The Endless Dance Card : 1 / 7

A Kingdom Ship Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

I stood staring at my body as I lay there, unconscious in my sleep pod. I've been doing this a lot lately, but I can't stop myself. It's not that I admire myself, it's just that it's so freaking weird to be able to act like I’m awake: to walk around, talk with the rest of the crew, and carry out my ship duties, all the while knowing that I'm just a kind of hologram, and that the real me lies in stasis in a sleep pod.

It took me about a year to arrive at feeling this sense of dissociation, of unreality. Well, subjectively, it seems like a year, but objectively, by the calendar, it's been twenty years.

If my math seems puzzling, you have to remember that each Kingdom ship has twenty full crews. In the olden days, each crew would take turns being awake and working while the other crews slept. This meant that each person would spend three months out of every five years awake.

My ship -- the ship I’m on -- is a third generation Kingdom ship, and a third-generation ship doesn't need the crew to be physically awake any more. Each crew in turn would be connected to the virtualizer so we could function as immaterial avatars. We see the real, physical ship. We can "touch" it and "feel" it. We do everything the old crews did, but we're only mentally awake. Physically, we're still inert. We're all still in stasis.

As you'll see, an avatar can't do everything that a physical person can do, but for the most part it works just fine, at least from the ship’s point of view. The maintenance, the monitoring, all the things that humans need to do, we can do. For the most part. And if there’s something that can’t be done through the virtualizer interface, somebody gets woken up so they can physically complete the task.

However, as great as that is for the ship, and as great as it is for the mission, and as great as it is for my personal longevity, I have to say that being a ghost has begun to seriously bother me. It’s weird. It’s unnatural. Everything I “feel,” I don’t really feel. It’s all manufactured for me by the ship, and pumped into my sleeping brain. It’s not MY feelings and sensations. They’re all artificial, imported, and even though I know that my nervous system works the same way, and even though I know that what I see and do is objectively real, subjectively it’s all fake and false on a very fundamental level. The only thing that’s really real for me is my body, and that’s why I slip away and look at it whenever I have a chance.

It’s a very zen, empty-mind experience when I stand there. I do nothing but look at myself, my real self, there in the box. I never touch my sleep pod, because I know that my tactile sense isn’t real. (Please don’t point out that my visual sense isn’t real, either. That’s one step too far.) I always feel better after spending time with myself -- at least, I feel better for a while.

Today, as I stood there, my mind empty, gazing at myself, an alert window popped up in my field of vision, in the upper right corner. It read: REPORT TO LT DONALDSON'S OFFICE. It was followed by a nav code with his office's location. I couldn't imagine what he'd want with me, but being called to any office makes me a little anxious anyway.

It took a full fifteen minutes to trudge up there. I took the stairs to make the trip longer. The message didn't convey any sense of urgency, so I didn’t hurry. If there was one thing we had a lot of on the Kingdom ship, it was time.

Lieutenant Donaldson was sitting behind his desk. He gestured me toward a chair. I sat, feeling the oddity once again: the entire act of “sitting” was a huge technological fiction. It was a mass of programming and sensor readings that made us able to pretend that we were both occupying chairs in an office, while in objective reality we were both deeply asleep.

Donaldson gave a brief friendly smile and said, “First of all, Fergus, you’re not in any trouble whatsoever. I just called you here to give you a heads-up about something. We're going to revoke access to the sleeper pod bays. For everybody. Starting at zero-one-hundred tomorrow, nobody’s going to be allowed near the pods. This is for both avatar and physical modes. There’s going to be a general announcement later today."

Before I could ask why? Lt Donaldson went on. "There are two reasons for the change: one is for reasons of privacy--"

"Privacy?" I echoed, not understanding.

"Yes, one of the women caught a group of men--" he paused, as if searching for a phrase. "Well, let's say they were leering at her sleeping body. You can use your imagination to fill in what I really mean; I’m not going into details. It’s enough to say that those men are being disciplined and that we don't want that or anything like that happening again." For obvious reasons, we’re all naked in the sleep pods, and the cover-door is transparent.

"But I haven't--" I began to protest. Donaldson cut me off with a hand gesture.

"I know," he said. "The first reason has nothing to do with you whatsoever. The second reason is the one that concerns you. We found that a number of people have been visiting their own sleep pods. After a great deal of discussion and study, the psychs have decided that it isn't a healthy thing to do. In fact, they've labeled it morbid behavior."

I opened my mouth to speak, but didn't know what to say. Donaldson glanced at his tablet for a moment, then went on.

"They say that this activity is very similar to visiting a graveyard, and they're believe that it leads to dissociation and eventually to depression. They're afraid it could even lead to violent activity."

"But I never!" I exclaimed. "I-- I just--"

"Look," Donaldson said in a gentle tone, "if they thought there was a problem with YOU specifically, it wouldn’t be me who was talking to you: it would be one of the psychs. So this is not a warning or anything negative. It’s just a casual heads-up, so you’re not taken by surprise. And, FYI, you’re not the only person I’m speaking to about this today. All of you have one thing in common: You spent a lot of time in front of your own sleep pod.” He looked at his tablet. “Did you realize that you've stood in front of that thing for an hour at a time? An entire hour? Just staring, not moving?"

I didn't know what to say.

"But as I said, this isn't about you, and I really mean that. We actually have a number of cases of acute depression that seem to have started with frequent -- and you might even say, obsessive -- sleep-pod visits. The psychs aren’t saying anything about cause and effect, but the facts are what they are. It’s serious enough that the psychs are actually discussing whether we should go back to the old-fashioned way, and have each crew physically wake up for its duty cycle. Honestly, I don't think that will happen, but it shows how seriously they're taking this."

We chatted a bit longer, but that’s essentially what was said. Then, so we didn’t end on a weird note, Donaldson talked about some recent ship events, asked whether I knew some of the (harmless) ship gossip, and then I was dismissed.

As soon as I left Donaldson's office, I got another alert: REPORT TO MED BAY. This was a day for alerts! It was followed by the nav code for a bay on the other side of the ship. I notified my duty officer and started walking. I hoped this wasn't related to my sleep-pod visits.

When I arrived, I was surprised to find Dr Harcourt in person. I mean, she wasn't an avatar, she was her true, physical self. She had me take a seat. "I’m afraid I have some potentially bad news for you, if it’s true -- which I strongly doubt. The sensors in your sleep pod have detected a very rare disease in its very early stages. Unfortunately, because this illness is so very rare, we're going to need to wake you up to run some tests. Frankly, I’m not convinced that you have this disease at all, so first of all, we need to verify the diagnosis. Then, if you do have it, I’m confident that you'll heal successfully, but I'm going to have to manually administer the treatments, and you'll need to physically come here each day for an entire month."

"What is it?" I asked. "Is it something that I would have heard of?"

"Yes, maybe," she replied. "If you know any history, you might have heard of it. The diagnostic computer says that you have what they used to call pancreatic cancer. But again, in its very, very early stages."

"Cancer?" I echoed. "Wasn't that eradicated in the 19th century? Like the plague?"

"No," she replied with a slight smile. "The plague was way back in the 14th century. Cancer was eliminated in the early 21st century, although sporadic cases do appear, in the same way that measles is sometimes seen."

"Measles?" I repeated. "What on earth is that?"

"It doesn't matter," she replied. "It’s another ancient disease. You can read about it if you're really interested. What matters now is that we’re going to wake you up and get you in here right now. I'm going to run the tests immediately, and if they’re positive, we’ll start the treatments right after. Okay? I’m going to kick off your wake-up protocol now, so don't be surprised when everything fades to black. I'll meet you at your sleep pod in a half hour."

She punched a code into her pad to disconnect me from the virtualizer. Just like the doctor said, the room and everything around me quickly faded to black.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up. Really waking up, stretching my physical arms and legs, wiping the gel from my face. Dr Harcourt handed me a face towel, and as she did, I caught her glancing at my penis. I pretended to not notice.

She told me, “When I was looking at you, before I woke you up, do you know what I was thinking? IN CASE OF FIRE, BREAK GLASS.” She chuckled to herself. I gave a polite chuckle, even though I didn’t get the joke.

I stepped into the nearest shower and rinsed the gel from every part of me. Dr Harcourt's face kept a neutral expression, but she never looked away. Then, I saw her drop the gel-covered face towel into a recycle chute, and I realized that she hadn’t brought me any clothes to wear, except for a pair of disposable slippers. At that thought, I got a large and immediate erection that bobbed and swayed in front of me as I cleaned myself. I’m no prude, but I did feel a little -- well, not embarrassed exactly, but very exposed. I guess the word is vulnerable, but it wasn’t as though I was in any danger from the doctor. Honestly, she was young and very attractive. I liked her. After the jets of drying air, I opened the shower door, and the doctor bent down to set the slippers near my feet. Seeing her head, especially her brown ponytail, so close to my cock, made me draw a quick deep breath. I slipped my feet into the slippers and the doctor gestured for me to walk down the hall ahead of her.

She followed two steps behind me, and I knew she was studying my butt. I had never been in this situation before, of -- for one thing -- being naked in front of a clothed woman, and for another, to have a woman so unabashedly looking me over. When we came to an intersection, she went so far as to put her hand on my ass to indicate that we were turning left.

When we finally arrived in the med bay, she closed the door and activated the privacy protocol. Then she smiled at me and gestured toward my cock with her chin. “First let’s take care of that swelling, shall we?” and she quickly undressed.

The sex was explosive. I could see that we both badly needed the release. I’m sure the whole business of her watching me in the shower and walking down the hall naked added to my pent-up need. While I was still panting from the first orgasm, she leaned back and spread her legs in a high V, and boom! I was ready to go again. After three incredible, unexpected orgasms, Dr Harcourt cleaned up and dressed herself, and gestured to a sink where I washed myself off.

Then I sat on a table and the doctor ran an intense and very complete battery of tests. She explained that for various reasons, none of them could be run inside a sleep pod. As she worked, she often glanced at my penis, which was stimulating and a little disconcerting at the same time. I’d never been treated like a sex object before, and realized that women are often put in this same position. I don’t mean being naked, exactly. I mean this feeling of having less power and control.

Once Dr Harcourt completed the tests, she sat at her desk and worked at her computer. She had me sit in a chair next to the desk. I was still stark naked, and at one point I crossed my hands over my crotch. Without turning her head, she said, “Keep your hands on your thighs,” and I moved them. Later, without thinking, I crossed my legs. She reached over and pulled on my upper knee. “Keep both feet flat on the floor,” she instructed, “and keep this distance between your knees.” She placed her clenched fist horizontally between my knees to show what she meant. Then she returned to her typing, as though her instructions were perfectly natural and normal. After what seemed like a very long time, she stopped, smiled, and looked at me.

“You’re not cold, are you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Good. Just a few more minutes, and I’ll have the results.” She stood up and rubbed her hands. “Hey, you know, before I called you this morning I did a lot of reading on cancer and other aspects of early 21st-century medicine, and I found a surprising number of references to one particular test that I’d like to try. Are you up for it?”

I shrugged, a little helplessly. Honestly, I was having a hard time resisting anything she told me to do.

She had me climb back on the table, but this time she had me lie on my side with my knees bent. Then she put on a thin glove and picked up a bottle of lubricant.

“Um, what kind of test is this?” I asked, a little nervously.

“Don’t worry!” she said with a laugh. “This was a very common test, way back when. It was often mentioned in comedy routines of that era, so I’m sure that it doesn’t hurt at all. In fact, from what I read, some men quite enjoyed it.”

“What about the women?” I asked, and my question made her laugh. “Oh, they never did this test on women. There wouldn’t be any point.” I heard the bottle of lubricant gurgle behind me, and she spread some of the cold gel around my anus. “Okay, here we go!” she said, “Take a deep breath and slowly let it out.” When I began to exhale, she thrust her finger deep inside my butt.

“Holy Smoking Jesus!” I shouted in surprise, though I don’t know why. It’s not something I ever say. But then again, no doctor had ever shoved their finger up my ass. She was working her finger in and out of me as though she was searching for something, and I found myself with a big, hard erection once again.

When she finally pulled her finger out, I asked, “What the hell was that?” She actually laughed. “It’s a prostate exam,” she said. “The prostate is a little gland that surrounds your urethra, and it’s accessible through your anus. Women don’t have one, which is why this exam was only done on men.”

“Hmmph,” I said. “So how is my prostate?”

“It’s fine,” she replied. “But I knew that already from your sleep pod readings.”

“Then why did you do that?”

She smiled and pulled the glove off with a snap! “After some of the videos I’ve seen, I thought it might be fun to try.”

“Fun for whom?”

“For both of us,” she replied, and gave me two pats on the butt. Then she gave my butt a squeeze and said, “You’re a really good patient, you know that?”

Just then her terminal gave a soft ding! “Results are back,” she announced in a sing-song voice, and went over to look at them. I got up slowly and found some soft paper so I could wipe my butt clean. “Hmm,” she said after a few moments. “Just as I thought: you’re fine. You don’t have cancer at all. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. You’re a perfect physical specimen, in perfect health. Congratulations!”

After all my anxiety about the illness, after the unexpected sex, and after experiencing Dr Harcourt’s -- well, her dominance -- it was kind of anticlimactic to hear that I didn’t have cancer. I knew it was great news, but didn’t feel relieved; I felt like I’d been hit by a train several times in the space of a couple of hours. And, in spite of the fact that Dr Harcourt and I had had sex together several times already, she was still an almost complete stranger to me.

“So what happens next?” I asked. “Do I just go back to sleep?”

“Oh, no! Certainly not!” she exclaimed, resting her hand on my naked thigh. “We need to figure out what’s wrong with your sleep pod. That’s one of your skills, isn’t it?”

“Um, yeah,” I admitted. “Among other things, yeah, I’m a sleep-pod tech. I can do that.”

“Excellent!” she said with a big smile. “Now, let’s settle one thing, so we can keep things simple: since we’re both going to be awake for a while, there’s no reason for either of us to sleep alone.”

“No, yes -- I mean yes, that would be great. I’d like that.”

“My quarters are right upstairs,” she told me. “Do you feel like having something to eat?”

Right on cue, my stomach gave a loud rumbling noise. She laughed and nodded. “Okay, then, follow me.”

She walked to a door in the side wall, which opened to her touch. I followed her up a narrow, winding staircase, and watched her lovely ass moving right in front of my face. When we were halfway up, the door below hissed shut, and I realized with a slight alarm, that the door wouldn’t open for me, unless… “Hey, doctor -- can you program the door to open for me, too?” She stopped on the stairs and looked down at me. “No, of course not. That door is for medical personnel only. If you need it opened, you can ask, and I may open it for you.” Then she turned and continued to climb.

Her quarters consisted of two rooms that were pretty large by ship standards, and her bed, to my surprise, was queen-sized. As I looked around, I realized once again that she was fully dressed while I was still completely naked. Add to that, we were going to be sleeping together, but I was still calling her “doctor.” So I asked, “What is your first name?”

“My first name?” she repeated, as if surprised by the question. “You don’t need to know that. You will call me ‘Doctor’ or ‘Dr Harcourt’.” Then, as if the topic was settled and closed, she turned away and walked into the next room. I could tell from the beep tones that she was using her food-fab.

When she returned, I saw that she had left her pants and underwear in the other room, but she still wore her top. Smiling, she placed a pillow on a counter and bent over it, so that her naked derriere was pointing at me. “Come here,” she said, looking back at me over her shoulder. “Take me this way.” And she reached back with both hands to spread her cheeks.

