Subtle Redundancy

Last year's Geek Event led me to some of my favorite characters, and I'm pleased ChloeTzang took on this year's event. Chronologically, this story falls some hundreds or, perhaps, thousands of years before the events of the "Dry, No Lube" stories, and in turn some hundreds or, perhaps, thousands of years from now.

Thanks again to Chloe, and thanks to you for reading. Enjoy!

* * *

Rielle showed up for work as normal on the day after she lost her virginity. She shucked off her raincoat and mud boots as she always did, with those quick and unaffected movements of hers, the ones that had first drawn Dr Bexler's attention to her hands. Other than a nagging ache in her vagina (anterior, as expected), she felt totally normal. She gave Dr Bexler her usual sharp nod, the veiled smile constant on her thin lips, and went to get her lab suit. "Morning, Chonn."

"Rielle!" Bexler's smile was not veiled. It never was. "Got laid last night? How was it?"

Slight shoulders shrugged two ways: into the lab suit, and in reply to the surgeon. "Fine. No issues."

"No issues?" Bexler laughed loudly. "Fuck that. I need a full report, Rielle." She hiked herself off the bench, the perverse vicarious light in her eyes. Bexler loved hearing about other people having sex. It was most of the reason she'd become this kind of doctor, she always said. "It's supposed to feel amazing, by the way."

As she took her own seat, Rielle quizzed her legs and hips: minor soreness. Nothing too extreme. Maybe some mild chafing on the inner thighs, but then Roni had been vigorous. Very vigorous. Bexler watched closely as Rielle considered, thoughtfully fondling a chess knight she kept by her window. "Actually?" The veiled smile twitched, once, in genuine amusement, and the doctor clapped her hands together. "I enjoyed it."

"She enjoyed it," Bexler mocked. She rolled her eyes. "I've seen your pussy, Rielle. Roomy. No malformations, with a pronounced clitoris: of course you enjoyed it, dipshit." She surveyed the younger woman. "Do you feel any different, though?"

Rielle frowned, thinking about it. She was aware that some of the girls got all emotional after their first time: Leonor, just two years ahead of Rielle, had wept for a week. Well, an Earth week; Elon and Rina were still trying to figure out how long the months should be here. But did she feel any different? The question made her nervous. "How am I supposed to feel different?"

"You're supposed to feel vibrant. Alive. Fulfilled." Bexler leaned against the doorjamb. "Magical. Sex always leaves me giddy the next day."

"I'm never giddy."

"No, you're not," Bexler agreed. "But, you know. As giddy as you can get." She nodded. "You should feel like a woman."

Rielle shrugged. Already, this was bugging her; she had work to do. "I orgasmed, if that's what you mean. Twice, actually."

"Well, of course you did," Bexler snorted. "It was Roni. He knows exactly what he's doing." She looked carefully at Rielle, deciding she'd been wrong to expect any of the usual symptoms of post-coital derangement syndrome, that PCDS wasn't what happened to Rielle's kind of people. "Did he shoot it on your face? He likes to do that."

"No," Rielle snapped. "That wasn't the point. He came in my vag. Each time. Look, Chonn, can I get to work? This is already getting old, and I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Of course you didn't," Bexler cackled. She decided the girl was fine, and headed back to her bench with a sigh. "Any weakness, bleeding, leakage, or discomfort, just tell me. I'll square you away." She cocked her head critically, but the twinkle in her eye showed nothing but amusement. "You'll need a salve for your legs. Roni..." She chuckled, an earthy feminine chuckle. "He never changes."

"Thanks." Rielle was already booting up the microscope. "I mixed my own. Some of those yellow berries we found last year? The ones we ran through the spectro?" Her eyes slid sideways as she assessed the state of her inner thighs. She nodded. "The chem suggested they'd work for chafing, so I mixed them up with some gumpaste and went to it." She shrugged. "Seems to be working."

Bexler smiled. "Good girl," she winked. "You're a sharp one, but I've known that for years."

"If it works, you can ask Elon to put it into production for the other women." Rielle frowned. "Still," she reflected, fiddling with the coarse focus, "I think we'd all benefit from Roni just shaving his damn legs. It's the hair that did it." She shook her head. "He's a fucking animal."

"Most of us like that he's a fucking animal," Bexler said absently, getting back to her necropsy. Erno's dog had brought in one of the local marsupials overnight, and Bexler liked to find out how they'd died. Also, of course, she was looking for signs of lesmerase; early discovery of lesmeric organisms was key to the colony's importance, and of course she could write it up for the journals. "Did he seem... pleased by your performance?" she chortled.

