Cohost writing prompt: @make-up-a-starship-pilot — Starship pilot who would be more at home at a gala than at the helm
"But Father, I'm the third child," Alechs says pitifully. "The first for an heir, the second for the ships, the third for spare. The season begins next month. I've got new dancing shoes, and I don't know anything about space at all."
"Your brother's elopement with his own medical clone is inconvenient for us all," Father says stoically, jaw clenched. "It's caused considerable talk at court. Your mother is — delicate."
Last time Mother was delicate, she'd half eviscerated Jevos, the head butler, with a letter-opener. Of course, that kind of thing was sadly common among veterans of the Martian campaign; the early combat drill memetics turned out very deep-rooted. Why, if she weren't a commissioned officer, Mother's tendencies might very well have seen her committed to Veteran Containment with her motor nerves snipped, even before her discharge; nasty business, best left unremarked.
"In any case, you'll have a bridge of fine merchant-naval officers to let you know what you're about, and all the bridge steering is simply telegraphed down to the engine-room to be executed on the ship's machineries by the engine-crew. Just don't wreck her and you can't go too far wrong."
"I'd already half arranged to be scandalously caught naked in a fountain with the Harringtons' youngest daughter at a Christmas party," Alechs says despondently.
"It's only March," Father says, as if that has anything to do with it. "...You'll simply have to rearrange your plans to be scandalously caught while wearing officer's whites."
"But it won't go with her complexion," Alechs whines. "And then she'll be cross with me for throwing her over to drag some other poor young thing through the gutter."
"Alechs, please," Father says firmly. "You're a sailor now. You'll simply have to cultivate a more callous attitude and a girl in every port."
"Wretched," Alechs says. "Horrid. Is there even dancing on starships?"