Chapter Four

Rhys opened his eyes groggily, coming aware of two things simultaneously. The first was that he was in the austere environment of a medical bay, and not the one on the Harvester. The harsh, white walls were already giving him a headache. The second was that he could not move an inch of his body. Restraints were holding down his head, chest, legs, and arms. No amount of struggling could loosen them even slightly.

Judging by the flecking paint on the ceiling above him, Rhys was in the medical bay in the Ceres spaceport, but he couldn’t imagine why he was there, or why he had been tied up. The last thing he could remember was stepping into the teleporter aboard the Olympus to come back down to the surface, but then his mind drew a blank. He thought he could remember someone screaming and yelling. But he wasn’t sure if that was real or not.

“Good morning-evening-night, Captain Griffiths. You are awake. I am glad of this,” a flat and emotionless voice said. Rhys tried to move his head to find the source, but found he could not. Then a small medical helper bot moved into his field of vision. Its dull, unreflective metal casing was covered in many scratches and dents. It was an old model. A MHB-2, if Rhys’ identification was correct.

The small screen on the MHB-2’s front casing flickered on to display a female face, smiling in a most unrealistic manner. Even the most recent models, the MHB-13s, such as those he had on the Harvester, still could not fully comprehend the subtleties of human emotion. At least the MHB-13s had a voice that could sometimes be confused for a human one, rather than the mechanical drone of the MHB-2s.

“I shall alert Doctor Sparks to your alertness. Remain in your current location and expect Doctor Sparks’ return,” the MHB-2 droned before slowly drifting away, leaving Rhys to stare at the blank white ceiling. The old models’ grasp on the English language were also notoriously poor.

Before long Rhys heard the sound of a door slide open. Some part of the door was clearly broken on the underside, for something dragged along the floor too, emitting a terrible screech that would have had Rhys clamping down his ears could he still move. Then there was the sound of footsteps, and the face of the Harvester’s doctor peered down at Rhys.

“The old piece of junk was right. Welcome back Captain,” Sparks said in a bright and cheery voice that not only annoyed Rhys greatly, but just didn’t sound sincere to his ears. “We’re sorry about these measures, but I’m afraid something went quite amiss when you used the teleporters yesterday morning. A monumental cock-up, would be an appropriate term, I believe.”

“What happened?” Rhys said irritably, finding he could still talk. Then he froze. His voice sounded different to his ears. Slurred, even. Like he had drunk far too much, or received an anaesthetic to his mouth. But more than that. It was pitched higher than it should be.

“The teleporter went haywire. The thing’s ancient, and something finally broke. I’m a doctor, not a scientist, so ask them for how it happened, but I’ve been told it lost your genetic data. They’re still looking, but, you know...” Sparks said, trailing off awkwardly. Rhys wasn’t yet sure exactly what that meant, but he knew it could not be good.

“What happened?” Rhys said more forcefully, still alarmed to hear his words slur into each other.

Sparks bent down to lift something up by the side of whatever Rhys was lying on. Before showing Rhys what it was, he continued speaking. “The teleporter had to use something. It used the information of the previous person to pass through it, and then gave that to you.”

Rhys took an involuntary deep breath. The mustelid...

Sparks lifted up the object by his side. It was a mirror. Rhys Griffiths did not look back out from that mirror. It was the mustelid, Twitch, who looked back at Rhys.

“Jesus Christ in Heaven,” Rhys whispered, watching the mustelid’s mouth move as he spoke. Those blue eyes that stared in revulsion could not be his. This could not be happening. There was no possible way this could be happening.

Sparks unshackled Rhys from his restraints. Slowly Rhys lifted a freed arm up to his face. It was not the arm of a human. It was the brown-furred arm of a mustelid. Each of his fingers had a small but sharp black claw on their tip. Rhys’ head felt fuzzy and dizzy, but he was damned if he was going to faint now.

“Captain Griffiths? Are you alright?” Sparks said as Rhys closed his eyes. Rhys could feel the touch of the doctor’s hand on his forehead.

“Can this be reversed?” Rhys asked, trying to ignore the feeling of nausea building in his stomach.

Sparks sighed as the touch left his forehead. Rhys could hear him folding his arms. His hearing had never been so sensitive as to determine anything like that before. It took Rhys a lot of effort to resist reaching up to touch the rounded ears of a mustelid he knew would be on the top of his head.