Rielle frowned. It was in her nature to consider even innocuous questions seriously, and this was no exception. While her 'scope warmed up, she reflected on the night just past: the interesting flutter in her belly when he came up to say hello at dinner, then the force and focus of his stare into her eyes; Rielle had known Roni for years, and like any pioneer colonist she knew exactly how sex worked. She was surprised, if she was being honest, that he'd waited so long. She'd turned eighteen nearly nine local days before. "I meant to wish you a happy birthday, Rielle," he'd said softly, those big purple eyes warm and inviting, and that was when the flutter began. He knew what he was doing.

Roni had five babies in the settlement already by three different colonists, and he'd gotten Jitsuko up the stick a few months ago. Yes. He knew what he was doing.

"Thank you, Mr Pfeiffer," she replied calmly, sitting back in the plastic chair, her arms crossed beneath her little breasts. She stared up at him, waiting, always grave. It was the way she liked to present herself to this new world.

"Please!" He backed off with his hands upraised. "You're a citizen now. An adult. You're not a Domestic anymore." He winked, and despite herself she felt herself drifting into his orbit. "Call me Roni. Everyone else does."

"Then thank you, Roni." She wasn't about to play the naïve waif, despite the gnawing in her gut. Lower down, too. She knew what all that was, of course; she was an excellent apprentice surgeon. The gross anatomy, under Dr Bexler's firm hand, had been second nature to her since she was fourteen. She was aware that the slight dampness she felt sluicing along her labia minora was caused by the excitation of Skene's gland on her anterior vagina, aware that the fluid was only there because she wanted Roni to fuck her, and aware that he'd be able to tell from her pheromones.

But that didn't mean she had to make it easy for him. She arched an eyebrow. "Was there something else?"

Roni grinned slowly. Rielle was the fourth of the Domestics to turn eighteen and graduate into the full colonial pecking order, and most of them had a period of uncertainty, even shame before they felt like they were real citizens. Rielle did not appear to have that problem. "Well. As a matter of fact, there was." He smiled radiantly standing just slightly too close, and pulled out the next chair over. "May I sit?"

He did quite a bit more than that, of course, once the two of them retired to the Cottage. He'd seemed surprised she was still a virgin, even though it was what her contract stipulated, but she'd noted with some satisfaction that he got even harder as he came to that realization. She'd already noticed she enjoyed getting him erect, knowing his cock was for her. Him, the great and famous Ronit Pfeiffer, most popular human male on the entire planet. In the entire system, come to that.

And late in the night, as he'd lain asleep with his drool flowing over her left breast, she'd allowed herself a moment's joy when she realized she'd outlasted him. There was nothing special, she knew, about him choosing to fuck her first. He was the dominant sexual figure in the colony, and everyone knew it. So of course the other men had held off until he selected the time and place. But he'd cum before she had, that second time, and Rielle was already woman enough to know that he'd respect that.

Now she frowned, snapping her mind back to Dr Bexler's question. "I'd say he was definitely pleased." If there was smugness in Rielle's voice, neither woman was aware of it. She reflected, then nodded. "Yes. Definitely pleased. Twice."

"He's a very reliable ejaculator," Bexler agreed absently, moving some viscera aside. "Hey, come over for a few minutes when you get a chance. I want your opinion on this duodenum."

"Just a sec." Rielle Fourbee did not possess the kind of mind that would marvel at the irony of sorting through anonymous gut piles the morning after she'd given up her virginity.

But, if she had, she'd have simply shaken her head and gotten on with her work.

* * *

The call came through after lunch, a problem with one of the indents over at the Plant. "There's fucking blood everywhere," Vivian was saying over the vox box, her voice as severely controlled as it always was. "It's getting all over the drafting station. It's a real problem." She meant the station, not the injury; her mind worked that way.

Dr Bexler sighed, still naked from the shower underneath a fluffy towel. She and Rielle exchanged glances. "What part of the leg, Vivy?" It had been a very long night for her, with constant calls from the crèche over Rina's new boy. She'd ended up just crashing in the sickhouse. She yawned into the mic. "Top or bottom?"

"Top? Like, halfway above the knee." They heard distant shouts in the background. "It's a lot of blood. They're dragging him out now." She hadn't been able to give the man's name. Vivian was not a woman who noticed the indents. "Oh, good. The robots are already cleaning." She sounded relieved.

"Shit." She glanced up at her apprentice. "Rielle will come out and meet you on the way. She can stabilize it and get him here to the sickhouse, hmm?" The vox box clicked, Vivian already gone. Rielle cleared her throat.

