Their looks of alarm and incipient panic brought warmth to the captain’s heart. With Sin-Dour at his side, they traversed the thirteen point six-five meters to the nearest elevator in record time, and leapt aboard. “Bridge deck!” Hadrian said, as Sin-Dour positioned herself beside him. In his peripheral vision, he saw that her chest was barely heaving, and he cursed himself that they hadn’t gone in the other direction, to an elevator much farther away. “Captain, you’ve torn your shirt again.” “Not me. Nipplebaum.” “Oh. Is that some kind of unguent for an areola rash? The itch must have been maddening.” “No, that’s the name of—well, actually, yes, they itch something awful. The only relief comes when someone scratches them, or tweaks them, with the occasional twisting motion—” Tammy broke in through the elevator speaker. “Your captain is lying, Commander. Nipplebaum, Sally Applet, ship security, rank of—” “Do you mind, Tammy? Me and Sin-Dour were having a conversation here!
