Learning the life support systems

Pinga moved carefully down the ladder to Deck 9, though in truth, her heels made climbing easier—more leverage, more control. The lighting was dim, and the air carried a peculiar blend of perfume, moist soil, and the faint tang of ozone from nearby electronics.

She stepped off beside the three engineering control stations. Once, they might have looked like the ones on the bridge. Now, each bore the triplets’ unmistakable personal touches: colored decals, stickers, lucky charms, and a red thong with beads on it glued on top of one monitor.

Two seats were empty, but June lounged at her station, black heels propped on the desk, watching a movie on one of her three monitors. The others flickered with unintelligible graphs and numbers.

“Hey, you made it!” June bounced up and pulled the shorter woman into a warm hug, then instinctively smoothed her skintight minidress.

“We have to wait for April before we start—someone’s always gotta keep an eye on the readouts,” she explained, sliding back into her seat. “But! Tell me—what was it like, living on that tiny rock in the middle of nowhere?”

Pinga stiffened for a heartbeat. That “rock” had been her home—harsh, grim, and nearly fatal. Why did she feel defensive about it? She clamped down on the initial surge of anger. No point snapping at June. And honesty seemed the smarter path, if Seraglio was going to be home now.

“It was a fucking nightmare,” she said plainly. “I joined up because I had no other options. It wasn’t a prison, just… everything was built for mining. Everything else was a distraction. Shitty food, foul air, zero radiation shielding. People got hurt or died constantly. And if you couldn’t work? Shima’s goons shoved you out the airlock. ‘Oxygen is expensive, lives are cheap’—his motto.”

“Damn, girl. That’s more than I asked for,” June said, visibly rattled. Then, softly, “But I’m glad you’re here now. Safe.”

Pinga had more to share—so much more—but caught herself. June didn’t need the whole trauma dump. The silence that followed was heavy until April clambered down the ladder in hot pink minishorts and clear platform heels, her halter top jiggling with every step.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, reaching the deck.

“Nope! Pinga just finished her life story,” June chirped. “Perfect timing. Let’s start the life support rundown.”

Pinga gave a small nod. She wasn’t done processing her past—but it was obvious June was.

“Great!” April beamed, settling into her station. Charts and readings filled her screens. “We could use any console, but we’ve each got our favorites. Creatures of habit and all that.”

“Exactly,” June said, perking up now that they were in her wheelhouse. “Now, life support doesn’t need daily love—just check-ins and occasional maintenance. I usually go in once or twice a week unless the system flags something.”

She waved at her monitors.

“You probably know this, but just in case: if life support fails, we all die very unpleasant deaths.”

Pinga blinked. The statement might’ve landed harder if April hadn’t been giggling behind her monitor, trying to stifle it.

“Hey!” June snapped, shooting a glare. “I don’t interrupt your orientation speeches!”

April held up her hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, sorry! You’re just so intense about it.” She winked at Pinga. “So are we dying or not?”

June sighed. “No, we’re fine. The system’s robust. There are backups, tanks, alarms… but if things really go south and no one fixes it, we’re proper screwed.”

She turned back to Pinga with a grin. “So let’s not mess it up, yeah?”

Pinga nodded. No arguments there.

“Alright, time to suit up,” June said, stepping to an open locker with several glossy black bodysuits hanging neatly. “We don’t want to bring contaminants into the room. And you definitely don’t want anything from in there touching your skin—unless you’re into rashes and chemical burns.”

“And here’s a tip,” April added from her seat, hands clasped in mock prayer. “The Captain likes us soft and smooth, not peeling and infected.”

“Don’t scare the new girl,” June muttered, flipping her off. “We’re not playing with reactor coolant—just algae and high humidity.”

She turned back to Pinga. “Now strip. Shoes, underwear, everything.”

June peeled off her dress with practiced ease, her curves spilling free without self-consciousness. Pinga, slim and hairless, slid out of her dress in seconds. Nudity still felt strange, but less jarring than before.

The suits were tight. June fought hers stubbornly, muttering as her breasts refused to cooperate. Pinga rolled hers up with no trouble and helped the engineer seal hers up.

“Thanks,” June breathed. “Okay, face masks next.”

She secured one on Pinga, then her own, voice muffled behind it. “And hair net—oh, wait, I—shit. Sorry.”

Pinga shrugged. “It’s fine. You girls all have amazing hair. Easy to forget.”

“Thanks,” June said, her tone sheepish.

“You’re such a dummy,” April teased from behind her console.

“Love you too, sister dearest.”

“Right,” June went on. “Spray down before entry. Same thing when you leave.”

She grabbed a canister from the shelf and misted Pinga thoroughly. Pinga returned the favor. Sealed and sanitized, the two stepped into the life support room as April gave a sarcastic wave.

Inside, LED arrays bathed the room in red and blue light. Tanks and vertical planters packed the tight space, leaving only narrow walkways.

“These are algae tanks,” June explained, navigating gracefully despite the cramped quarters. “They breathe in CO₂ and make O₂. If you see something climbing out, or the color’s off? Big problem. The computer should flag it—but never rely only on that.”

She led Pinga to a corner where two thick pipes snaked into the wall.

“O₂ out, CO₂ in. These little boxes here?” She tapped a panel with two round windows under glass. “Mechanical indicators. Green is good. Red means low pressure, orange means too much. Little clockwork mechanism inside—super elegant.”

June’s passion was infectious, though Pinga was having trouble focusing—her eyes kept drifting to the way the suit clung to June’s ample form.

“Next, the racks. Metzli has a garden too, but hers grows things people want to eat. Mine’s more... nutrient slurry and survival paste.”

Pinga chuckled behind her mask.

“Macha works magic with it,” June said. “Seriously, be grateful.”

The bald girl nodded. The ship’s redhead chef had already impressed her.

“Same rules: look for dead plants, leaks, discoloration.”

They made a slow circuit. Sweat beaded under Pinga’s suit. The dense air, rich with CO₂, made her lightheaded.

“And here’s the poop tube,” June said cheerfully, pointing at a pipe with a filter chamber. “Auto scrubber keeps it clean. Computer manages the flow—kitchen waste and human waste both.”

“Wait. That goes in there?” Pinga asked, eyes wide.

June grinned. “Welcome to a closed system, baby.”

She turned them around. “C’mon. Let’s get out before you faint.”

Back outside, Pinga yanked off her mask and took a grateful breath.

“Yeah, not somewhere you hang out for fun,” June said, spraying her down again. “Can you give me a hand?”

The suit clung to June’s slick skin like shrink-wrap. Pinga tried to help, but even she needed backup. April came over, grinning.

“I should record this for the Captain,” June muttered. “Bet it’d rev his engines.”

All three girls laughed—Pinga with them, surprising herself.

“Alright, time to shower,” June declared, stuffing her clothes into a satchel and sliding back into her heels.

“Wait—walk up like this?” Pinga asked, wide-eyed.

“Of course,” June said. “There’s no shower here, and I’m not sweating through my dress.”

She started climbing the ladder, stark naked except for her heels.

April smacked Pinga’s behind. “Move it, new girl!”

Blushing furiously, Pinga scrambled after June, embarrassment flooding back in waves. Would she ever get used to life on Seraglio?

Behind them, April noticed Pinga’s clothes still lying on the floor. She snorted, reclaiming her sister’s seat and restarting the movie.

“Another learning experience,” she murmured, kicking her feet up. And sure enough, twenty minutes later, a furiously blushing Pinga, naked as the day she was born, returned to get dressed.