"I'll take the lead once I get him here, too," she said flatly, stepping into her boots. "You're exhausted. You can assist."

"Really? Gee. Thanks." The sarcasm was heavy. "Given that I'm a fucking doctor and you're a fucking apprentice." She yawned. "Still. If it's just a simple femoral tear, you can do it in your sleep." She'd had Rielle suturing arteries before the girl turned fifteen. "If I'm not around when you get back, it's because I'm taking a dump."

"Is that the clinical term?" Rielle's smile twitched a bit broader; it was an old joke with them, Bexler's constant testing when she'd been a Domestic, continual review of the medical vocab. "See ya."

"Don't forget the saw," Bexler added, loosening the towel as she headed for the latrine. "Just in case you have to cut it off."

"Of course, Doctor Bexler," Rielle shot back, matching the sarcasm. "This isn't my first day, Chonn." She threw the rucksack over her shoulder and darted out into the rain, her grey eyes already searching past the Dorm, scanning for the group from the Plant; they'd be coming straight through the trees. She hoped they'd have had the wit to do the tourniquet themselves, otherwise the fucking indent would probably already be dead. Which wasn't necessarily fatal, but still. There. They had him on a pallet, Roni and an indent named Juukko, steering carefully. Rielle leapt nimbly among the puddles, lifting her voice. "Who is it?"

"It's Morrisen!" Juukko glanced down. "I think he's dead, just about."

"Good thing you're a fucking indent and not a medical practitioner." She liked Juukko, but the indents had to be put in their place. Even if they were almost at the end of their term, like Juukko. "Hi, Roni." She was detaching herself, feeling the calmness arrive, preparing to be surprised by whatever she'd encounter.

"Rielle." Juukko was watching the two of them curiously as they all met at the edge of the trees. It was obviously common knowledge that they'd fucked, and the indents tended to be curious about sex among the citizens. "The type three printer head. It just about took his leg off."

"Yes, I can see that." She knelt beside the pallet, doing a quick assessment, swiping with her hand at the blood. "Stand over me, Juuk," she ordered. "Keep the rain off."

"Sure, Ms Fourbee." The woman stepped close and leaned far over the pallet. She looked straight down past Rielle's shoulder. "See? I think he's dead."

"Nah." This was no problem; Morrisen had only lost about three and a half liters, judging from his pallor. That was worrying, but not as bad as it could be. Just a few months ago Janicka had lost over four, with that arm thing. She thumbed his eyelid open and studied the pupil. "He's okay. Chirk!" she shouted into the man's ear, watching for flexion in the iris. "Hey! Chirk! You alive?" She'd treated him for... what was it? Two years ago?

The eye twitched, and Rielle nodded. "Cool." She went back to the leg, staring hard, ignoring the smell. "Roni?" she said without looking up. "Can you do me a favor?"

"What's up?"

"Run back to the Plant. Mikhail's in charge over there until Rina recovers, right?"

"Mm-hmm."

She pushed her thumb into the wound. The skin tear was pretty significant, which was good. Access wouldn't be a problem. "Ah. There we are," she muttered, the artery looking like a used condom alongside the splintered femur. Probably about a two-centimeter laceration. Medial, so she'd need to keep his legs open. She plucked at the vessel, frowning. "Yeah. Run back to the plant. Tell Mikhail to stop whatever he's doing and give his people a refresher on tourniquets. Now." She glanced up. "By order of Dr Bexler; she'd kick y'all's asses if she saw this shit." She flicked a dismissive finger disgustedly at the tourniquet. "Juukko and I will take him from here. Tell Mikhail this'll be five days' lost time." She swept away a bit more blood and saw that the laceration had nicked the adductor in addition to the sartorius. "Oh. My bad. Six days. He's not slated for the hatchery inspection next month, is he? Over at Plastic?"

"How would I know?" Roni flashed that dazzling smile of his. "I'll tell Mikka. Later, Rielle."

"Mm-hmm." She was already on to the next problem; he was out of her awareness now. She nodded. "All right, Juuk. Let's move him." Ah! That's it. She'd treated Chirk for a cyst on his coccyx. Poor guy had that weirdly asymmetric anus, she recalled. The two women got the pallet moving again, its batteries at low charge; she'd need to have Bexler speak to Mikhail about that, too. The first-aid situation at the Plant apparently sucked. Which was properly Rina's problem. She pondered. "You're short, Juuk, right?"