I couldn’t resist. I walked over and slid inside her. After a few minutes, I heard the food-fab beeping in the next room. “Keep going,” Dr Harcourt grunted, reaching back to pat my thigh. Soon after, we both exploded with soft moans and gasps. As our orgasm subsided, she reached back and pushed my hips away from hers, then straightened up and went to fetch the food. I could hear that she was cleaning and dressing herself, and then I heard her put the food on the table. As I was cleaning myself, I heard a sound that hadn’t heard in a very long time: a wine cork popping. “Wash up and come in here,” she called to me. “Dinner’s ready.”

She had ordered the same dinner for each of us: a steak, a huge baked potato, and a pile of green beans. She poured two glasses of red wine from an actual bottle into real wine glasses. “Where did you get these?” I asked, meaning the wine and glasses.

She smiled slyly and told me not to ask too many questions.

The food was excellent, and the wine was smooth and delicious. At one point in the dinner I picked up my napkin and wiped my mouth. Then, out of habit, I spread the napkin over my lap. Without saying a word, the doctor moved my napkin so that it rested only on one thigh, so that my cock was still visible.

I want to say that I was taken aback, but that’s much stronger than what I actually felt. I mean, she had taken over, made all the decisions, made up rules, never gave me any choices -- she had even chosen my dinner without asking me! Each time she did one of these things, I felt caught short, sort of the way you feel when someone corrects your pronunciation. I didn’t seem able to protest or disobey, and I didn’t understand why. And I didn’t understand why it didn’t bother me. Still, I had another question.

“Doctor, when can I get some clothes?”

She stopped cutting her steak and looked up in surprise. “Clothes? Why do you need clothes?”

That stumped me for a moment, but then I said, “Well, you’re wearing clothes. Why shouldn’t I?”

“That’s not a very good argument,” she replied. “Our circumstances are quite different. I have to interact with patients and other doctors. You only interact with me, so you don’t need clothes. In fact, it’s better if you don’t wear any clothes at all. Do you understand?”

“Well, honestly, no, I don’t understand.”

She smiled and gently asked, “But you know that you’re not going to be getting any clothes, don’t you?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but at first no words came out. At last I nodded. Then I was able to say, “For how long?”

“As long as we’re both awake, silly,” she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I struggled to understand what was going on. “I don’t get it. Why do I do whatever you tell me?” I asked her. “Why do I feel like I have to obey you?”

“That’s a good question,” she replied, “and we could talk about that for a long time. The simplest and shortest answer is that you and I fit together like a pair of gears.” And she linked the bent fingers of both her hands as if they were gear teeth, and she rocked them to show how two gears moved together.

Then, as if that topic was closed, she poured more wine and said, “Now we need to talk about how we’re going to fix your sleep pod.”

The Endless Dance Card : 2 / 7

A Kingdom Ship Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

After dinner, the doctor and I worked out our plan for fixing my sleep pod. First, we’d compare the sensor readings from my pod against other pods to see if any individual sensors were abnormally high or low. That could be a quick way of finding the problem, if the problem was simply a bad sensor.

At the same time -- and even if we did find a bad sensor -- we also needed to run through the whole path between the sensor readings and the final diagnosis to make sure that there weren’t other problems that caused or contributed to the bad diagnosis.

None of the troubleshooting was complicated; it was only tedious. Luckily we didn’t have to do it all ourselves. We scheduled a call with the on-duty medical and engineering staff for later in the day. Then I got a head start on the most obvious steps.

I accessed my sleep pod from a terminal in the medbay and kicked off a deep backup. This would record the state of virtually every element in the pod as well as the sensors’ history. The doctor gave me some clothes so I could go physically inspect my pod. I couldn’t move it to my lab yet: there were a lot of forensics to do before we changed anything. The backup was an obvious first step, but I needed the okay from the other pod techs before I ran the deep diagnostics or kicked off a reboot. The reboot would change the state of things and might destroy some useful clue.

While I was off doing the physical check, the doctor was requesting a diagram of the decision tree used by the medical diagnostic software. She also invoked the “second opinion” feature, which I’d never heard of. It was a separate synthetic intelligence that acts as a sanity check: basically, it challenges a diagnosis. As a first step, it tries to disprove the original diagnosis. Then it searches for alternative diagnoses. The doctor also kicked off queries to get more background on the illness itself.

I have to say, it was great to have something serious to do for a change. Usually all of our work is maintenance and monitoring. Finally I had a puzzle to solve.

Also, before, during, and after each step and each activity I mentioned above, the doctor and I had sex, at least once, but usually multiple times. I didn’t think I was capable of it, but somehow being with the doctor brought it out of me. I actually and honestly lost count of how many times we did it. I’d never had so much sex before, and all of it was outstanding. Soul-searing, blinding-light, screaming-hot orgasms. It was amazing. It was great. It was life-giving, and it seemed endless. Just when I’d think we were done, she’d drop her pants and we’d start all over again. At every chance -- even when there was no chance -- we’d interrupt anything to go at each other, to try yet another position. There was no thought involved. We’d just glance at each other, and that was all the stimulus, all the planning, needed.

The only time we had to actually control ourselves was during the meeting with the medical and engineering staff. Before the meeting, we checked each other carefully to make sure there were no clues to our intimate involvement or most recent efforts, and we kept our hands on the table so we didn’t touch each other beneath it.

Dr Harcourt and I were the only physically-awake people at the meeting. Everyone else attended as a hologram. It was an active, animated meeting. Everyone was happy to be involved. The medical staff were very excited by this issue, since most of their work is done for them by sensors and massive synthetic intelligence systems, so here they had a big chance to challenge and improve the automatic health systems.

The engineering staff was equally invested, even if they acted more prosaic, more nuts-and-bolts, about it: they wanted to understand all the causes, whether they were primary, secondary, contributing, additional -- however you wanted to classify them. Qurakas, the head engineer of turn, was quite pleased with the plan Dr Harcourt and I had drawn up. He added several other lines of enquiry, including some peripheral systems that I hadn’t thought of.

Then he told me that once the deep backup was complete, I should run the deep diagnostics, reboot the unit, do another deep backup and deep diagnostics, and THEN move the unit to the lab.

Also, Qurakas had beaten me to the punch on the sensor comparison: “I already ran a comparison of your sensor readings against other pods, and there is one sensor that is way off base. I’m sending you the report, Fergus. After you get the pod into the lab, I want you to pull that sensor and see what you can understand from it. Maybe it’s just broken. Maybe it only needs a tweak. Of course we have spares, but we need to know what’s up with that sensor. I’ll divide up the other work here until you have some free work cycles. For you, that sensor is the prority. Okay?”

When the meeting ended, the doctor and I fell on each other and started kissing and groping. Soon we were having sex once again, and afterward -- no surprise! -- I ended up naked while the doctor was fully clothed. She stood behind me, her head next to my right shoulder. “Don’t mind me,” she purred. “I’m just admiring your derriere,” and she ran her hand slowly over my ass. Then suddenly she stopped. “Oh! That reminds me! I’ve got a surprise for you!” She gave my butt a sharp, affectionate slap, then quickly moved toward one of her cabinets. Before she got there, a timer sounded, telling me that my second backup and diagnostics were complete.

“Sorry,” I said, “I need to move the pod.” She nodded, and tossed me a coverall and some slippers.

Once I moved the pod to my lab, I took a look at Qurakas’ report. Then I set to work to extract the offending sensor. I had to jack up the pod and get into it from underneath. Once I had the sensor in my hand, I took a good look at it. It was an unusual size and shape: it was an ovoid lump with a lot of pins in back. The pins plugged into an oval pad fixed inside the pod. What was also unusual was that the sensor was made by Herman’s Human Sensor Company -- a supplier I’d never heard of. Most of the pieces in the pod came from well-known manufacturers. I checked the pod’s part list, and it turned out that there basically only three parts-suppliers for the sleep pods. There were a dozen or so special pieces that came from somewhere else, but all from companies I’d heard of. This sensor was the only part supplied by Herman’s Human.

I located the spares and took a box of ten to my workbench. I sprayed a red mark on the bad one, pulled the related docs, and sat down to test. Two hours later, I had some interesting findings: nine of the ten spares worked as advertised. The tenth spare worked as badly as the one from my pod. The doctor called me to dinner at that point. It was a good stopping point: I already had quite a bit to think about.

We had sex again, before *and* after dinner. We couldn’t resist. Then I hurried back to my lab. I was anxious to get back to testing. I had an idea that I hoped wasn’t true, so I had to check it out. I set up 10 test rigs so I could check an entire box of spares at a time, and started banging away at it. The results confirmed my fears: one of the spares from the second box was defective in exactly the same way as the one from my pod. I set up some more test rigs, and worked into the night. I slept a few half-hours here and there as the tests ran, then I went back to the medbay for breakfast and more sex. Then back to the lab. I scheduled a meeting of the engineers for just after lunch, and kept pounding away until I’d tested all the spares. A solid 5% of them were defective, all in identically the same way. That’s 150 bad sensors, coincidentally the size of one of our twenty crews.

Qurakas kept his cool during the meeting, but he was clearly boiling mad. “We’re supposed to have 100% reliability on replacements,” he said in a tight voice. “All of them should have been tested before we left Earth orbit. This is unacceptable. Good work in uncovering this, Fergus.” He took a deep breath. “Now, we have a clear priority: we have to assume that at least 5% of the Herman’s Human sensors current in use are defective. They will have to be located and replaced. Since you’re already awake and practical in this, Fergus, it’s going to be up to you. You’ll need to stay awake until this task is complete. You know what I mean: don’t return to your sleep pod, but make sure you take all your regulated breaks; get a good sleep each night. But don’t return to your sleep pod.”

“Not a problem, sir,” I replied, and the image of Dr Harcourt’s naked body came immediately into my mind.

“Okay,” he replied. “Here’s the situation: Our current diagnostic doesn’t identify this defect, so, Fergus, I want you to put the bad sensor back in your pod. Hook it up to the test network and I’ll get a team to work up a diagnostic to spot this specific defect. That way, we’ll be able to find all the pods that need a replacement.

“In the meantime, take a break, Fergus. You’ve done some great work, but now you need to take a day or two off. Honestly, you look like shit. Eat, sleep, do something fun. Maybe you and that hot doctor can hook up, who knows?” I chuckled politely and ended the transmission. Qurakas was right: I really did need a break. I didn’t realize it until that moment, but I was utterly worn out. Exhausted in a way I’ve never been before.

I went back to the medbay and updated the doctor. I quickly realized that she felt as tired as I did.

“We really overdid it on the sex,” she told me. “I know you pulled an all-nighter last night that was actual work, but the endless sex has done us both in.”

“Looks that way,” I said. “I’ve never had so much sex in such a short period of time.” Right at that moment, I had absolutely zero desire.

“Look,” she said. “I’m going to authorize you to use one of the rejuvenation beds. That’ll fix you up.”

“Uh, I don’t know about that,” I replied. “I’m not ready to turn into a teenager right now.”

She scoffed. “It won’t turn you into a teenager! That’s not what the beds do.”

“They take years off,” I protested. “I don’t have that many years to take off.”

“No, no,” she replied. “They can do that. That’s the reset function. The usual function, the default function, is more like a spa visit. It removes toxins from all your body systems. It takes the lactic acid from your muscles. It balances your brain chemistry. That’s what it does. It will make you feel better.”

I was still doubtful. “But it messes with your DNA, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t ‘mess’ with it,” she countered. “Fergus, do you know how aging works? When your body needs new cells, it copies existing cells. As you get older, your DNA starts to fray at the ends. When it’s copied, the copies aren’t as good. Consequently, the new cells don’t work at 100%. The bad-copy effect accumulates and gets worse, and pretty soon every cell in your body has crappy DNA. What the rejuvenation bed does is knit up the ends of your DNA so you don’t get corrupted copies. In any case, you’re too young to worry about any of that. Your DNA is just fine.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Are you going to use one of the beds, too?”

“No,” she sighed. “I’d like to, but I can’t. As a doctor, I can prescribe one for you, but I can’t do it for myself. It’s like writing myself a prescription. And I don’t feel like confessing to another doctor that I’ve fucked myself silly. I’ll just have to get over it the old-fashioned way: time and rest.”

“Has anybody else on the ship used one of the beds so far?”

“No, we haven’t been out long enough. But you must know that they’re safe. They’ve been in use on every Kingdom ship from the very beginning. Back on Earth, Dr Idlewild's been using one for over 200 years.”

So, we walked to the nearest rejuvenation bed. I climbed in, and Dr Harcourt hit the START button.

Ten hours later, I woke up, dead tired, and a mass of aches and pains. I dragged myself to the medbay. It was so bad that on the way there, I lay down on the floor for ten minutes just to ache and gather my energy. I felt incredibly bad: worse than I had before I climbed into the bed. Dr Harcourt was astonished. “How can you have aches?” she asked. “This is one of the things the bed specifically fixes.”

Convinced that I had done something wrong, the doctor led me a second bed, examined the settings, and told me to hop back on. As soon as I did, she hit the START button, exactly like before. Ten hours later, I woke up aching, exactly like before. Well, “exactly” except that this time I was aching even MORE than last time. Every muscle hurt, even my hands and feet. “I feel like I’ve fallen down a long flight of stairs,” I told her. “And then I got hit by a truck and fell down the stairs again.”

“No way!” Dr Harcourt exclaimed. “This is not right!”

“It’s the damn bed,” I muttered. “It’s defective. It’s got to be.”

“No,” she insisted. “It can’t be. We tried two different beds. They can't both be defective.” She led me back to the lab. “I’m going to take a baseline.” She had me climb into a diagnostic pod. I was so wiped out that I immediately fell deeply asleep. None of the machine’s prodding, poking, or fluid collections woke me. Once the diagnostic was complete, Dr Harcourt didn’t wake me. She wheeled me back to a THIRD rejuvenation bed, slid me onto it, and hit the START button a third time!

Ten hours later, I woke up with a raging fever. The doctor said I was burning up, but I felt so cold, my teeth were literally chattering. My entire body shook uncontrollably. There wasn’t any part of me that didn’t hurt. It was like the worst case of influenza you can imagine. Her face was full of concern. She brought me on a stretcher to a patient room in the medbay. This room had a normal bed, like on Earth. She helped me into the bed, and she gave me something warm to drink. It tasted of lemon, honey, and spices, along with some medicinal aftertastes. Once I’d downed it all, she pushed me onto my side, and slid a white thing about the size of a large bullet into my ass. I sighed. “What was that?”

“Old fashioned medicine,” she replied. “An aspirin suppository.”

“Aspirin?”

“It’s a salicylate. Ancient medicine, but effective against fevers and aches. It’s also anti-inflammatory.”

“Couldn’t I have just swallowed a pill?”

“Sure,” she confessed with a smile, “But this way was more fun, wasn’t it? You know I adore your sweet little butt.” Then she covered me with three warm blankets, kissed my cheek, and I sank into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I awoke, I was drenched with sweat. My fever had broken, and my aches were gone. I felt drained and empty, and weak as a kitten, but I knew I was well. I was finally normal again. I lay there for a few minutes in that pile of warm, wet blankets and sheets, looking up at the pale white walls and ceilings. I not only felt normal, I finally felt real again. That disconnected feeling I used to have, was gone.

As I lay there, I may have I fallen asleep and woke again; it was hard to tell. Then I felt something else: the call of nature. My bladder was full, and the bathroom was a few meters from my bed. I listened as closely as I could, but I didn’t hear anyone nearby. There was a call button attached to my bed, but I didn’t press it. I wanted to get to the bathroom under my own power. So I sat up, and my head started spinning. I expected the spinning to pass, but it didn’t. I closed my eyes, and the world began whirling faster. It was darker behind my eyelids than I had ever seen before. I clutched the bed with my left hand and held onto the bedside table with my right. I did my best to take deep, even breaths and concentrate on my breathing. After a short while, the spinning stopped. I was still light-headed, and I knew it would be prudent to call for help, but I pressed on. I tried to stand, but I saw spots in front of my eyes. I wasn’t dizzy though, so I looked past and around the floating spots and concentrated on standing up.