“I’m no scientist. I won’t even pretend to understand how these teleporters are meant to work. But... I don’t think your chances are too high,” Sparks said. Rhys’ eyes snapped open. The doctor’s face was a picture of honesty. He was not lying at all. He did not think Rhys would ever be human again.

Rhys slowly sat up, inspecting his new body with repulsion. He was still wearing his uniform, though it was many sizes too large for him now. His trenchcoat pressed down on his shoulders, its weight much greater than he was used to. He shrugged it off, but in doing so he noticed something else.

“Jesus fucking Christ, I have a tail.”

After that particular revelation Rhys felt like he was about to faint again. Determined not to, he gritted his teeth together, which was considerably harder than he was used to given the needle-like things he now had for teeth. He placed his head in his hands, only to yelp out loud as his claws dug into his skin. He swore again under his breath and looked up at Doctor Sparks, a pleading look in his eyes. Surely there had to be something he could do to help? But in his heart Rhys knew it was hopeless. If there was anything the doctor could do, he would have done it already.

“What the hell am I going to do?” Rhys asked in desperation, knowing there could be no answer. He choked back a sob. He had little dignity left. He wasn’t going to lose the last of it by crying in front of the doctor.

Sparks sighed and sat down on the bed next to Rhys. “I know this must be hard for you...”

“No shit.”

“...but I’m sure you of all people can get through it. I’ve... I’ve organised the mustelid who went through the teleporters before you to come down here when you’re ready. He needs to know what has happened. And I think you may need his help too.”

“No,” Rhys said bluntly. He had absolutely no desire to meet the mustelid who was responsible for all of this.

“He can help you.”

“I don’t want help,” Rhys snapped, raising his voice. A pitiful shadow of how powerful his voice used to be.

“I really think you should –”

“Get out,” Rhys said, pointing to the door in a manner he intended to be forceful, all the while trying to avoid putting his arm into his field of vision. That ruined a lot of the effect he was going for.

Sparks had the tenacity to ignore his captain’s orders. He stood resolutely by the door, but didn’t open it. “It’ll be best for you. You need to learn, and the mustelid is the logical option for you,” Sparks said, evidently not giving up.

“I don’t want to see him,” Rhys shrieked, his voice reaching a far higher register than he was used to hearing. “I don’t want to see any goddamned weasel, and I definitely don’t want to see you.”

“I think you’ll find you are one of those ‘goddamned weasels’ now, Rhys. The sooner you accept that the better. For your own sake.” At that Sparks did leave. Rhys heard the door lock the door behind him, confining Rhys to the medical bay. He had just the MHB-2 for company.

“Captain Rhys Griffiths. I am here to attain to your every need or want or desire or requirement or service – delete as necessary,” the bot droned, its display screen still portraying the woman with the absurd smile.

“Oh shut up,” Rhys snapped at it. The bot serenely drifted backwards, smiling all the way, and vanished into a service hatch. Rhys was left alone with his thoughts, and he hated them.

Filled with the desire to pace the room, Rhys slid off the side of the bed but completely misjudged the distance to the floor and ended up sprawled on all fours. The position was more natural than he would care to admit. The attempt to push himself onto his feet was a lot harder than he expected. His torso was a lot longer, and his legs much shorter than they had been, and his tail only served to unbalance him. He staggered back to the bed, holding his trousers to his waist as they threatened to slip to his ankles.

For several minutes he just sat there and stared at the back of his hands. It was almost like a dream – or a nightmare, Rhys corrected himself – because those hands and arms just could not be attached to his shoulders. But somehow they were, and his shoulders were covered in the same dark fur as his arms. As though needing confirmation, Rhys plucked the too-large white shirt away from his chest and looked down. The fur was cream there. And down his legs, the fur had returned to dark brown, right down to his feet that were in constant danger of slipping out of his shoes. He kicked those off irritably, not caring where they landed. His legs of his trousers bundled up on the floor, but poking out of the end he could see his claw-tipped toes. He turned away from those paws in disgust.

His frustrations were building, and his hand tapped restlessly on the table beside the bed, but he soon stopped that as the noise his claws were making on the cold metal began to annoy him further. Then he rubbed his hands down the side of his head and neck, but the feel of his fur passing between his fingers repulsed him.