"Two more months," Juukko replied proudly. Seven years; a lot of people didn't make it to the end of a colonial indenture. She'd been on a permanent colony before they'd brought her here. She nodded. "I'll be a citizen again, just like your happy ass. Still working in the Plant, though. But for money."

"Fuck yeah." Rielle was still getting used to getting paid, to the thought of numbers quietly accumulating in her account. "You can make anything you want up there, too."

Juuko laughed. "Sex toys, even."

Rielle chuckled. "Any other plans?" They rounded the corner near the sickhouse door. "You're going to stay around here?" The terraformers had left over twenty thousand square klicks of backcountry all ready to be settled, and then there was always the hinterlands beyond that for any settler who felt like rolling their own. She worked the doorcode.

"Who knows? First I'll have you rip out my meter, that's for fucking sure." They both laughed. "Time to have a baby or two. Which means fucking. Not that you don't know what that's like too, Ms Fourbee. I remember when I turned eighteen." She sighed. "First time's a doozy." They set the pallet down on the track, the batteries automatically beginning to recharge.

"That's what they say." Rielle nodded. "You can head back now, Juuk." She stepped out of the boots, wiggling her toes. "He'll be fine." Chirk Morrisen was sheet-pale on the pallet. She ran her fingers along his neck. She had a pulsemeter in her rucksack, but she hadn't bothered yet; it was a rare pulse that Rielle Fourbee couldn't find. She walked slowly alongside the pallet while the track moved it through the vestibule, toward the exam room, counting in her head. Faintly she heard Bexler calling from the latrine.

"Need me?"

"No." Bradycardic at 40-42 beats per minute; that was bad, but all things considered not awful; the pacemaker would fix that. Of greater worry was Morrisen's blood volume, but there was a machine for that too. "I'm not even going to bother with the surgery suite. I can do him in the exam room." If she had to guess, he was probably only 56 or 57 systolic, more like 25 diastolic; she was good at guessing these things, but it didn't matter. The diagnosis was brutally clear, the treatment options few; the numbers didn't matter. Just the procedures, and whether she could do them swiftly. If she couldn't, the numbers wouldn't matter in the long run anyway. "One thing's for sure," she reflected, talking to the latrine curtain, "the garden should be fucking great soon. He almost bled out near the flowerbeds." Iron. There wasn't enough of it in the local soil.

"Good." The blood was spattering weakly onto the floor beneath the pallet. "It'll be nice to have more roses around." Rielle was strapping Morrisen down. He was far from conscious, but pain stimuli had a way of making patients twitch sometimes. The disinfector buzzed overhead, punctuated by the wireless pacemaker.

"Mm-hmm." The Collins needle on her fingertip, Rielle shrugged her hair back and waded in. Several slippery minutes passed before she realized she'd forgotten something. "Ah. Yes, Chonn. I do need your help."

"In a sec. I'm wiping." Rielle nodded to herself, testing the repair, the Collins now off to the side. The composting stir shook the wall as Bexler finished up, and then the curtain was sliding open. "What's the prognosis?"

"Oh, he'll be fine." The repair, as expected, was perfect. "Want to check?"

"Nah. I taught you myself." Bexler was doing up her trousers, her head cocked at the indent on the table. "Needs blood. Is he dead yet?"

"Almost. Not a worry." Rielle wiped at her nose, leaving some of her patient's blood behind. "Can you to me a favor? I forgot to look up his skin factor for the clotter. Can you check for me?"

"Sure." Bexler squinted. "He's an indent? Works in the plant?"

"Chirk Morrisen." Rielle reached for the bone stimulant. Poor guy. He'd already lost a finger in that damn Plant, a few months after they'd landed. Must be clumsy. The stimulant went aboard, his whole body shuddering, and Rielle started undressing him as the bone started to heal. The tunic and pants were stiff with smeared grease under the gore, his skin whiter than his protruding, jagged femur. He was well-formed, about twenty-four? Maybe a bit older. Good, strong muscles, old surgical scar three centimeters dorsal to the epigastric vein's emergence. Normal postadolescent hair growth.

"Factor is eleven-point-four." Bexler was back in the records closet. "Need anything else?"

"No thanks." She tapped the factor into the blood dump. "I'm just waiting for profusion now."

"Goddamn stone-age medicine," Bexler sighed, gliding back into the room. She glanced over at her apprentice. "You'll never know what it's like to treat patients in a real surgical suite." She eyed the needle. "You're so good with a Collins, Rielle. I can't imagine what you'd be able to do with a proper set of tools." She smacked the younger woman's butt. "Nice work."