I took one step, but that was all I could manage. With the help of my bedside table, I sank to my hands and knees and crawled my way to the bathroom. After slow and patient efforts I arrived at the toilet. With the help of a bar attached to the wall, I managed to climb up and sit on the toilet. I sat there, wobbling uncertainly and clutching the sink. I peed like a loud and fragrant river. Then I carefully lowered myself to the floor and crawled toward my bed. I was nearly there when a woman appeared in the doorway. “Careful, there!” she called in a gentle voice. “Let me give you a hand.” She slid her arm under my arm, and with her help I was able to stand upright. I was about to get back into bed, but she stopped me. “Wait -- it’s all wet. Here… hold on…” She guided me to a chair, and on the way she deftly grabbed a dry blanket. She threw it around me, wrapping my body completely and covering my head like a hood. After settling me in the chair, she stripped the bed, throwing the used bedclothes in a corner. She wiped down the mattress with a disinfectant, and flipped it over. Then she fetched clean sheets, fresh pillows, and warm, dry blankets.

As she made my bed, I looked her over. She was a lot shorter and curvier than the doctor, and though she wasn’t fat or heavy, she somehow seemed denser than the doctor, as if she was made of more earthy, robust elements. If the doctor was light like wicker, this woman was strong, like oak. Her hair was blonde, a thick, yellow blonde.

“Okay,” she said, as she made the final tuck and smooth. She smiled and rubbed her hands. “I know your name is Fergus. Mine is Vara. I’m pretty sure that you need two things right now: some food, and a good washing up. Which do you want to do first?”

“Washing,” I said. “Can I take a bath?”

“No,” she replied. “That would lower your blood pressure, and you’re already weak. You can take a shower.”

“Can I sit on the floor?” I asked. “I don’t think I can stand.”

“There’s a seat in there,” she replied, “And I’ll help you.”

She wheeled me to a large bathroom with a big open shower. There was a ledge inside that served as a seat, and the room was pleasantly warm. She stripped off her clothes, explaining with a smile, “It will be easier if I’m naked, too. That way, I won’t have to worry about getting wet.” I was so exhausted that I just gaped at her nakedness. I didn’t have the energy to be subtle. Her body was quite fit and athletic. Her waist was trim, and her hips were narrow, almost boyish, but her breasts were high, round, and firm. She smiled as she watched me take her in. “You can look all you want,” she told me. She bent down to put a pair of non-slip shower shoes on my feet. She unwrapped me from my blanket and walked me into the shower. With a hand-held wand she sprayed soapy foam over my back, neck, and legs. She hugged me to keep me on my feet, and rubbed the back part of me with a soft cloth. Then a warm spray removed the foam, and she sat me on the bench and took off my shoes. After carefully washing my face and hair, she sprayed the foam over the rest of my body, from my neck to my toes, and began to massage me, first with the soft cloth, then with her fingers. It was wonderful to be cleaned and touched all over in that way.

As her hands moved up my legs or down my belly, her fingers inevitably brushed against my penis. She was quite casual about it. Then, after washing every other part of me, she ran her hand under my balls and stroked my groin. She grasped my cock, and at that moment I realized the depth of my tiredness. I didn’t have the energy to be aroused.

“I can give you a happy ending,” she whispered, as she cupped my balls with one hand, and pumped my cock gently with the other. “If you want it.”

“It feels really nice,” I admitted, “but I am so beat that I can’t get it up.”

“That’s okay,” she replied. “Do you want me to stop?”

I looked into her eyes. Her face was two inches from mine. We held the gaze for a moment, and then she kissed me. It was a warm and sexy kiss, but it was all I could do just to sit upright. There wasn’t any response from my cock, even as her warm tongue explored my mouth and her soapy hand pulled on my limp member. She backed off from the kiss to exclaim, “Wow, you really are exhausted, aren’t you!” She rinsed the soap from me, dried me off, and wheeled me back to bed. Then, as I lay under the warm covers, she stood next to my bed, where she dried herself and put her clothes back on.

The dinner she brought consisted of soft foods. There was some kind of green smoothie that she insisted I drink first, then mashed potatoes, mashed avocado, soft cheese, and warm soft rolls with butter. I felt so hungry, I fell to, and Vara had to remind me several times to take my time and eat slowly.

I asked her when Dr Harcourt would come. Vara replied, “She’s taken a few days off. Apparently she’s been working nonstop for several days on a project about the sleep pods and now she needs a break.” I nodded in response, suddenly feeling very tired, and soon I fell asleep again.

After three days, I was well enough to walk in the hall accompanied by Vara, and on one of my walks, the doctor appeared. She looked well rested, but I didn’t say so. I didn’t know how much I could say in front of Zara, since Zara appeared not to have known that the doctor and I had worked together on the sleep-pod issue. But the doctor’s appearance made me realize something: for my entire convalescence, I’d been utterly naked, and in fact right now I was standing naked in the hallway. For about a week, I’d either been lying in bed under covers, or so tired that I hadn’t noticed, but seeing the doctor somehow put a spotlight on the fact that, while the two women were fully clothed, I was standing there without a stitch. I looked at the doctor. My eyes automatically traced the form of her body beneath her clothes, and my penis stood to attention, stiff and pointing upward.

“Hello!” Vara said with a grin. “Someone’s feeling a LOT better!”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dr Harcourt joked. She took my erection in her hand and gently moved it up and down, as if she were shaking my hand. Vara giggled.

“I’m glad you’re up and about,” the doctor said, without any hint of a double meaning.

“And how are you, doctor?” I asked. “I heard that you had to take some time off.”

“I’m fine,” she replied in a dismissive tone, looking at her tablet. “I’m always fine.” She continued to fiddle with her tablet as Vara and I stood there. She appeared to be mulling over something. At last she looked up and said, “Do you think you can walk another fifty meters? I’d like you to hop into the diagnostic pod again. You had some unusual readings last time, and I’d like to see how they are now. I’m hoping they’ve gone back to normal.”

I nodded, and the three of us slowly made our way toward her lab, the doctor leading the way. “Unusual readings? Is it something I should worry about?” I asked, a little anxiously.

She didn’t answer right away, and she didn’t turn back to look at me. She only replied, “First let’s see what your readings are now. If everything’s normal, there’ll be nothing to talk about.”

“Hey!” I exclaimed. “It’s not that cancer thing again, is it?”

Dr Harcourt huffed in exasperation. At the time I thought she was irritated by my questions, but now I know she was quite concerned, and not sure how to tell me what was happening.

Since I didn’t understand, I began to worry. My heart rate kicked up. Vara noticed my anxiety. She smiled at me and gave my arm a squeeze. I began to walk a little faster, and once we reached the lab, I climbed into the diagnostic pod without any prompting. After what seemed like an exceptionally long cycle, the doctor had me climb out. Vara wrapped me in a light blanket and sat me in an armchair.

“What is it?” I asked, my heart in my mouth. “Please tell me.”

The doctor scratched her head. “I can’t explain this,” she said. “I don’t know what to make of these readings.”

“What are they?” I demanded, growing more frantic by the minute. “What do they say?”

“Okay,” the doctor said, obviously stalling. She clearly didn’t want to tell me. She drew a deep breath, rubbed her face, then finally came out and said it: “You’re in exceptionally good health, Fergus, but… well... the machine says that you’re... female.”

“What!?” I exclaimed.

“The machine says that you are a female. As I said, I don’t know what to make of it. I’m going to have to consult my colleagues.”

“Wait -- obviously the machine is defective. Let’s try a different machine!” I suggested.

“This *is* a different machine,” she replied. “When I saw these readings earlier, I also assumed the machine was defective, so I swapped it out with another. And we ran diagnostics on both machines. They’re fine.”

“No,” I said. “No. Obviously, they’re NOT fine. They’re defective. And -- just as obviously -- I’m male. The machines are defective.”

The doctor and Vara glanced at each other.

“You don’t believe this crazy diagnosis, do you? You didn’t believe my sleep pod when it told you I had cancer. You did other tests and you proved that the machine was wrong! Why don’t you do the same thing now? Just because it mistakenly says I’m female doesn’t make me female! If it told you that my skin was indigo, would you believe it? No -- of course not! You’d look at me and know that the machine had messed up!”

“Look,” she said. “I told you twice already that I don’t know what to make of this. I also said that I need to consult with my colleagues. Any test I could or would do, the diagnostic pod has already done. Twice. Your blood work and other tests say that you’re female. At the same time, anatomically, externally, you’re obviously male.”

“Right!” I exclaimed. “The machine is messed up!”

The doctor made some subtle sign to Vara, who nodded. Then to me, she said, “I think I should give you something to help you calm down. How does that sound?”

“I don’t need to calm down!”

“You’re obviously very upset. You’re shouting.”

I stopped talking and tried to find a different tack. “Listen: I’m betting that if we look at the parts list for that machine, we’ll find that there’s something from Herman’s Human Sensor in there, monkeying things up. And by the way, I have the same suspicion about the rejuvenation beds -- at least the one that I used. There’s something wrong there as well.”

The doctor sighed. “I think you’re getting carried away here. I can see that you’re not female. I know that you’re not. But I must believe that this machine has a reason for saying that you are, and we need to find out what that reason is.”

“It’s simple!” I shouted. “The stupid thing is broken! The rejuvenation bed is broken! There is NOTHING wrong with me.”

“Fergus, I’ve told you several times that I know that you’re a man. And yet, the machine says otherwise. This is a puzzle we have to solve. As far as we know, there’s nothing wrong with either machine--”

“AND THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!” I shouted. “How many times do I have to say it: the machines are defective! They’re defective! You’re not listening to me!”

The doctor bit her lower lip and paused for a moment before replying. “And you are not listening to me. You ought to examine your attitude here, and maybe talk with one of the psyche team. This is clearly a delicate moment for you. I know you used to stare at yourself in your sleep pod, and you expressed a strong mistrust of the rejuvenation bed well before you used it. You’ve gone from certain feelings about your sleep pod to antagonism toward the rejuvenation bed, to mistrust of the diagnostic pod. What happens if your negative feeling extends to the ship itself? At that point, there’s nowhere to go. Listen to me, Fergus: just because your sleep pod had a harmless defect, you can’t be suspicious of every machine on board.”

“I’m not suspicious of every machine on board!” I shouted. “Just that thing over there, and the goddamn rejuvenation beds! That’s what messed me up! We need to look at them! There’s probably some crap from Herman’s Human in there, too!”

Dr Harcourt caught Vara’s eye and Vara nodded. The doctor turned and left the room.

“Where’s she going?” I asked.

“I’m sure that she’s coming right back,” Vara assured me. She put her hand on my shoulder. “Do you know what we ought to do? We ought to get you some clothes, and then we can talk about the -- what was it? The Herman’s Humans thing? What’s that about?”

I was glad to explain. “Herman’s Human is a small sensor manufacturer that NOBODY has ever heard of. They made a defective sleep-pod part that started this whole mess. I'm sure that they are the key to all this. I’m convinced there’s a similar issue with the diagnostic machine and the rejuvenation bed.”

She stepped behind me and put her hands on my shoulders. With her thumbs, she gently massaged the base of my neck. “Why don’t you tell me what needs to be done?” she suggested, in a soft, neutral voice.

“Oh, that feels good,” I sighed, as she squeezed and massaged my shoulders and upper arms. “Well, we should use the same approach we employed on the sleep pod: first compare the sensors -- also, in this case, the radiators, pulsers, and the analog parts. We’d see if there’s a difference with the other units.”

“Mmm,” she said. “That makes sense. And then?”

“And then…” I tried to organize my thoughts. Now that the doctor was gone, I’d begun to relax. I went on to describe the steps we used on the sleep pod. I told Vara how we’d need to adapt the plan to the two other machines. She very adeptly kept me talking, by prompting me with questions, and saying, "That makes sense. And then?" at intervals. Stupid me! -- I thought she was actually listening. In retrospect I realize that she was simply humoring me until the doctor returned.

When Dr Harcourt appeared in the doorway, she had her hand in her jacket pocket. Vara called to her, “Doctor! We need to get this man some clothes. He’s been telling me his plan to check out the machines.”

“Yes,” I said. “Just like we did on the sleep pod.”

“Ah,” the doctor said, nodding, as she sauntered closer to me. She was looking down. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. That was odd, certainly, but I thought that maybe she was embarrassed about not having listened to me before. When she reached me, and was standing right next to me, she said, “I guess we ought to schedule a meeting with the techs and the doctors again, then.”

“Yes!” I cried out, finally feeling as though I was being taken seriously.

“Right,” the doctor said, but she wasn’t speaking to me. She spoke in a tone of command. And it certainly was a command: Vara slipped her hands down to the middle of my upper arms, then locked me in a bear hug. The moment her hands closed in front of me, the doctor pressed a hypospray against the meaty part of my left shoulder. I cried out in surprise and dismay. Immediately I felt myself falling into darkness. The room was fading, growing smaller, and moving far away from me.

“Just let it happen, Fergus,” I heard the doctor say. “It’s for your own good.” And then, nothing. I was gone.

What happened next? The two of them wheeled me back to one of those damn rejuvenation beds, lifted me onto it, and hit the RESET button.

I know they meant well, but your own personal road to hell, you know, is lined with people who think they know what’s best for you.

The Endless Dance Card : 3 / 7

A Kingdom Ship Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

The moment I woke, I knew what they’d done: they did a reset. I could tell because I felt different. I felt younger. I felt eighteen. Maybe you think that there’s no specific sensation to being eighteen, but let me tell you, there is. It’s a level of energy, a feeling of power, a sense, maybe, of being immortal. When you’re older, you can be sharp and quick and smart and all that, but it’s set in a different frame. When you’re eighteen -- and healthy, of course -- whatever is going on inside you, at least your body doesn’t get in your way. It’s like sitting in a brand new car, when every smell, every surface, every detail is still clean, perfect, and fresh.

I knew that I should be angry, or at least upset. After all, Dr Harcourt had stuffed me into that bed while I was unconscious -- but I had to admit that I felt better, amazingly better, than I’d felt since I came aboard the ship. That said, I knew that my brain chemistry got reset along with the rest of me, which made me exactly as calm and well-adjusted as the day when my med profile was taken, months before we left Earth orbit. That day -- my first day -- I was excited and eager. I was more likely to be open and accepting. I wouldn’t be reacting to anything the way I might have reacted a day or two ago.

As I sat up on the edge of the bed, I saw the doctor walking toward me. She was smiling at first, but as I lowered my legs over the side, her smile melted away. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her mouth fell open. She was stunned. I didn’t understand why, but it didn’t particularly bother me in that moment. I was still waking up. But I did look down at myself because I became aware of a missing sensation: my balls didn’t seem to get in the way as I was shifting and sitting up. My thighs didn’t seem to have the usual package between them. It was as if there was nothing there at all.

I looked down at my hips, and my jaw dropped, just as the doctor’s had: between my partly-opened thighs -- gone! There was NOTHING! Nothing between my legs! No cock, no balls, no scrotum, no willy! I didn’t even have pubic hair. Just a clean, flat groin with a slit in it. I had labia. I had a pussy!

I fainted from the shock and fell off the bed, all the way to the floor.

