Chapter 10 Biological Maintenance
Biological Maintenance
Wi'kar
The corridor between the medical bay and my personal quarters has never seemed so long.
Each step resonates through the ship’s hull with metronomic precision, yet my stride lacks its usual measured cadence. My hands, typically maintained in regulation position at my sides, exhibit minute tremors that I cannot suppress. The physiological response is unprecedented and deeply troubling.
More troubling still is the cause: Dominique. The memory of her kiss. The way her body felt pressed against mine. The sound she made when I—
I force myself to stop that line of reasoning. Such thoughts serve no productive purpose and only exacerbate my current... predicament.
My personal quarters represent the one space aboard the Protocol Prime designed for complete privacy.
No sensors monitor this compartment except for basic life support functions.
No recording devices document activities within these walls.
It is here that I conduct my daily meditation sequences, maintain my physical conditioning, and address personal biological requirements without external observation.
The door seals behind me with a soft hiss, and I find myself standing in the center of my living space, uncertain how to proceed.
The quarters are, like every other section of my vessel, precisely organized.
Regulation furnishings arranged according to optimal space utilization principles.
Personal effects limited to essential items and a few carefully selected volumes from my poetry collection.
Everything in its designated place, everything serving a specific function.
Except now, for the first time in my adult life, this orderly environment feels insufficient. Constrictive. As artificial as the emotional barriers I struggle to maintain.
“Agent Wi’kar,” AXIS’s voice filters through the room’s communication system, though I had not activated any request for assistance. “Your biometric readings indicate sustained physiological stress. Perhaps this would be an appropriate time to engage in stress-reduction activities?”
“I did not request a status report,” I inform the AI stiffly.
“Of course not, Agent. However, as your shipboard support system, I am programmed to ensure optimal crew performance. Your current state of... tension... may impact critical decision-making capabilities.”
The AI’s observation is maddeningly accurate.
Since Dominique’s arrival, my usual mechanisms for maintaining mental and physical equilibrium have proven woefully inadequate.
Standard meditation practices fail to quiet the constant awareness of her presence.
Regulated sleep cycles are disrupted by unbidden sensory memories.
Even basic hygiene routines have become complicated by my body’s unprecedented responses.
“Privacy mode activated,” I command. “Discontinue all monitoring functions except life support.”
“Privacy mode engaged, Agent. All recording and observation functions suspended. Shall I also activate sound dampening?”
The suggestion carries implications I choose not to examine. “Affirmative.”
“Sound dampening active. Agent, if I may offer one final observation before privacy protocols engage fully?”
I pause in the act of loosening my collar fastenings. “What observation?”
“Gluxian physiological texts recommend addressing sustained arousal states through appropriate release mechanisms. Failure to do so can result in decreased cognitive function, impaired judgment, and potential physical discomfort.”
Heat rises in my facial regions—embarrassment that AXIS would comment so directly on such matters. “Your input is noted.”
“Excellent, Agent. Privacy mode now fully active. I shall remain unavailable unless emergency protocols are triggered.”
The communication system falls silent, leaving me alone with the sound of my own elevated breathing and the persistent awareness of Dominique’s proximity just a deck away.
I move to the small ablution chamber adjoining my quarters, ostensibly to review my appearance after our medical session. The reflection that greets me in the polished metal surface is... disturbing.
My usually immaculate hair bears obvious signs of disruption from Dominique’s fingers.
The patterns that trace along my temples continue to pulse with faint blue light—a visible manifestation of my aroused state that any Gluxian would immediately recognize.
Most concerning of all, my pupils remain dilated beyond normal parameters, a response to her pheromonal signature that refuses to abate despite her absence.
I attempt to restore my appearance to regulation standards, smoothing my hair back into its precise arrangement. The action only serves to remind me of how she had tangled her fingers in it, how she had pulled me down to meet her kiss with desperate hunger.