Even the various medical tools on the table were annoying him now, and he hurled one of them across the room, watching it clatter into the far wall. The action had as little effect on his mood as it did the wall. He snarled. A genuine, animalistic snarl. That chased the rage away in an instant as he felt a cold shiver run down his body. The last thing he wanted was to lose the tenuous hold on what little shred of humanity he still had left.

He forced his mind to calm down and remind himself exactly who, and what, he was. He was Rhys Griffiths, Captain of the Harvester, one of the finest ships in Spaceway’s inventory. What was more, he was on course to become the youngest admiral in the history of Spaceways. Had been, at least. The insidious thought crept unwanted into his mind. Now it was there he had to admit it may hold a scrap of truth. Would the chancellor want to appoint someone who, to all physical appearances, was a mustelid? Or would he remember the human he had been.

Rhys could see his career crumbling before his very eyes. He couldn’t help it. He began crying. Everything he had ever worked so hard for was now completely and utterly futile. He knew the treatment he would have to face as well as any. No mustelid was even allowed on the bridge of a ship in flight, so what chance did he have of even keeping his position as captain, let alone promotion to admiral?

But no, he would not give in, he thought to himself as he tried to sniff back the tears that came to his eyes. Doctor Sparks had been right. If anyone could pull themselves through this, then he was that person. He would listen to the mustelid Twitch; he would learn how to use this body properly. And then he would go out there and prove any doubters wrong. He would not only hold his position as captain, but he would strive to achieve admiral, and why stop there? Why shouldn’t he have half an eye on chancellor in the future? Just a day ago he wouldn’t have doubted himself for it, so there was no reason why he should start doing so now.

He wiped dry his eyes, shuddering again at the touch of his fur.  He clenched his fists, ignoring the pain of his claws digging into the soft flesh of his palms. He vowed to himself that he would continue to excel in his role as captain. He would ignore those who would doubt him, for he knew that though he looked different now, he was the same, capable human in mind. And that was what mattered.

Struggling to stay on his feet, Rhys staggered towards the door like a drunkard, throwing his hands out to catch his regular falls. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was going to do, but he had to get out of the ward. He needed to occupy himself before he slipped back into depression. It was only once he finally reached the door did Rhys pause and think about what he was about to do. How would people react to his new form? Would they even accept his word that he was Rhys Griffiths?

His hand trembled above the control panel that would open the doors. No matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t get that mustelid paw to push his access code into the keypad. After a minute frozen in place he pushed his head against the cold metal door as tears came to his eyes once again. He couldn’t do it.

After slamming his fist against the door in frustration, he turned around and slid down to the floor, yelping in shock and pain as he sat on his tail. He took his ire out on the door again as he collapsed onto his front. Curled up with his head embraced in his arms, Rhys lay and whimpered for a while, his body unable to respond to anything. He didn’t even respond as the service hatched opened and the MHB serenely drifted across the room.

“Captain Griffiths, you are recommended-advised to return to the bed. This is for your safety or well-being,” the bot said, beeping a few times as it scanned Rhys’ back.

“Shut up,” Rhys muttered under his breath. He dragged himself up to his elbows as his eyes tracked the medical machine.

“Default apology not found. Understanding not found. Please repeat or say again.” The MHB’s screen smiled widely.

“I said shut up,” Rhys said, his voice rising as he glared at the small machine. His ears curled in on themselves as his rage grew.

“Subject not found. State what needs to be shut up.” The MHB bobbed in front of Rhys as the screen flickered and died, leaving a surface in which Rhys could just about make out his reflection.

Realising what was happening to his ears, Rhys grabbed them with his hands and tried to hold them straight. His claws pinched into the soft flesh, bringing more tears to his eyes. He advanced on the MHB to knock it away, but with his hands busy, his trousers slipped down his legs and wrapped around his ankles. Once again he tumbled to the floor and struck his chin against the tiled floor.

“Just go away,” Rhys sobbed to the MHB.

“Request accepted.”

Rhys didn’t even look up as the MHB floated back towards the service hatch. He could still hear it beeping for a few minutes longer, but he was thankful it was no longer speaking to him. Leaving his trousers behind, he crawled beneath the bed and curled up in the shadow and tried to suppress his sobs.

Over the next few hours Rhys altered between two frames of mind, slipping easily between wallowing in absolute depression and filled with stubborn hope, though he didn’t try and approach the door again.