I came to almost immediately. My head hurt. I could tell I’d hit the floor with the left side of my forehead. My left elbow and knee hurt as well. Dr Harcourt was kneeling beside to me, holding me, looking at me with an expression contorted with worry and concern. “Oh, God, I’m sorry!” she whispered. “I hardly know what to ask you... Are you okay? How are you feeling now?”

I couldn’t answer. Frantically I groped at myself. My fingers jerked across my hips to the spot where my penis ought to be. Instead, they found nothing. It was smooth down there, unnaturally smooth. Smooth, like a soft pair of lips. Gingerly, tentatively, I pushed my finger between them. There was a whole new unfamiliar geography inside: I had folds inside of me, and a new hole: a vagina -- my vagina. It was frightening, as if I was exploring a deep wound that suddenly appeared in my body.

“Is it real?” I moaned. “Is this real?”

“Yes, hon, I’m sorry, it’s real. This isn’t a dream.”

I let out a mournful wail that grew louder and higher until I was shrieking uncontrollably. “No, no, NO!” I shouted. “It can’t be real! It can’t!” I screamed and cried. I balled up my fists and pressed them to the sides of my face. Dr Harcourt, who was equally frightened and confused, didn’t know what to say to me. She tried to hold me and console me, but I was frantic -- kicking and shaking. My arms and hands were out of control. The doctor had come prepared for another angry outburst, so she had a loaded hypospray at the ready. She pulled it out of her pocket and pressed it into my thigh. Once again, the world faded to black. I could hear myself screaming as my consciousness sank into the darkness.

When I awoke, everything was quiet. I was lying in a bed in a medbay. A sheet and a blanket covered me, and I could feel that I was wearing pajamas. Everything was soft, clean, and comfortable. Somehow, the room itself was reassuring. I knew immediately that I wasn’t in Dr Harcourt’s medbay. The colors and design were different. Even the sheets and blankets were different. The fact that I wasn’t naked was different.

A quiet man with a nice smile was sitting next to my bed. He build was stocky, like a football player. At the same time, he seemed soft and friendly-looking; jovial, like Santa Claus. The theme of this medbay is soft and reassuring, I told myself. I liked the man right away. I felt I could trust him. He was dressed in khaki pants and a blue checkered shirt. He showed me a spent hypospray and let me see him drop it into a bag at his feet. “Hi,” he said in a gentle voice. “I just used that hypospray to wake you up. My name is Dr Spencer, but you can call me Spence if you like. How are you feeling?”

“I feel pretty good,” I said, cautiously. “So.. how am I? Can you tell me?”

“I can tell you that you’re in perfect health,” he answered. “I’m sure that’s not a good enough answer for you, but at the moment, can we take it as a great baseline to start from? There’s a lot to tell you, and I promise I will cover every question you have. I won’t leave your side until you have all the information you want and need. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said. I touched my forehead experimentally. I found a little bump. It was only slightly tender. “I thought I hit my head when I fell,” I said. “I expected it to hurt more.”

“I’m sure it did,” he agreed. “But you’ve been out for eight days. Your head has had more than a week to get over that fall. Dr Harcourt sedated you initially because you were hysterical -- and who could blame you? Oh -- by the way, we can show you the footage if you need to see--” I shook my head in the negative. “Okay. Well, it’s always there, if you have any questions about how you’ve been treated. The first thing I want to tell you is that, in view of all you’ve been through, we thought it best to keep you under until we had some solid, actual data and explanations to give you. I’m sure that if you'd been awake, you would have suffered an extremely anxious week. It was three whole days before we began to see the root cause of all of this. Before that, we were utterly mystified.”

While he was talking, I moved my pillow against the head of my bed so I could sit up and lean against it. As I shifted and sat up, I felt once again the difference between my legs. Honestly, I felt different all over -- different from how I was used to feeling. I looked at Dr Spencer, my face filled with confusion and questions. “Yes,” he said. “You really did turn into a girl. You still look pretty much the same as you did at eighteen, when you first came onboard -- except for your genitals and the absence of facial hair. And, well, the absence of body hair, uh, generally. Your shoulders, chest, and hips are actually a little narrower, and your head is, uh, a few sizes smaller.”

“In other words, I’m completely different.”

“No, not completely,” he said with a slight smile. “I’m sure you’ll recognize your face in the mirror. The general picture of how you are right now is that, now, you see… well, developmentally, you’re still approaching puberty. You're not quite there yet. However, there is something we can do about that. In my opinion, I mean, what I’d like to do, is to give you some… well, some treatments to kick-start your… well, to bring you more quickly to sexual maturity.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“Because you don’t want to be a little girl. You’d have to be awake for anywhere from four to six years -- maybe even more -- to allow these things to happen by themselves. Puberty moves at its own rate for every person, and it’s fairly unpredictable. For some people, it happens quickly, and for others it’s agonizingly slow. With you in particular, we have no idea when it will even start! However, We have some ways, as I said, to kick-start and accelerate the process. In any case, you can’t go back to a sleep pod until you reach sexual maturity, because it would slow your development down to a crawl, and we don’t believe that’s safe. That’s why there are no children on the Kingdom ships.”

“I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of that. You’re right -- I don’t want to be a little girl. I don’t want to be a girl at all! There isn’t any point in accelerating anything here. You just need to change me back. I mean, come on, I’m a man. Why make me more of a girl? Just change me back to who I was. That *is* the plan, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you understood: We don’t have the technology to do that,” Dr Spencer replied.

“Yes we do! Our technology did this to me,” I pointed out. “So we do have the technology to change me back.”

“Yes, but what happened to you was entirely accidental. The odds of it happening in the first place were astronomical. The odds of it happening a second time, even on purpose -- well, I don't know if we even have a word for it! I mean, think about it statistically: suppose you were back on Earth, and you won the lottery. Could you make it happen again the next day? What would you do? Try to recreate the same conditions? Go back to the same store, play the same numbers? The odds were against your winning the first day, but even more so on the second.”

“I don’t feel like I won the lottery,” I told him.

“No, of course not,” he agreed. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just talking about incredibly unlikely, once in the universe, events.” He smiled to himself, then asked me, “Did you ever hear of the Flash?” I shook my head no. “He was a mythological hero... supposedly the fastest man alive. He became that way because of an accident: he was doused with a batch of random chemicals, then struck by lightning, and the reaction transformed his entire being. I think it’s a useful image, because you can imagine what it would take to undo that transformation. Think how dangerous it would be for him to even try to turn back to normal.”

I frowned. “Was he a real person?”

Dr Spencer shrugged. “It’s a myth, but the story couldn’t have come out of nowhere. There’s always some reality behind every myth, don’t you think?”

I shook off the question, and thought for a moment. “What if I came up with a way to turn myself back? Would you let me try it?”

“It depends on what your way consists of. I mean, if you plan on getting doused with chemicals and hit by lightning, then no. Of course, I don’t mean that literally. You know what I’m getting at. If it’s safe enough to try, then probably yes. But there is one big obstacle you need to know about: your original profile, the one that was taken before we left Earth, has been corrupted. It’s not useable. It’s beyond repair. Once you’re better, once you’re physically mature, we’ll have to take another one.”

“As a girl.”

Dr Spencer shrugged in assent. “We don’t have a choice there. We did take one while you were asleep, but we regard it as a temporary, in-case-of-emergency thing.”

“How did my profile get corrupted?”

“It was related to that sensor failure in your sleep pod. In fact, everyone who had that same defective sensor had their profile corrupted in exactly the same way. I don’t know the technical details, but one of the engineers will go over it with you when you feel ready. I’m not a technical person, but I can tell you in very general terms how it went: Obviously, it should be impossible for a sensor in a sleep pod to access and alter a profile, but it wasn’t as direct and clear-cut as that. I’m probably not saying this correctly, but imagine that the sensor corrupted the pod, and the pod in its turn gave corrupted communications about you to the ship. This bad data made its way through some of the ship’s routines relating to you. Finally, the ship, when it was trying to do something else, something unrelated, ended up overwriting part of your profile. It was the final step in passing garbage up the chain. The tech guys said it was a series of corner cases that no one could have ever foreseen. In any case, the exact same thing happened in the exact same way to everyone who had the same bad sensor. Ninety-five percent of the people onboard were NOT affected in any way, and no one but you and the rest of the five percent had their profiles corrupted. Thank God.”

“Did the other people with the bad sensor change gender the way I did?”

“No. Nothing happened to them. We just woke them up and took new profiles while that sensor got changed, and that was that. None of them had used a rejuvenation bed. You were the first, and only person onboard, who’s used a bed at all so far. Each time you did, you were exposed to effects and treatments based on your corrupted profile. Every time you climbed onto that bed, it tried unsuccessfully to make subtle alterations to your general state. Finally, the reset attempted to map a profile that didn’t fit your physiology. There was nothing wrong with the bed, or the diagnostic pod, by the way. It was only your profile. The subsystem that read your profile got bad data. Instead of stopping and complaining about it -- about the bad condition of your profile, the profile parser attempted to make sense out of it, and it found that the easiest way to resolve the conflicts was to consider you a pre-pubescent female.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Why pre-pubescent?”

“Good question. It’s because you didn’t have any of the secondary sexual characteristics that a grown woman has: no breasts, narrow pelvis, hormone levels… but most of all, your menstrual cycles hadn’t started… It all added up to a girl who hadn’t entered puberty yet.

“That’s what happened with the diagnostic pod. The rejuvenation bed, on the other hand, treated you to routines that are meant for women, not men, and that’s why they made you feel ill. When it did the full reset -- as I said before -- the only way it could resolve the conflict between your profile and your physiology was to read you as a pre-pubescent girl, and that’s what it ended up ‘restoring’ you to.”

“Oh, God,” I moaned. It all made sense -- or some kind of sense. "But... what happened to my genitals? To my penis and balls? Where did they go?"

"Um, ah, that's a great question," he replied. "And I'm embarrassed to say that I don't know. It turns out that we don't know a whole lot about how the rejuvenation beds work. Maybe an engineer could tell you."

"I'm an engineer," I reminded him. "but I don't know anything about those beds."

"Well, maybe another engineer will know," he ventured.

I shrugged. "Let's hope so!"

“You’ve been remarkably unlucky,” he told me, “but if it’s any consolation, you’ve potentially saved a fifth of the crew from going through what you've been through. Also, the software team is working on some safeguards for the management and application of the profiles, so the beds don’t mistreat the people using them and so the diagnostic pods don’t give bad conclusions.”

I was silent, taking it all in. Dr Spencer invited me to walk with him, and he brought me to a small lunch room. “How do you feel about fish and chips?” he asked. I nodded, and the doctor fiddled with the food fab.

As we ate, a question occurred to me. “Couldn’t we -- couldn’t someone take my corrupted profile and fix it? Or take one of me now and edit it, to change me from female to male?”

“We had a lot of discussion about that,” Dr Spencer replied. “But surprisingly, there isn’t a person or computer system aboard that’s smart enough to be able to do that. Our profiles are immensely complex. It’s everything that makes up a specific individual, starting from their general qualities like weight, hair color, and so on, all the way down to the composition of their individual cells. Not that there’s a list of every single cell, but the profile has to be as complex as a human being, and that is pretty damn complex.

“So, as far as editing your profile… Consider, first of all, that your corrupted profile isn’t you-as-a-female. It’s all messed up. There are portions that make no sense at all. It isn’t even bad profile data -- it’s random data that was thrown in there. It’s trash. In fact, you’re lucky that applying your profile didn’t kill you or deform you. Second, you can’t simply take a person’s profile and change the gender. There’s too much involved. It’s not like we have a male/female toggle, or a drop-down menu where you choose one or the other. Nothing is that simple. Think of all the changes involved: the composition and coordinates of all your inner organs; the layout of your blood vessels and nerves. It frightens me to think what would happen if you didn’t get a person’s spine right. You want to go in and mess with that delicate, intricate, hyper-complicated web of information? And then apply it to yourself? If that doesn’t frighten you, you don’t understand what’s involved.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling deflated. Again, it all made sense. But then, something else occurred to me. “Hey, isn’t there a plastic-surgery device onboard? Couldn’t we use that on me? To change me back?”

Dr Spencer wiped some oil off his lips. “It could change you, but basically it’s only soft-tissue changes. It’s not designed for the kind of deep, internal changes you’re talking about. Unfortunately, there is no equipment on this ship that is capable of sexual reassignment in any form.”

I waved my hands, as if I could erase his words in the air. "No, no -- that's not what I meant! I don't want sexual reassignment surgery. I want to change back. I want to be the real Fergus: Fergus the man, the original Fergus. That's the only change I'm interested in." He smiled and shrugged and shook his head. I told him, "You're wrong that there's no equipment that can do what I'm asking. You know that there is -- our equipment is exactly what changed me into this.”

“The change you underwent was an accident and is not reproducible.”

I fell silent at that. Slowly I ate my chips, some with vinegar, some with ketchup. I never could decide which condiment I preferred.

After I'd eaten my fill, I sat there and toyed with the rest of my food. The doctor didn’t seem to mind our sitting in silence, so we did that for a while. Then it occurred to me: I was taking all of this very calmly. Especially compared to my massive freak-out when I first awoke. “Doctor?” I asked. “Are you giving me something to keep me calm?”

“Not specifically, no. Do you want something to keep you calm?”

“No, I’m just surprised at how even I am right now. Shouldn’t I be more upset at what’s happened to me?”

“There might be a residual effect from the sedative. It could last as long as a day. Don’t worry, though. We’ll be watching and helping. You won’t go through this alone.”

In fact, the doctors and the psychs were extremely nice and supportive. They didn’t overwhelm me with attention, but I was always able to reach someone in an instant if I needed anything at all. In the beginning, a counselor came to talk with me three times a day. After three days, they came every morning and evening. Then it tapered down to once a day, then once a week.

With the medical folk it was much the same. At first, they’d check on me hourly, then four times a day, then daily, then every other day. After five weeks I was on a once-a-week schedule: Monday morning, psych check-in, Thursday morning, med check-up. It got to be very quick and very routine.

In the med check-up, we’d chart my passage through puberty, which turned out to be incredibly slow. As you’ll see, it turned out to be over a year before it even began. Everyone (especially me) decided against treatments to kick-start my development. The majority of doctors and psychs agreed that I had undergone such a violent and abrupt change, that it would be better to leave my body and mind to their own devices, and let them develop on their own timetable. In any case, I would have refused the treatment. I didn’t see any point in making myself more of a girl when I had no intention of remaining one.

The one thing I did ask for, and was willing given, was read-only access to the code and documentation related to profiles. Also, I was given a copy of my corrupted profile and my new temporary profile. I was also given copies of the other people who were affected: both the corrupted version and the new clean version. Copies of all the code, docs, and profiles were put into a virtual sandbox, where I could study and play with them without touching or affecting the actual code and profiles currently in use.

In the beginning, since I was relieved of duties for three months, I studied the material for hours every day. It was immensely difficult and complicated, and at times I despaired of ever understanding. After a month of staring into that hyper-complicated jumble, I was seriously thinking of giving it up. I quit for all of four days, when one of the developers came to talk with me. He was working on the changes to the profile-management code. He began by admitting that he knew virtually nothing about the profiles and how they were used. When I gave him the most general and elementary explanations, it was all new to him, and he actually took notes as I spoke.

After I (surprisingly!) answered all his questions, I had a question for him: “Why didn’t you go to the subject-matter expert onboard?”

He was taken aback by my question. “You are the subject-matter expert,” he replied. “I asked for the expert, and Qurakas told me to talk to you.”

I was stunned. How could such a vital system be without an expert? I contacted Qurakas and asked him about it. He looked a little irritated when he told me, “There are too many systems onboard to be covered by an expert in every crew. It’s impossible.”

