The cool air of the command carrier shocks Scorpius' skin, flush with desire... and, perhaps, nervousness? He will have to examine that more thoroughly later. For now, he delights in the warmth of her skin on his and his on hers. Her breasts pressed to his chest, his hands gripping her slender thighs. The hardness of the dining table beneath her, the softness of her hair hanging between their two bodies.
The smooth chill of the metal bracelet around Braca's ankle, the clever mollusk colonizing Sikozu's synthetic nervous system. The intolerable intimacy and improvised frell toys of those with little left to lose. (In the corridors, Peacekeepers ready themselves for the next Scarran assault.)
“You may proceed,” Scorpius orders, high in the loft above the VIP lounge, observing them very much like Braca did when Scorpius first brought Sikozu aboard.
Braca aligns himself and enters and by the twelfth moon of Hyneria Scorpius' gloved fist tightens around a pipe, warping the metal. Below, Sikozu keens like a Tierlian raptor. Not given permission to speak, Braca manages to remain silent, although he makes a spectacularly emotive face.
(Earlier, they had agreed to end their encounter before the Qatal mollusk did lasting damage. Obviously, this would not be a problem.)
Wound in a tangled web of sensation utterly familiar but foreign in intensity, Scorpius struggles to identify the origin of each feeling, distinct like singular voices yelling in a disparate mob. Is that strain entering or being entered? He should be able to tell; he's done both before... Just not with those anatomical structures. He is indeed intimately acquainted with those particular anatomical structures, having done the aforementioned entering and being entered with both of them on numerous glorious occasions, but never with the analogous anatomical structure of his own.
There's a difference between touching with a gloved hand or a mouth or a tongue and touching with the genitals. Which is to say, he could give a holographic rendering of Sikozu's vagina based on their assorted recreative pleasures, but he cannot for the life of him figure out which thread in that jumbled ball of sensation is Braca penetrating her—no matter how familiar the terrain.
Then he supposes it doesn't matter. This isn't a formal experiment and, even if it were, the world will likely end tomorrow now that Crichton is dead. Pity that.
Sikozu and Braca glare up at him, as if knowing his thoughts have strayed to the one person they've requested him not to think about during their sessions. But you know what they say about forbidden fruit...
Scorpius doesn't, but Crichton would have.
He clears his throat. “Go on.”
Sikozu looks at Braca heatedly through her eyelashes, smiling slyly. Scorpius feels her muscles contract, an internal almost burning pleasure, before sensing their grip around Braca, enveloping him tightly, making his eyelids flutter.
Scorpius notes, not for the first time in such a scenario, how pretty Braca looks. Sikozu is, of course, aesthetically pleasing as well, but “pretty” is not a word Scorpius would use to describe a young female disarming a Peacekeeper captain faster than a frag cannon.
Her mouth opens wide like she's laughing. Provoked, Braca closes the distance between their hip bones, slamming her into the table. She shrieks giddily and Braca smiles down at her and it's as if Scorpius is no longer there.
He can feel them as sure as they can feel him, but there's twenty motras and a cooling suit separating them. Skin on skin, pelvis to pelvis is more than Scorpius can hope for. Not that he does much hoping.
A scalp slick with sweat tickles Scorpius' fingertips before Sikozu grabs a handful of Braca's hair, wrenching his head backwards at the precise angle that makes his jaw muscle flex just the way Scorpius likes it. Above them, Scorpius' breath hitches in his throat.
Sikozu's fingers uncurl, her hands sliding down his warmed flesh to his muscled posterior. Scorpius can feel rather than see her nails break skin. An inaudible gasp escapes Braca's lips as he bends to rest his forehead on hers. She pulls away just enough to run a pointed tongue from the tip of his nose to his hairline.
Braca knees buckle—a feat Scorpius has only very rarely achieved. He pitches forward, almost falling onto Sikozu. Guided by the hands squeezing his backside, Braca quickens the pace of his thrusts, burying his face in Sikozu's hair.
Sikozu looks up at Scorpius, quirking her head in that queer way of hers as if she's studying him. (It's not a particular gaze he enjoys being under, given his history.) Her eyes are locked with his as he—she—they come, the unspeakable sensation bouncing between them through him like his body is an echo chamber.
And then the requisite, complicated pain. Scorpius watches with not a small bit of pleasure as they grimace at the sizzling insides met with not cool enough—never cool enough—air. Is this not what they were after? To know how he feels? His pyrrhic victory of an orgasm?
He's seen Braca take a pulse blast to the knee and walk back to his prowler, but this mixed pain sends the man swooning, collapsed onto the table, his ass in the air, leaving Sikozu to wiggle out from under him to deal with the necessary equipment. Scorpius is torn between watching her walk stark naked up to the loft, her breasts bouncing as she ascends the stairs... and watching Braca pant on the table, rocking his hips slightly.
He settles on Sikozu, knowing her to be a pleasure he will have to forsake very soon. But until she outlives her usefulness (an event, Scorpius realizes with pride and trepidation, that will never occur with Braca), Scorpius will enjoy the achievements of Kalish cybernetic design.
She takes the pain well (if not as enthusiastically as Braca), staggering just slightly as she enters the loft. She breathes deeply, reaching for the metal case at Scorpius' side. The lid comes off with a hiss and Sikozu pulls out a fresh rod with a trembling hand, almost dropping it from the shock of the cold on flesh seemingly on fire. The temptation to keep it there in her hand, to rub it along her body must be overwhelming. Scorpius would know. Her free hand shakily removes the spent rod, dropping it on the deck to shatter—the pain of the moment clearly overriding the need to prevent toxic chemicals from spilling on the floor. (Scorpius savors this lapse in logic more than he should.) At last, she slides the fresh rod into the carriage. It presses in with delicious relief. (Braca moans, out of sight.)
Sikozu visibly relaxes.
“I believe now you know why I require assistance in replacing cooling rods,” Scorpius says, dragging his thumb along her lower lip.
She flicks her tongue over his sharp, Scarran fingernail. “Now I know.”
Close like this, he could sever the main valve of her circulatory system with the flick of his thumb and throw her to the deck to be eaten alive by the spent and acidic coolant fluid...
But that would kill all three of them and throw Scorpius' back-up plan into chaos. It would be an interesting way to die, but not yet.
He smiles at her instead. “If you'll excuse me, I must dispose of the Qatal mollusk. Ensure that Braca removes his I Yensch bracelet before I do.”
“Of course, I will take care of him.”
Scorpius grits his teeth as he makes his way towards the commode. With the image of Sikozu fawning over Braca, licking his wounds circulating in his mind, Scorpius doesn't foresee any difficulty inducing vomiting.
In part, this experiment was intended to stem the tide of jealousy and mistrust within Braca. The results of the experiment are... unexpected.
A monen later, when Scorpius has the chance to recreate with Sikozu one last time, he leaves Braca behind on the battlefield. It's safer there.