below, Brock chuckled again and admitted to himself the last few days he was letting his dick do all the thinking for him. Shit, it's what saved him.

Brock couldn't shake the image of the captain crushing the last Gypsies' skull against the outer glass on the pilot bridge. The same motion over and over again, death first and then the window breach. The captain's last words, what was recording by the ship's system were garbled. Something about a pay raise and reconsidering of promotion and then something about heaven and hell. Or the inbetween. Nobody knows for sure. That's when the pilot deck lost pressure and was sealed off.

Brock cut the wheelhouse off from the rest of the Richard Nixon and sat in a puddle of his own juices with the C Deck fireaxe. He was stewing in his mind about the recent events and the thought of what an antiquated weapon, or tool the axe actually was. Millions of years of men had swung them. He then heard Mara, from a distance. Brock still couldn't tell if he actually heard her or she was calling him telepathically. He found Mara on B deck, in the first officers' lounge. Clearly terrified, but also clearly vibing relief that Brock was the man to find her....

Brock snapped back to the present. The window the planet. Mara moaning, still resting, but calling to him. Her desire hung in the air. Brock could embrace it with nearly all his senses. It was cold at the window despite the warmth of the view and the sense of mission accomplishment. He slipped back into the makeshift bed. Mara buried her head into him. Brock pulled her close and she sighed heavily.

_Aunty Entity 

...meisha returns meisha forever.

_alibi