“Are there other systems that aren’t covered by an expert?”

“Yes, of course there are. But none of them are essential to life or to our mission. If there was an issue, someone would have to study up, the way you’re doing now. If that wasn’t possible, we’d have to do without.”

“This stuff is so far beyond me,” I whined. “I can barely understand it. Isn’t there someone who could help me?”

“No,” he said. “At this point, no one knows more about profiles than you. If you wanted help, your first step would be to teach the other person the things you've learned -- which are things that only you know. Also, it’s not important enough for me to assign another resource. As far as everyone is concerned, this is no longer an issue.”

“Everyone but me!” I protested.

“Everyone but you,” he agreed. “Still, you have to agree that you’re alive and healthy. You’re fit and willing to work. The only loose end is to make you a new profile, once you’re mature. When that’s done, we’ll close the case.”

I huffed in response.

He looked at me, and I could see from the way his jaw was moving that he wanted to say something else, but wasn’t sure if he should. “Spit it out,” I told him. “Whatever it is, I can take it.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “When you asked for access to the profiles and the code, I was against it. It was obvious why you asked for it: you imagine you can get back to the way you used to be, and you figure that screwing with your profile is the key. It’s not. You can’t do it. Nobody can. I didn’t think it was healthy for you to waste your time chasing a chimera. Clearly, I was overruled. The others felt that it would be a healthy way to channel your feelings and frustrations and all that bullshit.”

I fumed in silence for a moment, then said, “I’m glad you were overruled.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is.” He was about to end the call when he remembered one more thing. “By the way,” he said. “You ought to change your name.” Before I could reply, he closed the call.

“Bastard!” I shouted, to an empty screen.

The Endless Dance Card : 4 / 7

A Kingdom Ship Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

During the second month of my convalescence, there was a handoff from my crew to the next. There is always an overlap as one crew prepares to go back to sleep and the next crew prepares to take over. During this overlap, both crews are awake. Remember: for the crew that just awoke, five calendar years have passed, and they need to be briefed on both the current status as well as any important events that happened while they slept. Usually three days are allotted for this overlap, but the time can be extended or shortened as needed. During the interval when both crews are awake, there is always at least one party. The parties help to break the monotony of life onboard, and they serve a big social need -- the need to have fun. There is also a great deal of fairly indiscriminate sexual activity.

Speaking of which, I did get to say goodbye to Dr Harcourt before she went to her sleep pod. She was quite embarrassed and uncharacteristically shy. I was glad to see her, in spite of all that happened, and she apologized several times for not having had the sense to stop when she didn’t understand what was happening to me. I knew that she’d been called before a review board, and was required to do some retraining. I didn't mention it, but it was clearly on her mind.

“I didn’t tell them about our sexual involvement,” she said, blushing. “They really would have creamed me if they knew.”

Even though we (the crew) were overtly encouraged to be casual in our sexual relations -- since, in the end, our mission was the preservation of the human species -- what she’d done was still against protocol. In spite of our permissiveness, there are some relationships that are explicitly taboo. What makes them taboo is the power dynamic: doctor/patient, supervisor/worker, etc. I assured her in a soft voice, “I won’t tell.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate that, especially considering what it cost you.” She squirmed for a moment, then confessed, “I have to tell you… I want you to know that I’m not just sorry that I hurt you. I’m horrified to see that I’m capable of doing such a thing.” She swallowed hard, then looked me in the eye. “When I gave in to my, uh -- to my desire to dominate you, it negatively affected my decision-making about your care.” Then, with tears forming in her eyes, she said in an almost inaudible whisper, ”I’m so sorry for what I did to you!” She sniffed hard, and wiped her nose and eyes with a napkin. She drew a deep, hard breath, and in a normal voice said, “It frightens me to know I was capable of such insensitivity and neglect.”

I shrugged. I couldn’t disagree. I mean, look at me! I’m a girl now. At the same time, I have come to terms with my new gender -- to some extent. How and why could I do that? Because I was sure that being female was only a temporary condition. I was supremely confident that I wouldn’t stay this way for very long. My hope verged on a feeling of certainty, and that near-certainty allowed me to see my history with the doctor as just so much spilt milk. “Spilt milk under the bridge a long long time ago,” my father used to say. Also, I was surprised to find that I still found the doctor incredibly attractive. I can’t say I was actually aroused by seeing her. I didn’t have the anatomical equipment for arousal. I guess that in my new world, she migrated from being my lover to being my first crush, and I had no desire to make her feel any worse than she already did.

For the next five years, one element of every handoff from one crew to the next was that, as people learned what happened to me, they’d want to meet me or at least have a look at me. It wasn’t terrible, but it was weird. Sometimes I’d tell myself, This is what celebrities experience, and other times, This is what animals in the zoo experience. People took for granted that they could stare me up and down, ask me to turn this way and that… and comment on my appearance as if I couldn’t hear them. They’d ask the most tactless and insensitive questions, but I always made an effort to answer as honestly as I could. I tried to not take it personally, but ironically what made it uncomfortable and weird was the fact that it wasn’t personal at all: most people treated me more as a freak than as a person. So that was my life at that point.

On the positive side, I don’t think anyone else onboard -- not even the Admiral -- met as many of the crew as I did. I didn’t end up meeting everyone, but almost.

Another element of each handoff was a mixed blessing. From each crew of 150, the psychs appointed one woman to be my “mother.” Their method of finding these women was very simple, almost crude: they looked at the psychological tests we’d taken before leaving Earth, and chose from each crew the woman with the highest “maternal” values. I tried to ask exactly what those values were, but they wouldn’t tell me. In any case, every three months, I’d get a new mother. In the end, I went through 16 mothers, total.

These mothers were supposed to help me navigate the process of turning into a girl. The first one spent a lot of time talking to me about feminine hygiene and physical and psychological changes. At first I appreciated it: she answered a lot of questions I didn’t even know I had, but at the same time it rankled me, because it got into the nuts and bolts (so to speak) of being a girl -- and I didn’t want to spend a lot of time thinking about that. Also, I GOT IT ALL THE FIRST TIME she explained it -- she didn’t need to quiz me or explain it a second or third or fourth time. Aside from making me uncomfortable, from my point of view the information had a limited shelf life -- especially all the business about menses. I had no intention of remaining female, and I was definitely going to bail out of girlhood before all the monthly stuff started.

My second mother was far too busy to give me any attention, and that was absolutely GREAT as far as I was concerned. I have to admit, that after the intrusive lectures and quizzes from Mom No. 1, I got way too used to the freedom I felt under Mom No. 2. I loved being on my own and doing things my way, even more than I ever had as a man… I’m sure that being physically awake had something to do with it, but also I felt as though I’d escaped from something. On the other hand, all that free time and lack of supervision meant, of course, that I didn’t learn anything at all about being a girl. Not that I cared at the time.

My third mother wasn’t bad, really, and I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I’d only done one thing: I should have called her more often. It had been a couple of months since my convalescence ended, so I was an active member of the crew again. My duties took me all over the ship, and the ship isn’t just huge, it’s gargantuan. It wasn’t possible for me to physically get back to her every night to check in. So I didn’t bother, even when I was nearby. I almost never called, and after a while I stopped answering when she called. In retrospect, I think she was the least comfortable in the role. She wasn’t sure where to start or how to get a handle on me.

This cued my next mother, Mom No. 4, to be a hyper-disciplinarian. Maybe she would have been anyway, but I felt it was partly my fault for being so dismissive of Mom No. 3.

Mother No. 4 was clever. She gave me a few days on my own, so I continued to feel free and uncontrolled. By the fourth day of her Motherhood, my guard was down, pretty much all the way down. She used those days to get hold of my work itinerary and to look over my movements from the past month. She studied me. She read my records and got into my psych files. She spoke to my supervisor and to the head of security, and came to an agreement with each of them regarding my “upbringing.” She took the whole motherhood thing very very seriously.

Once her plan was neatly in place, she invited me to her room for dinner. We had meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans, with chocolate cake for dessert. I don’t usually bother with dessert, but the cake was particularly good, and intensely chocolatey. I didn’t used to care for chocolate, but that cake converted me. Then, while I was feeling full and happy, she lowered the boom. She showed me that she’d brought an extra bed into her sleeping area and told me that that’s where I’d be sleeping each night while she was my mother. Laid out on the bed was a pair of pale pink shorts, along with a light gray top. The top had the image of a winking kitten with its left fist in the air. “These are your pajamas,” she told me. “While I’m your mother, you’re going to wear what I tell you to wear.” I didn’t respond. I didn’t say anything at all. I didn’t see any point in fighting with her or taking a stand: I knew I could get whatever clothes I pleased from any of the clothes-fabs onboard. Better to let her believe she had control, and then blow her off for the next three months. She wasn’t going to be my mother forever.

She informed me, “Another thing: you are going to come home -- here to this room -- every evening for supper with me.”

“That won’t work,” I told her. This was one idea I needed to nip in the bud. “My duties take me all over the ship.”

“I’ve worked that out with your supervisor,” she replied, and she smiled in a way that I regarded as treacherous and a little frightening. “When you have to go to the other end of the ship, you can use a one-scooter, and your new work itinerary takes your travel time into account.” That’s when I began to feel her trap closing around me. I literally felt my throat tightening. However, she was far too clever to keep pushing. She set my work schedule face-down on a table behind her, and completely changed the subject by picking up a deck of playing cards. She taught me a simple but wildly funny game she called Idiot. Once I caught on to it, I liked it immensely. We played for a little over two hours, and soon the two of us were laughing together and really having a grand time. We were to play this game quite a lot during her three months of motherhood. Part of the fun -- which I initially resisted, but then came to like -- was that whoever lost a game would have to wear a silly, cone-shaped hat until they won again. I loved making her wear the hat.

In fact, the last hand ended with her wearing the silly hat. She took it off, gathered up the cards, and put it all away. “Now it’s time for your bath,” she announced, and led me into the bathroom, where a steaming bubble bath was ready.

“How did you do that?” I asked, amazed.

“Magic,” she said with a laugh. “No, seriously, I just set a timer. Better check that it’s not too hot.”

I stuck my hand in, and the water temperature was just right. She waited until I stripped and got into the water. Then she picked up my underwear from the floor. It was a pair of men’s boxers. “This is what you’ve been wearing?” she asked. “This is going to change. This is going to change. No more mens clothes. Especially no more mens underwear.” With that, she turned and carried my gear out of the room. I never saw those clothes again.

Okay, It’s true, I’d been wearing men’s underwear. Why shouldn’t I?

She came back after twenty minutes to wash my hair. It was wonderful to feel her fingers running across my scalp. Then she pulled out a bottle of conditioner. “I never use that stuff,” I told her. “You do now,” she replied, and worked the lotion through my hair.

When I got out of the tub, she wrapped me in a towel, and she brushed and dried my hair. “Tomorrow morning, first thing, we’re going to get you a haircut,” she told me. “It’s good that you let your hair grow out, but now you look like a little lost boy.”

“I can’t get a haircut tomorrow,” I replied. “I need to go to the other end of the ship. In fact, you might not see me for a few days.”

She laughed. “No, you don’t have to do anything at the other end of the ship tomorrow,” she countered. “You have tomorrow off, so that you and I can get acquainted. When was the last time you got your hair cut?”

“Wow. I guess it’s been a over a year,” I told her. “I, uh, you know, I’ve never been awake this long since I came onboard, and what with everything that happened, I just kind of forgot.”

“Mmm,” was her only comment. Then she walked me over and had me stand next to a chair in her sitting room. It was an old-fashioned chair, made from actual wood. “There’s one more thing we need to do before you put on your pajamas,” she said. With a single swift movement, she undid my towel so it fell to the floor. She sat down on her chair and pulled me to her suddenly. I found myself lying across her lap, my bare ass in the air, my face looking down at the floor. Oh, no, I thought. This can’t be happening. She can’t. She can’t.

“Your last mother reported that you were quite disrespectful and wildly undisciplined,” she told me. Her hand rested on my lower back, and kept me from standing up. “That’s not going to happen this time. I’m your mother now, and you’re going to do what I say. Whenever I call you and tell you to come to me, you will come to me. When I choose clothes for you to wear, you will wear those clothes, and you will keep those clothes clean and tidy. I will teach you and I will show you how a proper young lady comports herself, and you will conform to what I teach you. You are going to be a proper young lady in every way.”

“The hell I will!” I shouted. “You can’t make me do anything! I’ll go to the other end of the ship, and you’ll never find me!”

She replied in a quiet, firm voice. “Find you? Why would I need to find you? That’s Security’s job, not mine. If I tell them my daughter is missing, they will find you and they will bring you to me, and then this will happen.” With that, she began to spank me. Her hand came down on my ass in a slow, steady rhythm: slap, slap, slap! The sound was hard and loud. I wriggled and fought, but she was stronger than me, and I was in a weak position. “You’re going to be a good girl,” she said.

“No, I’m not!” I shouted, gritting my teeth. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of hearing me cry or whimper or any of that stuff. “Fuck that! Fuck it! I’m not a fucking girl! And fuck you, too! And fuck the fucking security! They don’t know everything, and neither do you!”

I fought for as long as I could, but she was inexorable. I could only bite my tongue for so long. Soon I was crying, then I was sobbing. I could hardly believe it, but she utterly subdued me. I couldn’t protest or fight any more. I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but all that came out of me was a whimper. She paused to let me cry for a bit. Then she asked me whether I was going to be a good girl. I hesitated for JUST ONE SECOND, so she renewed her spanking. My butt was burning. I’d never experienced a spanking before, and it hurt like blazes. She stopped and asked me again whether I was going to be a good girl. This time I didn’t hesitate at all.

“Yes!” I shouted. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Yes, what?” she asked. “Say it.”

“Yes, I’m going to be a good girl!”

“Yes, you’re going to be a good girl, who?”

I hesitated, trying to puzzle that out, so she gave my ass a sharp slap. “Try Yes, Mom,” she suggested.

“Yes, Mom, I am going to be a good girl.”

“You’re going to do everything I say?”

“Yes, Mom. I will do everything you say.”

“And will you wear whatever clothes I tell you to wear?”

“Yes, Mom. I will wear the clothes you tell me to wear.”

“Good girl,” she said, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “I hope you mean that, because if you don’t, this is what will happen. You don’t want to be spanked again, do you?”

“No, Mom.”

“Good girl. Tell me one more time that you’re going to be a good girl.”

I did. Of course I did.

When she let me up, I put on the silly pajamas as quickly as I could. Then she set a soft pillow on her couch, and sat me on the pillow. She snuggled down next to me and put her arm around me. Together we watched an old Audrey Hepburn movie. Somewhere in the middle of it, my head began to nod and I began to fade, so she helped me to my bed.

 

---

 

The next morning she showed me a bra and panty set. It was pink lace. “I don’t need a bra,” I told her.

“You’re right,” she agreed, “You don’t need one yet, but I want you to get used to wearing one. It will remind you that you are, in fact, a girl.”

The underwear fit me perfectly -- no surprise there: the clothes-fab had constructed them exactly for me. What I should have expected (but didn't!) was that the panties would suit my new anatomy far better than men's boxers. Next, Mom produced a pink dress with short sleeves. Aside from its pinkness, it was fairly plain and workable. I couldn’t help but ask, though, “Will I only be wearing pink from now on?”

She stopped short and smiled. “Fair point! I may have gotten stuck on the pink theme here. Good catch! I’ll mix it up, don’t worry.”

I shrugged and put the dress on.

