9.095 - The Captain and the Engineer

[Cirrsseeto Quez]

Free time on a warship was fleeting and malleable. You took it when you had it, because you didn't now when it would evaporate in an instant. For a Captain, it was doubly so. At any moment, any concern aboard your ship could become your concern. Nearly two hundred small concerns, now your own.

When you had the time, you took it. Time such as a long hyperspace jump, when everyone was waiting for Point A to become Point B. Barring a cataclysm in engineering, he had five hours.

The first hour he spent cooking. It was about as alien a pursuit as he could imagine, but he'd done some rudimentary form of it when he lived aboard the Layla, and if pushed, could tolerate meat that was teased and abused in the way that everyone else seemed to like. He'd made a point of looking up recipes from Dantooine, recipes that she would probably know, remember, and enjoy. He found one that would probably not cause him much discomfort, and be easy enough to keep him from burning down the mess hall. The mess officer watched him struggle, stifling a laugh as he made a mess of things. But Cirrsseeto insisted. He wanted to do it. Instead of game birds, it was frozen poultry of the least common denominator, but with the mess officer giving suggestions at every turn, Cirr put the bird on to braise. More clueless about the vegetables, the mess chief offered more advice, reconsituting what was dessicated, and uncanning what was in a can. When it was ready to go low and slow with the least amount of supervision, Cirr moved on.

The next hour, he spent on himself. How long had it been since he'd done that? A long sonic shower. A careful shave. His claws, clipped, buffed, and polished. He even broke out his long-neglected makeup kit, and as he stood in front of the mirror of his refresher, he worked at applying the subtle touches of eyeliner, lipstick, and other color that he'd used when he was younger to impress Ieesshaauurri. He shook a small decanter of perfume, down to the scant last few drops, and applied them with care. When he was finished, he looked at himself carefully. In a way, he was looking at him from over a decade ago, but there was so much that had changed. The carefully-manicured lines of a thin beard were among one of those differences. Captain's Prerogative, he told himself. It was short enough that he'd managed to hide it from her for a few days just by avoiding her with busywork. He hoped she appreciated the surprise.

To dress, he eschewed his parade uniform in his closet for civilian clothes. He felt more comfortable that way, and he'd taken pains to save money for the nicest cut he could afford, last time they touched down on Dac. It wasn't nearly as nice as what he wore on Carshoulis, but it was the best thing he'd worn in years.

He was hopeless on music, and after asking a dozen friends and confidants, he took Morgan Evanar's sage advice on Verpine algorithmic jazz. It wasn't saccharine or kitsch, but it also wouldn't smother conversation. It was smart and subdued, and fit the mood. She wouldn't want to hear anything less.

After he set the table, and after the Mess Officer arrived at his quarters with a utility cart with dishes and the project he'd worked on, he was finally ready to make the call. He punched up Lyanie's voxcomm.