When Doctor Sparks returned, Rhys was going through the former phase. Using the bed as support, he stood on wobbly feet and faced the doctor through watery eyes. Though his trousers still lay on the floor, Rhys’ shirt was long and loose enough that his modesty was protected.

“The MHB says you’re maniacally depressed. It recommends euthanasia,” Sparks said with a deadpan lack of humour. “If you at least get out of here and get to your quarters I might consider ignoring its advice.”

“I’m not going out there like this.”

“Why? No one will recognise you so long as you wear these,” Sparks said, throwing Rhys a set of blue mustelid overalls.

Rhys tried to find argument in this but simply couldn’t. Though he was loathe to admit it, no one would indeed recognise him. All they would see would be the doctor and a mustelid assistant. To the eyes and minds of his crew, that was all he was. It was a thought that filled him with a chilling fear. Even when his identity was revealed to them, they would likely think of him the same way. He was no longer fit for captain’s duty.

“Take me there,” Rhys said, biting back on the emotional sob that threatened to overwhelm him. He would cling to every last shred of prestige and status that came with being a captain for as long as he could. If that meant isolating himself in his quarters then so be it.

Rhys tried not to see the symbolism of replacing his captain’s uniform with the mustelid’s one. He slid his epaulettes off the shirt and slipped them into one of the many pockets on the overalls. He tried not to think about it all as a reminder of his changing status.

Despite knowing that no one would recognise him, or perhaps even because of it, Rhys was terrified as he allowed Sparks to lead him through his own ship. The first few crew members they passed barely gave him a second glance, including Lieutenant Cooper. It was a shocking blow to Rhys, not seeing a trace of recognition in the eyes of the man he had worked with for over five years.

Edgar Scott was the first to stop them. The ship’s navigator had also worked with Rhys since before he was promoted to captain. And like Cooper, had no trace of recognition as he looked down, briefly, at Rhys.

“Any sign of Captain Griffiths, doctor? I’ve not seen or heard from him all day,” Scott asked.

“I’m afraid he’s been taken quite ill. He’ll be quarantined in his quarters for quite some time,” was Sparks’ quick reply.

Scott went through the standard routine of concern for a superior officer, before moving on to his next point of curiosity. “And why the mustelid?”

“I find myself quite swamped at the moment. The mustelid will be assisting me in some simple tasks.”

Scott took the polite and veiled rebuff. “I’ll leave you both to it then. Please keep me updated on the captain’s condition.”

Rhys had remained silent. He was filled with fear about how Scott would react if he found out that his captain’s ‘condition’ was about four foot tall, furry, and standing under his nose. Probably very poorly.

Rhys dismissed the doctor as soon as they arrived at his quarters. The first thing Rhys did after seeing Sparks off was recalibrating his door’s settings, overriding the current set-up and altering the finger scanner and voice activation so he could continue to use it. He murmured a brief thanks to no one in particular that he was able to override the system with a complex password, rather than his fingerprints or voice as both of those had been irrevocably altered.

Then he locked the door so that no one, not even Sparks, could disturb him. Less than five minutes later the door beeped quietly as someone tried without success to gain entry. Rhys had tensed the moment he heard the noise and it was several minutes before his heart rate returned to normal.

“Fuck,” he swore, looking around his quarters in despair. This place was no better than the medical ward, but at least now he no longer had to worry about the blasted MHB. His eyes were attracted up to his wine cabinet. He felt like something much stronger than wine, but all the hard liquor was stored in the ship’s storage rooms in the maintenance levels. He was damned if he was going to ask Briggs for some now. Wine would have to do.

It wasn’t long until he ran into a problem. The glass-fronted wine cabinet was located high off the ground, small walk-in wardrobe. It had been above his head as a human, as a mustelid he couldn’t reach the doors no matter how high he reached. He had nothing to drag over and stand on. Unless he could find a way to grow an additional foot, he was denied the wine.

Rhys flung himself onto his bed in disgust. With nothing to do, he only had his thoughts for company. In his mind he played out every potential scenario he could think of. Though he tried to inject some form of hope into the fantasies, in every imagined scenario his timid shred of optimism was firmly crushed by his rampant pessimism. The best situation he could envisage was expulsion from the Spaceways. It was not an attractive proposition.