“This is a skater dress, because of the skirt,” she told me. “A skater skirt is basically a circle with a hole in the middle.”

“Why ‘skater’?” I asked.

“Because skaters want the skirt to move with them.” She had me swish my hips back and forth, and then twirl. “See how it follows you? It’s a nice effect.”

We had a light breakfast, then went off to the hair stylist. She didn’t do anything wild or absurdly girly. She gave me a modern asymmetrical cut that was pretty simple and easy to take care of. “Basically I’ve just cleaned up your hair,” she said. “Got rid of the split ends, the overgrown parts… evened things up.”

“Evened things up… asymmetrically,” I joked. She froze. “Don’t you like it?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, yes, I love it!” I assured her. “I’m just being silly. Thanks, it’s really nice and cool.”

She smiled, and dusted her chair with a towel. Then she said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I agreed.

“When are you going to change your name?” she asked.

“Uh… do I have to?”

“Well, I would think so. Fergus is a very masculine name. Would you like a suggestion?”

I shrugged in a noncommittal way.

“Fergusdotter. Isn’t that a nice name? Dotter is Swedish for daughter, so it means ‘daughter of Fergus’ -- and that’s kind of what you are!” She smiled triumphantly, obviously proud of her invention.

I didn’t know what to say, but Mom spoke up. “That’s a lovely suggestion. We’ll write that down, won’t we, Fergus? In the end, though, Fergus will have to find her own new name -- that is, if she wants a new name.”

The stylist stopped smiling. She couldn’t tell whether she was being complimented or being blown off.

When we were out of earshot, I said in a low voice, “Thanks for telling her to fuck off back there.”

“Hmm,” my mother replied. “My pleasure. She’s kind of nosy, so I got some satisfaction for my own sake, too.” She stopped walking, put her hand on my arm, and looked at me. “You understand, I hope, that the point of all of this isn’t just to train and guide you: the real point is that none of us wants you to go through this alone.”

All in all, she ended up being my best mother, even counting the woman who actually gave me birth. Mom No. 4 never spanked me again, or even raised her voice. She wasn’t autocratic; she considered my opinions and my tastes. She never made me wear anything that I really disliked.

Her legacy -- what she truly changed in me -- is that after spending three months with her, I never wore mens clothes again. I got to like women’s underwear, dresses, skirts, and all that. It was nice to be able to wear colors and to put together outfits. She taught me how to take care of my hair and skin and nails. She gave me good habits that I never lost afterward.

Unfortunately, after those three months, I never saw her again. I think of her often, and of all the mothers I was assigned, she is the only one I really miss.

And yet, in spite of coming to like girls clothes, I was still determined to change myself back. I didn’t want to remain a girl.

I wasn’t obsessive, but I spent a LOT of time studying profiles. They were immensely complex. Their logic wasn’t linear. Even though it was mapped out in a file, which is essentially two-dimensional, the information spanned several independent dimensions. Each profile was broken up into 27 sections, and each section contained 30 subsections. As I studied the code that ran the reset function, I found that the meaning of one value in any subsection could vary incredibly, depending on apparently random values in other sections. It was mind-bending.

At the same time, the profiles were becoming very familiar to me. I could pick out the various subsections from across a room, and I could tell that my study was stretching my cognitive abilities. My mind was struggling to build a model that could comprehend the profiles’ complexity. I was pretty sure that I could do it; after all, a human being designed the profile’s format. Whoever they were, they weren’t superhuman. If they could write it, eventually I’d be able to read it.

Something else became clear to me: I could see why my profile wasn’t validated or checked before I was reset -- a profile is so immensely complex, you’d need a huge synthetic intelligence, built purely for that purpose. It would not only have to verify that a profile was coherent and consistent -- which is a massive task in itself -- it would also need to check that the profile corresponded to the person it was being applied to. To perform the second part, it would have to be able to calculate that the profile was a younger version of the person lying on the bed. Another massive task.

I was learning so much!

One day I took a glance at one of the other corrupted profiles, and something jumped out at me. If I hadn’t spent so much time reading profiles, I probably never would have seen it. There, in someone else’s bad profile, was the same block of corrupted data that occurred in mine. It cut across the same three sections in the same way, in the same location. Of course, it was compressed, so I couldn’t be 100% positive that it was identical, so I extracted it and compared it to the junk in my own profile. They matched. Exactly. Huh.

So I pulled out the junk from the other contaminated profiles and compared them as well. They were identical. The block of garbage was the same in every single case, and it always occurred in the same spot.

I spent two weeks digging into that block of junk data, trying to make some kind of sense out of it, but I couldn’t find a decompression algorithm or a cryptological method that rendered any meaning from it.

So, I called up the current engineering lead, a man named Nelson. He is a very sleek Afro-Asian man -- incredibly handsome, and extremely professional. I explained what I’d found. He listened without comment. Then I said, “I don’t know whether this makes sense. Should we expect random junk to be more random? Is it bad for bad data to be identical in every case?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “On the one hand, you have one defect that always gives the same result. That makes sense. On the other hand, is it intentionally the same? What is this junk, and where did it come from? Where did it pull this data from in the first place?”

“Exactly!”

Nelson asked me to put the bad data on a safe stick and physically walk it over to his virtual sandbox. “I’ll set up a port you can use. We don’t want to go copying this and sending it around the ship without knowing what it is.”

“Right,” I agreed. “Also, I looked into the parts lists for every device onboard, to see if we got anything else from Herman’s Human, but it was only that one egg-shaped sensor in the sleep pods.”

“Yeah,” Nelson agreed. “Qurakas also did that very same search, but -- good thinking, Fergus. Good looking out. I’m going to note that in the official report. It helps to have independent verifications.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He paused and looked at me. I could tell he was considering whether to tell me something.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You do realize the implications of this, don’t you? The sensors, the junk data...”

“Yes,” I replied. “It could be sabotage.”

“Right,” he agreed. “Don’t repeat this, but our official conclusion is that the presence of the defective sensors was an act of deliberate sabotage. It’s rather obvious sabotage as well. You must have seen that. They wanted us to see that it was done on purpose.”

“Yes -- there was exactly one bad sensor in each box. It’s a slap in our faces.”

“Unfortunately, there isn’t anything we can do about it, other than send the information in a bongo ball, but who knows when it will reach Earth?” Bongo balls are small space probes used to send messages back to Earth. While they travel, they beam their payload ahead via laser. It’s our only way of talking to the people back home. Obviously it’s a one-way conversation.

“But…” I hesitated “what would be the point of the sabotage?”

“My theory -- and it’s only a theory -- is that ultimately they meant to kill us all. Luckily, you caught the corruption in its early stages, when it was small enough for us to cope with. I’m confident that if we hadn’t replaced the profiles, the corruption would have slowly spread beyond the profiles, seeping into other systems, shutting down the ship. At the very least, it would have screwed up some of our profiles to the point that a reset would kill. It wouldn't have to kill all of us. One kill, late in the voyage, would be terrifying. It would put everybody off the rejuvenation beds. These are just theories, though, and I realize that there are lot of pieces that I can’t prove, so don’t go repeating it. We don’t want to frighten people unnecessarily. Okay?”

A chill went through me. “Who would do such a thing?” I asked.

“Come on, you know who. The Christmas People are not above that kind of shit,” he observed. The Christmas People are a group of activists, or terrorists, depending on your point of view. They have a religious belief that it’s wrong to leave Earth, and are violently opposed to the Kingdom Ship project.

After Nelson made a few more comments about the Christmas People’s extremism, he was about to end the call. I stopped him. There was one more thing I wanted to talk about.

“Nelson, you know I’ve been spending a lot of time on the profiles, and it’s occurred to me that they could be used for some other really interesting applications. I don’t mean immediately… all these ideas would require serious development and testing, and so forth. At this point, they’re just ideas… things I can’t get out of my head.

“So, anyway, there are four areas I’ve identified.” As I spoke, I became quite nervous. I hadn’t spoken of this to anyone, and I was afraid I might sound crazy. At the very least, I was sure I’d sound impractical. “The first area is cloning: we could take a profile, and make an exact copy of a person!”

“Cloning! Why? Are you looking for a twin sister, Fergus?” Nelson asked, eyes twinkling.

“No, no,” I responded, waving my hands.

“I’m just teasing,” he assured me. “Go on, I’m listening.”

“That leads to the second area: resurrection, for lack of a better word. Suppose we lost a crew member in an accident? We use their profile to create them all over again.”

“Sounds a little dangerous... a little creepy... but still interesting. Go on.”

“The third area is storage: do you realize that if you combine two of our biggest storage devices, we’d have enough memory to fit the entire population of Earth? That’s everybody! With space left over!”

“Interesting,” Nelson commented, doing a little mental math. “We could certainly store everyone’s profile, that’s true.”

“And then, uh, we’d wake them up when we need them. We could put all of Earth’s population on every Kingdom ship that leaves Earth!”

“Hmmph,” Nelson said thoughtfully. “These are certainly big ideas. What’s the last one?”

“Teleportation,” I said. “That’s probably the most way-out, but if you consider that we already transmit profiles electronically, whenever they’re copied or accessed. It’s just a small step to send them via radio or laser or even through a wire, and in that way we could move a person from one place to another.”

“Wow.” Nelson fell silent for a few moments, considering what I’d said. “That’s really far out, creative thinking. Far, far out. It’s a whole world of possibilities and implications. However, there’s one great big roadblock to putting any of it into practice. Do you see it?”

“No, I don't.”

“Where do you get the new bodies from? What are the profiles acting on? When you make a clone, or teleport, or whatever, you can’t create a person out of nothing. So what do you apply the profile to? If you were to ‘resurrect’ someone, you wouldn’t want to apply the profile to their corpse, right? What if it only half worked, and you got some kind of zombie? Or you ‘resurrected’ someone and ended up creating a person whose body was in perpetual pain?”

I deflated. “Oh… I hadn’t thought of that.”

"And if you teleport someone, what happens to their original body? What makes it disappear? I mean, how do they actually travel? Aren't you really just making a clone, far away? I mean, you don't want to kill the person on the sending side, just for the sake of having only one copy."

"Yeah... no..." I said, feeling very stupid. "What you said is all so obvious, but none of it occurred to me."

“Hey, hey, don’t get discouraged! You’ve taken a big, bold step, but it’s only the first step. These are good ideas. Really good ideas. They need to be developed -- heh, they need to be literally fleshed out -- and maybe in the future -- maybe even in the near future -- we’ll figure out what a person could be cloned into, or teleported into. A new body? A synthetic body? Who knows?

“There's one thing you really need to keep in mind: you don’t have to solve every problem all by yourself. For all we know, someone else already has the necessary ideas, the ones that complement your own, and together those ideas could give us possibilities we can’t even imagine now.”

A little embarrassed by his praise, I shrugged and smiled shyly.

“Listen, Fergus, I want you to write all of that down, as soon as you can. It doesn’t have to be a long discourse; just get the essential ideas written, even if it's just a couple of lines, and send it to me. I’m putting together a bongo ball to report on the sabotage. I’ll put your memorandum in there as well, and send it back to Earth. Get some other people thinking about it. Maybe even Dr Idlewild himself. Okay? Good job, Fergus!”

It certainly felt great to have my ideas validated in that way. It was exciting to see that Nelson thought my ideas were important enough to include in a message back to Earth. His response gave me a lot of energy and determination to continue my work with the profiles. That’s when I began to call it my work. It wasn’t just “study” any more. It was my mission.

Nelson thought that Dr Idlewild himself might even be interested! The genius who first conceived of the Kingdom Ships, the man who invented both the sleep pods and the rejuvenation beds! Well… he at least ought to be interested to see what his inventions had done to me!

Nelson’s validation of my ideas and my new dedication to my work didn’t just help my self-esteem: they gave me a profound sense of purpose. They gave my life meaning, as corny as that may sound.

In all honesty and sincerity, its what kept me sane in the years ahead, and I really needed it, because in a couple of years my life took a wild left turn.

The Endless Dance Card : 5 / 7

A Kingdom Ship Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

My first clue about how my life was going to change was when I heard about the pools. There were two pools, two betting pools. Whoever picked the date closest to my entering puberty would win the first pool. Whoever picked the date closest to my official sexual maturity would win the second.

The rules excluded me from betting, and I guess everyone assumed that I knew about the pools, so for a few days, I was the only person onboard who didn’t know about them. It’s not that the pools were secret; it’s just that I was the last person anyone would mention them to.

The pools introduced two new elements to life onboard: one was obvious; the other was somewhat subtle. The first new aspect was that people started sizing me up. Ever since I turned into a girl, people regularly came to look at me, but now they looked at me in a different way. Instead of just glancing at me, they were studying me: looking me up and down, scanning my chest and hips. These weren’t gazes of desire or glances of appreciation -- these were more like clinical assessments.

The second, more subtle element was that suddenly everyone became an expert in the stages of the Tanner scale. That was an aspect that took longer to emerge in conversation, but it definitely influenced the character of the casual analytic appraisals I was subjected to each day.

After maybe two days of noticing the strange new looks I was getting, I finally learned about the pools, quite by accident. One of the engineers rather stupidly spilled the beans. I found out later that he’d broken the rules of the contest by his direct questions, but it didn’t matter: he wouldn’t have won anyway.

The guy asked me flat out, “How are your breasts coming along?” I was of course taken aback and offended, but I answered, “My breasts are as flat as yours, asshole.” The asshole I added mentally, but I felt it was pretty obviously present in my tone. He didn’t pick up on it. He was clearly disappointed with my answer, so he tried a more specific question: “You don’t feel any growth? Like a bump under your nipples, maybe?”

“No,” I said, amping up my level of hostility. He still didn’t get it.

“On either side?”

“No, asshole.” This time I said the word aloud, and miraculously, he got the message.

“Hey, sorry! You don’t need to get all in a huff! I'm just asking on account of the pool!” -- which naturally led me to ask, “What pool?”

He explained the whole thing to me -- as though this contest was the most natural thing in the world. I was stunned, and for a few moments I was left utterly without words. Then I shook my head and asked, “So, the -- uh -- winner… what prize do they get?”

I expected him to give a stupid, joking response, “They win you!” or to give the more likely response, “Nothing!” Instead, he astonished me by saying that the prize for winning the first pool was a bottle of champagne.

“Champagne!” I exclaimed. “And who is putting up *that* prize?”

He shrugged. Then he told me that the winner of the second pool would get two bottles of champagne, two bottles of Barolo, and an “elegant steak dinner for up to four people.”

“What the hell!” I exclaimed. Then after a moment, I asked, “What’s Barolo?”

He shrugged again. “I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of fancy wine.”

“Again, who is providing all that? Where on Earth did they get it? You can’t food-fab that stuff!”

“I dunno,” he responded. “They probably brought it from Earth, like you said. Or maybe the higher-ups can food-fab it. Who can say?”

The conversation really stuck in my craw. I was angry and offended, and that was only the shallow end of my emotional response. My informant, dumb as he was, had enough sensitivity to realize that I was fuming. So he tried to douse the flame while it was only smoldering.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s not about you -- it’s for the ship’s morale, you know? Do you realize, we could go for a thousand years on this ship without a single thing happening? I mean literally THOUSANDS OF YEARS. Each time I wake up for a new shift, I wonder What wild or interesting or fun thing happened in the last five years while I was asleep? You know? We’re in the middle of fucking outer space, where no one has ever been before, so you’d think that SOMETHING weird or out-of-this-world would happen every couple of days. But I wake up once every five years, and NOTHING! Nothing ever happens here. You are the single biggest event since we left Earth, and I doubt that anything’s going to top you for a long, long time.”

