Free The Well of Stars by Robert Reed

as much as you can help us.”
    “You’re nice to say that.”
    “I’m never nice,” he countered, laughing.
    “You’re a mean old shit,” she said.
    “Absolutely!”
    “Except you aren’t,” she remarked. Then with her own warning glower, she said, “We each have our weakness. Marrow is mine. And yours is you.”
    “I’m not as tough as I pretend. Is that it?”
    With a thought, she severed the com-line. Now there was nothing above them but a dome of polished green olivine stained over the last thousand centuries, the dampness of Washen’s breath doing most of the damage.
    With an easy fondness, she took hold of Pamir’s morning erection.
    “When a species gains total control over its body and its mortality,” she began, “it typically improves its sexual organs. But it never, ever edits them out. Hearts, on occasion. Limbs, sometimes. But never has a man been born—”
    “Who willingly surrenders his prick,” Pamir said, finishing the old truism:
    “Ever wonder why?”
    “Never,” he replied with a perfect honesty. “Not once, ever. Never. And no.”

Five
    Excerpts from tight-beam broadcast received 119.55 post-Wwar—Origin K-class sun 8.2 light-years from the Inkwell—Apparent source Streakship Calamus, Acting Captain Lorkin (Former rank: Tech-agent, Class-C)—Security status of transmission: For the perusal of .Master, Submasters only; zero exceptions.
     
    AN OPEN LETTER:
    Until this evening, we honestly did not know your fate, Good Master. None of us could imagine anything but the worst for you and our good colleagues, what with the Wayward invasion and subsequent conquest of the ship, and the suicidal fight between Waywards and Remoras … a battle that threatened every vessel berthed at Port Denali, I should add … and then our subsequent maneuvers around the dying and dead suns, placing considerable resources and valuable property in mortal danger … Naturally my crew and I had no choice but to save whatever lives and property we could. Thankfully, we were able to pluck nearly one hundred passengers from the mayhem, along with myself and 311 handpicked crew members … at a time when the reconquest of the ship seemed quite impossible, I should add … and naturally, afterward, we were thrilled to see the Great Ship survive both its close approach with the red giant and its dance with the black hole … but until this evening, while conversing with our new friends, the Pak’kin, we never imagined that your forces, Good Master, had actually
won the war, regaining full control over the helm and all the facilities within our wondrous home …
    Congratulations to you from all on board the Calamus … !
     
    HOLO IMAGE:
    Captain Lorkin posed for the cameras, accompanied by his officers and current hosts. It was a nighttime image, the rare stars hovering above the distant horizon, only the Inkwell filling the heart of the sky. The humans wore new uniforms grown for this single occasion, the tailoring reminiscent of various military cultures, with tall boots and wide belts on which hung overly ornate sidearms. Lorkin’s chest was decorated with colored ribbons and important jewels, implying many selfless actions and examples of intense bravery. He smiled, after a fashion. But his officers seemed less determined about their pleasure. The image captured one of them—a young-faced woman—closely watching the Pak‘kin squatting beside her. It was a rock-colored creature, roughly cone-shaped with many legs and thick, short, jointed arms, plus dozens of orifices scattered haphazardly across its body. The officer’s expression might be described as disgusted, perhaps even appalled. A single detail in one holo—one image among thousands squirted home to the Great Ship—yet much was implied. The woman did not like her hosts. She was suspicious and perhaps even scared. Indeed, none of the humans could easily hide their constant discomfort, both with the environment and the Pak’kin. To cope