The hours he spent moping on the subject turned into a full day, which became two days, then three. He had no contact with anyone at all. Food was supplied through an automated supply hatch, though he never felt like eating. Once or twice more he tried to reach the wine but to no avail. No one tried to bypass the locked doors.

Rhys didn’t sleep. Every time he shut his eyes he was plagued by visions of his likely fate. He felt almost feverish, racked by a cold sweat. Though he tried to hold them back, tears came to his eyes and he silently cried to the darkness.

At one point in his sleepless vigil, Rhys tried to tear the fur from his body, but only took out a handful from his arm before realising the futility of it. Taking out his fur wouldn’t give him back an extra two foot in height, or remove the tail from the base of his spine, or change the structure of his bones. The body of the mustelid was his body now. The thought rankled in his mind, but it was the truth. He couldn’t continue to deny it.

After eight full days by the Terran clock, Rhys was finally disturbed from his lonely existence. The door beeped twice and inexplicably slid open. Rhys was momentarily too surprised by this to even worry about his identity being revealed.

A mustelid stood in the door. He was familiar to Rhys in a way that was both vague and uncertain, yet also as though he had known the creature all his life. The mustelid’s ears were folded completely back against his head as he very slowly passed through the threshold, so slowly the door beeped again in protest as it tried to close. It eventually gave up and secured itself in the open position.

“Who the fuck are you?” Rhys asked, finding his voice before the mustelid.

“Twitch. You know. Spanner. Up on ship. Before...” the mustelid said quietly with a half-gesture at Rhys. This was the mustelid who had, albeit unknowingly, made Rhys who he now was.

“How did you get in? Only I can unlock that door,” Rhys said, before coming to the obvious realisation. He grabbed Twitch’s arm and held their hands together. Though it was impossible to see the tiny genetic quirks, their furred hands were completely identical. “You’re me,” Rhys breathed.

Twitch smiled a shadow of his usual maniacal grin. “I think you’re me, actually,” he corrected.

Guiding the other mustelid, Rhys placed Twitch’s hand on the door’s control panel. It beeped once and a light flashed green. “Lock,” Rhys said. The door snapped shut and the locking mechanism audibly clicked into place.

“Cool,” Twitch said, clearly impressed. Rhys was less so and didn’t even hear the mustelid’s reaction. He was breathing quickly. That little demonstration more than anything else showed him that he was no longer himself. It was the mustelid’s hand and voice that controlled the door, not his. Rhys was just using them; a perfect copy of the original.

He slid to the floor, once more sitting on his tail and yelped in pain. He buried his head in his hands. Over the past few days he had come to not cringe from his own touch, but he had still not gotten used to the sharpness of his claws. Once more he drew blood as he ran his fingers through his fur, leaving three small, thin scratches behind.

“Captain Rhys, are you alright?” Twitch said, sitting down next to him and placing a cautious hand on his leg. The contact made Rhys jerk away. He started pacing the room restlessly. The mustelids weren’t meant to be emotional creatures and thus not understand the concept. That was what had been ingrained into his beliefs: that mustelids, whilst intelligent, didn’t feel as such, and so were perfect for their uses in serving humans.

“Nothing’s alright. Everything is wrong. I mean, just look at me,” Rhys said, his voice rising as he was struck by unexpected anger.

“I don’t see anything wrong with you. Just different to what you were, that’s all,” Twitch said. He stood up and tentatively approached Rhys again. His head bobbed up and down in a display Rhys interpreted as curiosity, another reaction he had never seen in a mustelid before.

“I don’t want different. I don’t want this,” Rhys said, plucking at the fur on his arm.

“It’s what you’re stuck with though. Anyway. It’s not a bad thing. You should be happy. Humans always seem so dull and boring,” Twitch said, sticking his tongue out in a display of disgust.

“What?” Rhys failed to follow. To the best of his knowledge it was the other way around. Lacking true emotions, it was meant to be the mustelids who led dull and eventless lives, not that they would be aware that was so of course. They knew no differently.

“Humans are so boring. They don’t know how to have fun. All they do is work, work, work all day long. Then they sleep for a bit. Then start working all over again,” Twitch said, ignoring Rhys’ attempts to shut him up.