He shrugged a few more times, and moved his hands inarticulately. Then he said, “Try to not get all bent out of shape. Maybe it’s uncomfortable for you to be the center of attention, but can you let the rest of us enjoy the first blip in this monotonous eternity?”

 

---

 

I was so absorbed by the breakthroughs I was making with the profiles that I forgot about the pools and my impending physical changes. What I mean is I never thought about either the pools or my sexual development unless someone else broached the subject. And as I said, it was over a year after my accident before I entered puberty. For that first year, my general feeling (and my fervent wish!) was that puberty would never happen. When it finally began, there wasn’t any fanfare: it was a pretty humdrum event. One morning I woke up with a little lump under my left breast. That was the whole thing. I assumed it was a blocked lymph node or a weirdly placed pimple or some such thing. I expected it to go away after a day or two. Yes, I realize now that it was exactly the event that the not-so-bright engineer had asked me about, and yes, I realize that it was not very bright of me to not know what the little lump was or what it meant, but I didn’t connect it with puberty or being female because it only appeared on one side.

When I went for my medical check-in two days later, the doctor could barely conceal her excitement. “When did this first appear?” she asked me.

I was kind of grumpy. I hadn’t slept well, and the stupid lump had zero importance to me. “I don’t know. Two days ago? Three days ago?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re not sure? Think, Fergusdotter, think!”

Oh, yes -- by the way, as weird as it sounded when the hair stylist first said it, I couldn’t get Fergusdotter out of my head. The name kept banging around in my cranium. At the same time, people kept pestering me to change my name, and making suggestions that I found silly and/or excessively girly. Obviously, the only way to make it stop was to choose a name, any name. Three times I came close: I actually came up with a name, liked it, settled on it, and was just about to make the official change, when some asshole suggested exactly that name to me. By telling me the name -- or any name, really -- they unwittingly took the name out of the running, because I didn’t want someone else to feel that THEY had chosen my name. It got to the point that I couldn’t remember whether I came up with a name or had it suggested to me. So I said to myself, Fuck ‘em. They want me to change my name? Let’s see how they handle this one! and I officially changed my name to Fergusdotter. To my chagrin -- but I have to admit, to my pleasure as well -- it turned out that everybody LOVED the name. No one even tried to give me a nickname. Everyone got it on the first try. Everybody trotted out all four syllables, every chance they got. Some people even went to the trouble of finding me just for the sake of saying my name and telling me how much they loved it.

Well, I liked it, too. In the end, I was glad that my new name didn’t piss anyone off.

Now… back to the lump. “It was two days ago,” I told the doctor. “I’m sure. I noticed it when I first woke up. Is it bad? Is it just a pimple? I tried to squeeze it, but I couldn’t get it to break.”

“Oh, no!” the doctor cried. “Don’t do that! This is it, Fergusdotter! This is thelarche! It’s a breast bud. It’s the first sign of puberty. It’s stage one on the Tanner scale.”

“Mmm,” I mused. “Someone will be very happy.”

The doctor looked up at me, puzzled. “Someone?” she repeated.

“The pool,” I explained. “Somebody just won the first pool.”

Then she got it. “Oh, yes, of course! The pool! Yeah... someone. But what about you? Aren’t you happy?”

I shrugged. “It’s just a bump.”

She laughed. “I have the feeling you’re going to have a nice pair of bumps before long!”

“We’ll see!” I replied. I still didn’t believe that I’d get to the point of having breasts. I had made a lot of headway on the profiles: In fact, I developed a mapping system that builds a holographic image of a person, based on their profile. I’d also been studying the plastic-surgery pod, to see how it executes its changes. Hopefully, I’d be able to incorporate parts of the reset system along with parts of the plastic-surgery pod, and create a new device that could regenerate a person according to the changes I’d make in my mapping system.

My mapping system was nearly bug-free. It rendered people perfectly. I was almost able to use my tool to edit the hologram and to save those changes to a new profile -- depending on what those changes were. I impressed the engineers by (potentially) correcting physical defects. One member of the crew was born with one leg shorter than the other. I managed to make him a new profile where his legs were the same length. There was a lot of discussion about whether we could ethically try the new profile on the man, but for me, the act of creating a new, valid profile was a huge step forward.

There were other, similar successes, but none of them were really visceral. I mean, none of the changes I made went deep into the body. So I found a challenge that really made me struggle and sweat: we have a crew member who donated one of her kidneys back on Earth. I wanted to see if I could replace the missing kidney. The process was much harder than I expected. We all knew that the rejuvenation bed could do some pretty miraculous things, including replacing SMALL missing body parts -- like a finger or toe, or a tooth, or -- most commonly -- lost hair. And it was capable of repairing damaged internal organs if the damage wasn't too extensive, but if something big was missing, like an arm or leg or inner organ, it couldn’t bring them back.

There were two problems: one was the creation of new tissue. I still didn’t understand where the rejuvenation bed got the material to replace a missing finger, for instance. The plastic-surgery pod presented the same mystery: when it built up parts of a missing face, where did it get the bones and other tissue from?

The second problem was aligning the markers. It turned out that the rejuvenation bed and the profiles shared a system of reference called skeletal markers. They weren’t, strictly speaking, based on our skeletons, although I suspect that they began that way. My mapping system could visualize a person’s markers -- I mean, it could create a holographic image of white points and connecting lines. These points and lines sketched out a human body. It was very difficult to work on, and extremely frustrating to edit. In some parts of the body, the concentration of dots and lines is particularly dense, and as a general rule you can’t move one point without affecting a mess of other points.

Really significant changes to a person’s profile required changes to the markers as well, and that could be very tedious. I was trying to automate the process, but before I could do that, I had to understand it better.

One thing I encountered while working on the missing kidney: I had no idea how to set up the markers where the left kidney was supposed to be. The human body isn’t completely symmetric, so I couldn’t just mirror the setup on the right side.

Often the effort of editing the markers would utterly exhaust me, but it was always exciting. Knowing how to work the markers was clearly essential to changing me back.

Each new crew would organize a day so that I could brief its scientists, med personnel, and engineers about my work. Some of the engineers and software folks were so interested, they wanted to come work alongside me, but they couldn’t get clearance from their supervisors. I was hoping that that might change in a few more months, as my breakthroughs continued. I felt a kind of deadline approaching. Maybe it wasn't a deadline. Maybe it was only a dreadline: I was dreading the day when my own crew would wake up and start its turn of duty. In spite of all I achieved, I was afraid that Qurakas would stop my work and shut me down. His words kept echoing in my head -- that what I was doing "was not essential to life or to our mission." That phrase hung like an invisible sword over my head. And of course, it was Qurakas who said that changing me back to my original gender was "not an issue." I definitely had to get this done before he woke up again!

 

---

 

A little over two years after the appearance of the lump under my nipple, I had my first period. It wasn’t as bad as I feared. Luckily, it didn’t catch me completely off guard. The day it happened, I woke up grumpy. Just the act of getting dressed and ready for the day seemed full of complications. Everything was rumpled or tangled or inside-out; I swore that nothing was where I left it; everything smelled funny or tasted funny. I didn’t like any of my clothes. The first thing on my schedule was a full-morning meeting with some of the engineering team. It was all about that block of bad data from my profile. During a recent check, it was found in the navigation system. It was caught soon after it appeared, and only because we were routinely checking for it. That damn data block turned out to be a clever virus that had a way of hiding itself as it propagated from one system to the next. The main reason we’d gotten ahead of it was because it was a very slow-moving cyber-infection.

When we were two hours into the meeting, an engineer named Erasmus raised the question of how exactly the data block arrived in the navigation system. He got stuck on the idea that my sandbox, which still contained copies of all the profiles, was a hotbed for the cyber-infection. Several people contradicted him on that point. Sandboxes were physically separate from every other ship network. There was no way for a virus to leap out of a sandbox. Of course, it didn’t hurt to examine that belief, but the way he talked about it irritated the hell out of me. Luckily, I was able to bite my lip.

Next, Erasmus suggested that the data block might be moving through the power system or radiating via electromagnetic waves. The second idea was silly, but the first one -- propagation through the power system -- was definitely worth exploring.

It took four days to determine that his intuition was correct, and this idea led to the ultimate defeat of the virus.

At the time, though, his comments seriously pissed me off. I managed to keep my cool during the meeting, but once it was over, I had lunch with my mother -- the woman who was my mother at that time. Just to make conversation, she asked how the meeting had gone. That question was enough to light my fuse, and I took off. By a lucky chance, the two of us were dining alone, so no one overheard me. I called Erasmus all sorts of insulting names, belittled his intelligence, and wondered why he was so hostile to me (actually he wasn’t, but that’s how I felt in that moment). After verbally ripping Erasmus to pieces, and complaining about how fucked up everything in general was, I fell quiet. It was embarrassing. I rarely, if ever, let go like that. Also, I didn’t believe a word of what I’d said. “I don’t know why I’m so touchy,” I told my mother. “I’m sorry for unloading on you like that. I really don’t mean any of it.”

“It’s alright,” she said. “I think you’re on your period.”

And so I was. That night, just as I was getting into bed, I felt something wet between my legs, so I ran to the bathroom. Just in time. There was blood. It wasn’t a flood or an explosion; it was messy, but not too messy. I got some small spots on my sheets and pajamas, so I rinsed them quickly in cold water. Although no one had seen any of this, I felt thoroughly embarrassed. I remade my bed and put on fresh pajamas. Then I sat on my bed in silence as the reality of what had just happened sank in. For the first time, I felt the impossibility of my ever changing back to Fergus the man. Sure, my body had changed a lot over the past two years, but to actually experience my first period, and to know that there would be many, many more... I had crossed the Rubicon, whether I wanted to or not.

Of course, that wasn’t the end of my sexual development. I still had plenty of changes to go through; all the rest of the Tanner scale: my hips widening, my breasts getting more round and smooth, my labia fleshing out. Each new development embarrassed me, and reminded me how far I'd gone from where I used to be.

At some point along the way, I had a discussion with one of the engineering leads about my plans. He listened attentively, then told me, “I’m really impressed with the work you’ve done, Fergusdotter. Everyone is. But you do realize that in the end we can’t let you try to reverse-engineer the accident. It's too dangerous. I mean, essentially you’d be taking someone else’s profile and trying to apply it to yourself.”

“That’s what happened the first time,” I pointed out.

“Not exactly,” he replied. “Even though it misread your profile, your body -- as it was -- wasn’t so far off what it turned you into.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m trying to account for that. If I can line up all the markers--”

He shook his head. “Look at yourself, Fergusdotter. By now, you’re distinctly female. You’re already vastly different from the profile they took of you right after the accident. I don’t think you could even apply that profile to yourself any more!”

“I’m working on recovering my original profile,” I explained. “You know that.”

“You’ll probably succeed in that,” he told me, “but that doesn’t mean you’ll be able to use it. It won’t change you back to the original Fergus. Like I said, you’re too far off -- too different -- from any profile that’s ever been taken of you. Even when you get your original profile back, it’s either not going to work at all, or it’s going to fuck you up in some horrible way.”

“You don’t know that,” I pointed out.

“No, I don’t. But I’m pretty confident that those are the most likely possibilities. Think about this: what would happen if you took MY profile and tried to reset it yourself to that?”

I blushed deep red. “It wouldn’t work.”

“Right,” he said. “You ought to think about WHY it wouldn’t work. Maybe -- if you knew then all the things you know now -- you might have had a chance at the outset, before you started developing, but now you’ve deviated too far from the person your profile says you are.”

“Hmmph,” I said. “I wish someone had told me that before I put in all those years of work!”

“Come on, now! You can’t say that! I’m quite sure that you were told from the outset, and reminded many times along the way. I have seen the reports from the other engineering leads, you know. Are you honestly going to tell me that anyone led you to believe that you had any chance of success in reversing what happened to you?”

“No,” I replied, shamefaced.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But remember: your misfortune has saved the lives of the rest of us several times over, and all the work and study you’ve done since then hasn’t gone to waste. Every time we send a bongo ball to Earth, it’s got something from you in it. You know that, right?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re a frikking genius, Fergusdotter. I hope that’s some kind of consolation.”

I nodded. I couldn’t find anything more to say, so the two of us shook hands and walked away. In spite of his compliments and his attempt to build me up, that conversation was the death knell to my efforts to return to who I was. I finished up my work on the mapping program. I completed the documentation I’d been writing about profiles and their use, and that was that. I wasn’t happy, but I knew I’d done all I could.

Then, as a team, and with my knowledge and approval, the engineering team permanently deleted my sandbox. It turned out that Erasmus was not only correct about the virus moving through the power system, he was also right about my sandbox being the virus' breeding ground. It had to go. With it went all the corrupted profiles, including my own. I asked to be the one to 86 it. I typed the commands that obliterated my sandbox. I hit enter. Once they finished, I verified that the sandbox was completely and utterly gone. Then I asked Erasmus to verify my work. He nodded. "It's gone," he said simply. I felt as though I'd witnessed a boat sink into the ocean and disappear.

 

---

 

The med team and the psychs met with me, and together we agreed on a couple of things: (1) they would quit assigning “mothers” to me. I didn’t need the close support any more. (2) I’d continue with weekly psych sessions; (3) My med check-ins would drop to once a month. (4) I’d stay awake until my crew woke up, and then join them in the sleep pods when their three-month shift was done. That would be a little over a year from now.

“The extra time will give your body more time to settle into its current configuration. Then, just before you and your crew go back to sleep, we’ll take a new profile of you, and that will be that.” It was an approach that made sense to me.

Why did I want to continue the psych sessions? I needed to talk about the end of my efforts to change back. I wasn’t sad or angry or frustrated. I did have some feelings I couldn’t name, but overall what I felt was a deep sense of loss.

The business of maturing into a young woman had come along so slowly, I unconsciously got used to it. It blended into the background of my life, for the most part. I began having regular sex with men. (I almost said “other men.”) I found that I liked it, but I wasn’t finding any emotional aspect in it. Given my “celebrity” status, it was easy to find sexual partners. I came to realize that what I most wanted to do was to spend time exploring individual sexual sensations… to stop at some points to just feel that part of the sex act, and not rush on to the orgasm, but I haven’t yet found a man willing to take the time.

I talked with the psychs about all of that, too. It was good to be able to unpack my experiences with them.

Everything went along the way life does, one day after another. Things happened, things didn’t happen. Newly-woken crews came out of their way to meet me. I had to remember that, as old as my situation was to me, it was startling and new to each of them.

At last, we came to the month before my crew would come back online. I found myself getting anxious. These were the people onboard who I knew best, and I’d changed quite a bit since they’d last seen me -- I’d changed inside and out.

I have to say, as a preface to the things that happened when they awoke, was that I wasn’t a particularly attractive girl. I was okay; I was plain, but I was good-looking enough. I didn’t have an amazing figure or a striking face. I was definitely female, but I was no femme fatale.

So, when my crew woke up and I ran into Lt Donaldson, I was pretty surprised by the way he ate me up with his eyes. His eyes roamed over my body with a disconcerting hunger. In fact, he couldn’t take his eyes off me. It was pretty uncomfortable, and downright weird. Whenever I’d talk to him, his eyes would land on my breasts and slide slowly down to my crotch. Whenever I’d walk away from him, I could feel his eyes on my ass. There was something disturbing about it: it wasn’t ordinary lust. There was something else in there, something that I couldn’t identify, like some kind of fetish.

I almost found out what it was in a meeting two weeks after my crew woke up.

