When the water hit them at 0.5 celsius, Austen sputtered into some fairly creative profanity. "You gruyere-scented douchenozzle, I'm going to kick your ass from the throat down, then yank your nuts—"
Spanich slapped him. "Hush up, dearie," he growled, dragging Austen's face so close they might have been kissing again. Somehow, being naked and wet with the kid wasn't doing much for him this morning. "You know how many times in all my years that flash brass has rung my bell?"
Austen found his voice. "Th-they put their jocks on one strap at a time like everybody else."
"Maybe. And maybe they have platinum-plated jeweled nut sacks snapped on every morning by hermaphroditic dwarves. How the fuck would I know? Because never in my entire pressure-bleeding life have I had to take a call like that one." He shook the kid hard, banging that pretty head against the scrubstall's algaplastic lining. "And I'd bet my last gene scan you have something to do with it. You and your Mayor Eye-breye-um."
"Mare Ibrium." This time he got it right.
"That's Mare Ibrium, thirteen pairs, to you, my friend. Shipminds are damned proud, and have very long arms indeed when they're riled up." Even talking about it here in the scrubstall made him nervous.
|Originally published at jlake.com.|