Had Rhys been unable to see Twitch he would have sworn it was a human talking about mustelids, not the other way around. Mustelids didn’t have the capacity to know what the concepts of fun and boredom were, let alone commentate on humans’ ability to experience the emotions. Rhys still wasn’t able to formulate a coherent response, but the silence only lasted long enough for Twitch to take a deep breath before plunging on.

“Now mustelids, on the other hand, we know how to enjoy ourselves. You may think that we don’t have enough time, what with all the orders humans give us, but it’s actually not all that much work. Especially compared to you Spaceways captains. For a few hours a day we’re able to get together, that’s all the mustelids based together, and enjoy ourselves. For a few hours a day we can forget...” Twitch hesitated and his smile faltered. He sat down on the chair by Rhys’ desk.

“Forget?” Rhys prompted.

Twitch hugged his legs in close to his chest. His tail and ears drooped. “Forget that we’re slaves,” he said in a melancholy timbre that sounded plain wrong in a mustelid’s voice. It was nothing like the flat, subservient tone Rhys was used to hearing.

“You know that?” Rhys said, quite stunned by Twitch’s response. He had always been told that mustelids were unable to ascertain or care about their role in society. Twitch’s words completely overturned that assumption.

“We’re unpaid workers. Isn’t that pretty much the definition of slavery?” Twitch asked, his left ear perking up in the same manner a human might raise their eyebrow.

“But mustelids weren’t meant to be aware of that,” Rhys said, unsure why he felt the need to mention it, as it was obviously wrong.

“Hate to break it to you sugar, but we’re a lot more intelligent than humans give us credit for. We know, we think, we feel. And we resent. We don’t like humans all that much, though most of us don’t really blame them. They treat us how they’re taught. You did the same. Now though, if you were to change how you think about us then the mustelids here would welcome you as one of us, especially if I vouched for you. What do you think?” the mustelid asked with a cheeky wink.

“You assume I want to become one of you.” Rhys only argued for the sake of arguing.

“You were a human for how long and you think they’ll still accept you?” Twitch laughed.

“I can at least try. I have to believe my friends will still trust and believe in me.”

“Your friends, maybe. But what about the rest of TIE? There aren’t many humans around here who’ll readily admit to liking us. And as for the Vatican, well, they wish that we’d never existed in the first place, and they hold a lot of influence over the emperor.”

Though Twitch’s words did hit a vein of truth, Rhys refused to believe them completely. He wanted to put faith in his friends and allies to remain so, despite the changes he had gone through. Still, he thought that it might be beneficial to integrate himself with the local mustelids, to get to know them at least. The logical part of his mind, unbiased by emotion, saw the sense in what Twitch was suggesting. If he was rejected by Spaceways, then he would have no one to fall back to but the mustelids.

“Alright, you can take me to them if you feel it’s best,” Rhys said.

Twitch didn’t stand up or even move anywhere for that matter. “Not when you look like that I’m not,” he said, gesturing vaguely in Rhys’ direction. “Look, I didn’t want to say it because you’re, well, fragile at the moment, but you do look a bit of a disgrace. I just can’t let me be seen in public like that.”

Rhys stood with his mouth agape. His mind was finding it a little hard to process. The mustelid was vain about Rhys’ appearance. It was such an odd concept to come across, and yet, he also understood that in some bizarre way it made sense.

“It’s true. Your fur is an absolute mess. It looks all tangled and filthy, and you haven’t groomed it in far too long,” Twitch said, perhaps misinterpreting the exact reason for Rhys’ silence.

“Groomed it?” Rhys asked uncertainly. He looked down at his body and for the first time really permitted himself to inspect what he saw thoroughly. His fur was coarse and, as Twitch had observed, matted with many small knots.

“Is there a shower in this cubicle somewhere?” Twitch asked with an inquisitive glance. Rhys nodded. As an officer of rank he had a private bathroom. Most of the other crew members had to use the communal washrooms.

“Good,” Twitch continued. “Now get in it. You need a very good clean.”

It took Rhys a few seconds to realise that he had just heard a mustelid giving a direct order. It wasn’t until he had opened the door to his bathroom that he realised he was obeying it. It was another few seconds still before he noticed the mustelid following him in.

“What are you doing?”

Twitch shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. Besides, you need someone to show you what needs to be done and how to do it,” he said, giving Rhys a gentle nudge to push him onwards.