The memory sends another surge of heat through my system, and I observe with clinical detachment as my temples flare brighter in response.
This cannot continue. I am a diplomatic courier, trained to maintain perfect composure under all circumstances. I do not lose control over basic biological functions because of a single human female, regardless of the extraordinary circumstances surrounding our meeting.
Yet as I remove my outer uniform jacket, I find myself recalling the way Dominique had looked at me during the medical procedure. The trust in her eyes when she allowed me to assist with her clothing. The catch in her breathing when my hands touched her skin.
The uniform jacket falls to the floor—a lapse in tidiness that would normally distress me, yet I cannot summon the energy to retrieve it. My focus has narrowed to more pressing concerns.
I move to the small seating area where I typically conduct my evening meditation sessions.
The furniture here is sparse—a single chair positioned for optimal contemplation, a small table for essential items. I settle into the chair, attempting to begin the familiar breathing exercises that have always been sufficient for maintaining mental equilibrium.
Inhale for seven counts. Hold for four. Exhale for seven counts. Repeat until clarity is achieved.
But clarity does not come. Instead, each controlled breath seems to carry traces of Dominique’s scent, as if her pheromonal signature has somehow permeated the ship’s atmospheric systems. The meditation position, which should promote mental discipline, only serves to emphasize the persistent physical arousal that has plagued me since our kiss.
I abandon the meditation attempt after 4.3 minutes—a failure that would be unthinkable under normal circumstances. But nothing about my current situation qualifies as normal.
Standing, I begin to pace the narrow confines of my quarters, a nervous behavior that violates my training in proper deportment. Yet the movement provides minimal relief from the tension that seems to have taken permanent residence in my body.
The truth, which I have been reluctant to acknowledge even to myself, is that AXIS’s suggestions regarding stress relief carry significant merit.
Gluxian males do require periodic release of sexual tension to maintain optimal physiological function.
Under normal circumstances, such needs are addressed through regulated meditation practices that redirect arousal energy into more productive channels.
But these circumstances are far from normal. And the meditation techniques that proved adequate for general biological maintenance prove wholly insufficient when faced with the specific, intense desire that Dominique has awakened in me.
Perhaps... perhaps a more direct approach is warranted. Purely for medical necessity, of course. To restore proper cognitive function and ensure optimal decision-making capabilities during our continued flight from pursuit.
The rationalization feels hollow, but the alternative—continuing in this state of constant distraction—presents genuine tactical concerns.
I move to the sleeping alcove, settling on the edge of the precisely made bed.
The regulations regarding off-duty conduct are clear: crew members are expected to address personal biological needs in whatever manner proves most effective, provided such activities do not compromise ship operations or crew safety.
My hands move to the fastenings of my uniform shirt with careful deliberation.
Each clasp opens with a soft click that seems unnaturally loud in the sound-dampened silence of my quarters.
The fabric parts to reveal the patterns that trace across my chest and shoulders—normally visible only as faint silver lines, they now pulse with steady light that betrays my aroused state to anyone with knowledge of Gluxian physiology.
The sight should distress me. I am a diplomatic courier, trained to maintain perfect control over such displays. Yet I find myself oddly fascinated by this visible manifestation of Dominique’s effect on my system.
I close my eyes, allowing myself to recall the memory I have been avoiding: the weight of her body against mine, the taste of her mouth, the small sound of pleasure she made when I deepened our kiss.
The way her hands moved over my body with surprising confidence, as if she had every right to touch me wherever she pleased.
My breathing becomes irregular as I allow these forbidden thoughts to surface. The uniform shirt falls away completely, forgotten in the growing haze of arousal that clouds my normally precise thinking processes.
For 37.2 years, I have maintained perfect discipline over my physical responses.
I have never allowed personal desires to compromise my professional obligations.
I have certainly never engaged in such activities while thinking of a specific individual—particularly not a human female who represents everything chaotic and unpredictable in my previously ordered existence.