Rhys shook his head incredulously. Though the mustelid was technically correct, he had done nothing to allay Rhys’ concerns. However, Rhys could also tell that Twitch was not to be deterred. He settled for a compromise that was, whilst not exactly comfortable, at least bearable. He stripped down to his loose underwear, removing his borrowed mustelid’s uniform for the first time in his eight days of isolation. “These stay on,” he said firmly as he bundled up the uniform and threw it into the usual corner.

“Whatever you like, Captain Rhys. Now get in. Water as hot as you can,” Twitch said, an almost sadistic smile lighting up his eyes. Rhys yelped as Twitch placed his hands on him, but his protests quickly descended into a quiet purr that was barely audible over the cascading water that drenched them both. Twitch’s hands moved all over Rhys’ body in a firm and fast brushing motion. He started around Rhys’ head and neck before slowly working his way down. And down. And down.

“Away from there,” Rhys said, slapping Twitch’s wandering hands away. Again the mustelid shrugged but this time said nothing as he turned his attention to smoothing down Rhys’ tail.

A full bottle of shampoo and another grooming session later, Twitch told Rhys to turn off the water. Rhys felt at least twice the weight he did before, and it took considerable effort to raise his arm to shut off the shower. Despite the extra weight, he appeared considerably smaller as his fur was plastered close against his body. He felt a little light-headed from the attention Twitch’s hands had been giving him.

“Dry off and give yourself a good brush down. You’ll look almost lovely when you’re done,” Twitch said, passing Rhys a towel before taking a second one for himself and finally giving Rhys some privacy.

Rhys looked into the mirror that was now too high for him as he dried himself with the towel that was ridiculously large. In his unfamiliar pale blue eyes he could recognise the determination to succeed that had made him the youngest captain in Spaceways history. It was still there, waiting to drive him on to his next goal. That had been to strive to become the youngest ever admiral, but Rhys knew that he now had to alter that and be realistic. What he wouldn’t do though was lose hope in his situation again. He would make this work for him. He supposed he already was the first mustelid of any rank in Spaceways now. He vowed to keep that rank.

With his new goal in mind, Rhys could feel the hopelessness slowly draining out of him. He would not go as far as to say he was happy with his new situation – far from it, but he was resolved to at least make the best out of it. He flashed a nervous smile at his new reflection as he brushed down his fur before rejoining Twitch.

“I think I’m ready to go to the mustelids now,” he said, but Twitch shook his head.

“I said almost lovely. When was the last time you slept properly?”

“Before any of this happened,” Rhys admitted with a downwards gesture of his hands.

“It shows. Get some rest and if you’re well groomed in the morning I’ll take you to the others,” Twitch said, poking his tongue out slightly. He sounded like a mother trying to bribe a rebellious and disobedient child. There was also a rare edge of authority in the mustelid’s voice that told Rhys not to argue.

Rhys did not go to sleep the moment Twitch left. He lay on his chest on the bed – having still not found a position on his back or sitting down that was comfortable and didn’t hurt his tail. His hand idly stroked his arm. His fur was soft and silky beneath his fingers now, and it possessed a shine that had been decidedly lacking beforehand. In fact his whole body felt so much nicer now that he was thoroughly clean.

He still harboured fears about his crew’s reaction, but they were buried down that little bit deeper to a more manageable level. He wasn’t about to open the door and loudly announce himself, but he knew that there would soon come a moment when his new identity would be revealed. He would not shy away from that. Anyone who objected to serving under him would have to find a new ship to work on.

With that thought Rhys allowed his mind to disengage. His exhausted body needed no further coaxing and he was asleep within minutes.

He was human again in his dreams. He stood alone on some alien planet, staring at the sun, many times larger in the sky than Sol appeared on Terra. The sky was pitch black. He could see stars above him. Then he realised he planet on which he stood had no atmosphere to speak of. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. The stars fell from the sky, falling like great fireballs and smashing into the rocky planet, tearing chunks the size of entire islands from its surface. Rhys’ now bodiless perspective flew high above the planet, and he was powerless to resist as he watched the falling stars annihilate the planet until nothing was left but a few tiny fragments of rock.

Rhys woke briefly after the dream. He sat bolt upright and cried into the darkness. Then his exhaustion claimed him again and he lay back and sunk into sleep. He had no further dreams that he could remember, and had forgotten the first by the time morning arrived.