Lt Donaldson called me to a small conference room. I sat on one side of a table, and Donaldson sat opposite me. To his left and right were a medical doctor, a psych, a woman I didn’t know, and Qurakas, my team lead. The doctor and the psych were both women, and they were clearly uncomfortable. I figured they were creeped out by Donaldson, who had a feverish look. His eyes seemed ready to pop out of his head. He began by asking me, “Are you familiar with the Idlewild Protocol?”

“Protocol?” I repeated. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, I know the name Idlewild, of course, but I don't know of any Idlewild Protocol.”

“Of course you don't,” Donaldson replied. “It’s classified. Highly classified. I’m about to declassify it -- to some extent.” He smiled. “Do you remember, back on Earth, during your training, there was a week of tests to identify Idlewild Candidates?”

“Oh, yes -- how could I forget! They were the most painful tests I ever endured.”

“But you were not found to be an Idlewild Candidate.”

“No, I wasn’t. And they wouldn’t tell us what it meant.”

“I’m about to tell you,” Donaldson replied. “But in order to understand what an Idlewild Candidate is, we need to take a step back and think about what we're all doing here on this ship, out in space. We all know our mission: to find new homes for the human race, and to propagate. It's the ancient directive of go forth and multiply. If you think about it, it’s clear that a ship like this, with this mission like this, doesn’t actually need men at all. You need women and you need sperm. But at the same time, our mission isn’t simply to find new planets and settle them -- it’s also to escape an Earth that’s nearly depleted of resources. That’s the Kingdom Ship project in a nutshell.”

I nodded. Everyone knew that.

“Everyone is meant to go. No one is left behind to languish and die on Earth. All of that is clear.

“Now, Dr Idlewild, the father of the Kingdom Ship project, made many inventions, uncovered many unknown truths... and one of his remarkable discoveries is that there are some men who, under certain circumstances, can turn into women. Those tests you took -- those painful tests -- identified men with this… um, possibility.”

I frowned. “This would have been useful for me to know five years ago. Why are you only telling me this now?”

Qurakas' eyebrows went up at that, and he looked at Donaldson. Did Qurakas have the same question?

Donaldson seemed surprised by my interruption. “Well… obviously... you weren't told because it didn’t apply to you! It still doesn’t apply to you. We just agreed that you weren’t an Idlewild Candidate. It’s in your record, in your file.”

“Right… but this is about changing gender, right? That's what happened to me, and that's what I've been trying to undo. So my question remains: why did you wait until now to tell me this?”

Donaldson held up his hand, palm facing me, to signal me to stop. I wasn’t talking anyway: I was waiting for him to answer, so I just shrugged. After a pause, Donaldson picked up the thread again. “On this ship, we have just over 1500 women, plus thousands of fertilized embryos and a gestation system… so we’re pretty well set as far as propagation is concerned, but once Idlewild found out about the possibility presented by the Idlewild Candidates, he decided it was prudent to develop it as an additional redundancy.”

“And how exactly do these men turn into women?” I asked.

Again, he seemed surprised by my question. “There’s a machine on board that does it,” he replied, as if that was obvious.

”WHAT!?" I shouted. “Are you kidding me? Do you know how hard I’ve been working to change back to who I was? And NOW you tell me that there’s a machine onboard that does what I’ve been trying to do?”

“No, no,” Donaldson said. He seemed more irritated than alarmed by my outburst. “It doesn’t do what you want! It goes the other way: it turns men into women.”

“Maybe I can make it go the other way!”

“No,” Donaldson said. “You’re not listening to me. Your behavior is getting a little out of hand. This isn’t the reason I called this meeting. This is not where I meant to go at all! I have an agenda!”

“I want to see this machine!” I shouted. “How could you keep this a secret from me?”

The psych and the doctor jumped up from their chairs and came around to my side of the table. One of them put her hand on my shoulder. “Look,” the pysch told Donaldson, “You’ve got to give her time to examine this machine. She’s earned the right.”

“That’s not what this meeting is about,” Donaldson insisted.

I was trembling, I was so angry. “Don’t worry,” the doctor whispered to me, “We’ll make sure that you see that machine.”

Donaldson and the psych argued back and forth while the rest of us listened. Donaldson continued to insist that we “stick to the meeting agenda” while the psych insisted that I be given time to examine and study Idlewild’s machine.

After a few minutes of listening to their fruitless argument, Qurakas broke the stalemate by slapping the table with his open hand. The abrupt sound made everyone jump. “This is ridiculous,” he said, and he gazed at Donaldson with open disdain. “If there is a machine onboard that can change a person’s gender, Fergus should have been told about it five years ago, when this first began. If I had been aware of it then, I would have told her -- classified or not. Now that I’m aware of this machine, and have access to it, my team and I will ensure that Fergusdotter has full and free access to it, and any related materials, for as much time as she needs. Anyone who tries to prevent this from happening, will answer to me.”

I almost wanted to cry. Almost.

The Endless Dance Card : 6 / 7

A Kingdom Ship Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Donaldson’s eyes flashed fire. “We’ll see about that!” he said in a tense tone. “We’ll see about that!” He grabbed his tablet and abruptly left the room, followed by the woman I didn’t know.

The doctor, the psych and I looked at Qurakas. He looked into my eyes and said, “We need to move. Thank God I’m awake.” He put his hand on my shoulder and said with more urgency, “Now. We need to move NOW. Let’s go.” The two women looked at each other, and in unplanned unison said, “Anything we can do, let us know.”

“Thanks,” he replied. He pulled me out of my chair and into the hall. Once we were out of anyone’s earshot, he said in a low voice, “We need to seize that chamber, now.”

“Chamber?” I asked. “What chamber?”

“The one with the fucking Idlewild machine,” he growled, and started walking briskly down the hall. I trotted behind, trying to keep up. As he walked, Qurakas gave orders into his wrist device. He directed Jimson, who was in virtual mode, to project into the Idlewild Chamber, and once there, to disable projected access.

“Should I disable projected access to the Security team as well?” Jimson asked.

“Absolutely,” Qurakas. “Disable it for everyone. Then seal the room physically to everyone but me and Fergusdottor. Once the two of us arrive, no one gets in except for my engineering team, and they must be unaccompanied to enter.”

Goosebumps ran over my entire body. Qurakas wasn’t fooling around. “Projected access” is when your avatar moves instantly from one ship location to another. Its use was pretty much limited to meetings and emergencies, and it's a tool that allows Security cover a lot of ground quickly.

“Once we get to the chamber,” Qurakas told me, “I’m going to wake up half the team so we can physically hold the location while you work.”

“Are you expecting a fight?” I asked.

Qurakas smiled. “Back on Earth, I was a Boy Scout. Do you know the Boy Scout motto?”

I thought for a moment. Motto was already an ancient word, but Boy Scout? It sounded vaguely medieval, like the word “chamber.” In spite of that strangeness, his musty call to the past echoed somewhere in my deep memories, and in response a phrase came floating up from the depths of memory. ”Be Prepared?” I ventured.

Qurakas nodded. “Be Fucking-Well Prepared. If Donaldson tries to use force on you, he better bring a goddamn army, because we will be--” He looked at me to finish the sentence.

“Prepared?”

He laughed. “Good girl!” he said, and he socked me playfully on the arm.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Hell, yeah, I am!” he replied.

It took another 15 minutes for us to arrive at the “chamber.” Jimson opened the door by the barest crack to let us enter, and swiftly closed and locked it behind us. Jimson was clearly anxious. I could almost hear his nerves jangling. “So…,” he asked. “What’s going on?” His hands couldn’t stop moving -- they way one hand worked the other, it looked like he was trying to crack every knuckle from wrist to finger tip.

“The game is afoot!” Qurakas cackled. “The GAME is AFOOT!”

Jimson's face showed even more confusion, as he glanced first at Qurakas’ feet, then at mine.

 

---

 

Given the size of the ship, the number of engineers in avatar mode, and the various duties they were currently performing, it was an hour before all the engineers were assembled in the chamber. Half our number was awake and physically present. The other half arrived as avatars. Everyone knew that something was “afoot,” and the nervous, excited tension was palpable.

Qurakas scanned the room. All eyes were on him. Every faced showed full attention. He paused for a dramatic moment, then spoke:

“Welcome to the Idlewild Chamber. The existence and location of this room were classified until ninety minutes ago. It was a secret only the higher-ups were privy to. I only learned of it today -- I was automatically given access when the Idlewild Protocol was declassified.”

Jimson raised his hand to ask a question. Qurakas shook his head. “Questions later. First, I’m going to explain. Second, we’re going to prepare for war. After that, you can ask your questions.

“You all know Fergusdottor. You all knew her when she was Fergus, and you all know about the accident that changed her gender. You also know that for the past five years, while we were all asleep, she was making major efforts, every day, to find a way back to being Fergus. Her efforts, while they didn’t succeed in changing her back to who she once was, have resulted in several scientific and technological breakthroughs and innovations. She’s expanded our understanding of the profile system, the rejuvenation beds, the plastic-surgery module, and several other devices.

“She also uncovered an insidious sabotage plot -- a plot whose goal was to kill every one of us through a cyber-virus. We all owe her our lives.

“In spite of all that, in spite of everything that Fergus endured, in spite of all the efforts Fergusdottor has made, I am offended, disgusted, furious, and sick at heart, because I have to tell you that -- during all that time, unbeknownst to Fergusdottor, unbeknownst to everyone on board -- except for a precious few -- there was a machine sitting right here -- a machine whose sole function and purpose is to change a person’s gender. That’s the one: that ugly-looking metal box back there.” He gestured to the device.

“There are a few people on board, all men, who have been designated Idlewild Candidates, and this machine is supposedly able to convert those men into women -- women capable of bearing children.”

“Why?” Jimson asked.

“Questions later,” Qurakas repeated. “As I told you, today, roughly ninety minutes ago, the Idlewild Protocol was declassified. Obviously, no one’s going to try to turn Fergusdottor into a woman -- she’s already there. And there’s clearly no reason to round up the handful of Idlewild Candidates and turn them into women.

“We can only speculate about what’s coming and what it has to do with Fergusdottor, but I have a very bad feeling about it and I want to make sure that Fergusdottor has the space, the time, and the support to look into this machine and see if it could help her solve her problem. I’m afraid that someone might be trying to close a door before she steps through it.”

Jimson asked, “Is someone actually trying to stop her?”

Qurakas nodded. “It sure looks that way. Lt Donaldson, specifically, tried to prevent her from even seeing the machine, let alone studying or using it. Now, I propose that we commandeer this room and make it our command center, and we will do whatever it takes to allow Fergusdottor -- who is one of us -- to use this place in peace and security, for as long as she needs.” He looked around the room, reading the faces. “Anyone who doesn’t want a part of this, just let me know. I’ll let you get out of this room and I’ll keep you out of it.” He looked around the room and was met with expectant silence. “Otherwise…” Then, just like in a movie, he abruptly shouted, “WHO’S WITH ME?” and the room erupted in cheers.

Jeez, I said to myself, Could we really go a thousand years with nothing happening?

 

---

 

While I walked around the Idlewild device, Qurakas prepared for siege. He brought in autonomous food-fabs, water and air purifiers, and power supplies. He wheeled in a portable lavatory, and set it up in the corner. In the little space that was left, he installed engineering workstations, so our team could keep up with our duties. Lastly, he brought in stun weapons and shields. “Just in case,” he said, with a smile.

“I forgot that you were Army before you joined the ships,” I said.

“That is correct,” he replied. “And now that WE are ready, is there anything else that YOU need?”

“I just need a console, so I can plug into the device.”

Qurakas had to send one of his guys out to grab me one. I could see he was a little miffed that he hadn’t thought of that one tiny detail. He sat at my side as I turned on the Idlewild device and attached my console. “I hope you don’t mind if I watch,” he said. “It’ll give me a chance to learn something.”

One extremely helpful thing I found while studying the rejuvenation bed and the plastic-surgery module, was that, among the folders containing the operating system, program files, and utilities, there was a folder marked DOCUMENTS. As you’d expect, there was quite of bit of useful information there, although the quality varied. Some of the documents were well-written and complete. Others were obviously dashed off quickly, like the sketchiest of field notes. In any case -- and exactly as I hoped and expected -- the Idlewild device had just such a collection.

Before I began to dig into that treasure trove of information, I took a quick look around the system, and (among other things) I found the names of the Idlewild Candidates onboard. There were three of them. Three men who -- unbeknownst to them -- could apparently be converted to women if the occasion demanded.

“Shit,” Qurakas exclaimed.

“Do you know any of them?” I asked. “I don’t.”

“I know they’re on the ship, but for sure they aren’t in our crew. They’re all asleep right now.”

“Should we tell them? We could leave each one a message.”

“No,” Qurakas said. “It’s doubtful this protocol will ever be invoked. Why give them something to worry about? Something that will never happen?”

“It’s already been invoked,” I replied.

“No,” he said in a pedantic tone, “It’s been declassified, and only to a limited extent.”

“That doesn’t change anything for these three men.”

“If you tell them, you’re going to give them a problem that they won’t be able to do anything about. The only thing you’ll do is raise their anxiety level, permanently. There is no point in telling them.”

“I feel I have an obligation to tell them,” I said. “If something this momentous was hanging over my head, I’d rather know.”

“Hmm,” he mused. “Don’t project your preferences on them. You don’t know what they want. And like I said, chances are, this will never happen. AND, one more thing, one big thing: it’s not your place to tell. This information, which we found by accident, is still classified. If you go telling anyone -- even these three men -- you’ll be subject to disciplinary measures.” We looked at each other for several seconds, trying to read each other’s thoughts in our faces. In the end, I figured that, even if I decided to warn the three men, I wasn’t obliged to inform Qurakas. It was also pointless to argue with him about it right now. If I convinced him that I was going to warn the three men, he could take steps to block me from doing it.

So I just said, “You’re right,” and turned back to my console.

The smallest document was labelled 00-OVERVIEW -- it was clearly the place to start.

According to the overview, Dr Idlewild and his team accidentally discovered a physical condition that they called Dormant Protandrous Dichogamy. In plain English, a man with Dormant Protandrous Dichogamy has a female reproductive system inside him. This dormant system is so small, and so minimally active, that it can only be found if you’re specifically looking for it. There are no external signs of the condition, which explains why those tests were so excruciating -- I mean, the tests we all underwent to determine whether we were Idlewild Candidates. They were painful and invasive. You could even describe them as harrowing.

It took me fifty minutes to get through the overview. The document wasn’t long, but I had to keep stopping to get over my horror and shock. Then I sat in silence for another thirty minutes, until Qurakas came over to see how I was doing.

“Donaldson was right,” I told him. “This has nothing at all to do with me. It’s a one-way process, and it’s only for men with a certain physical condition.”

“There’s nothing you can take, or use, or adapt for what you need?” he asked.

“No,” I said. Then, after a long pause, I added in a slow, quiet voice, “This is creepy as hell.”

“What is creepy as hell?”

“The whole thing: the idea, the testing, setting those men up for this… you know, Idlewild must have tested this on real people, back on Earth. He must have cut people open to see... “ I shuddered. “It’s all so… unethical... and wrong… and... just disgusting.”

Qurakas wasn’t sure what to say, so he rubbed his beard, making a light scritching noise.

“And this machine--” the words began to stick in my throat “--this machine is so fucking barbaric! I’d like to blow if off the face of the Earth.” Qurakas glanced at my face, bemused by my choice of phrase. So I added, “You know what I mean. This fucking horror ought to be destroyed.”

“What exactly does it do?” he asked.

“Well, the man is restrained in that chair,” I told him, pointing. “He is closed inside and knocked out. Then, through a combination of various injections and radiation pulses, his dormant female organs are forced to grow. In the beginning, all the changes are internal. They pump him full of hormones and other shit, including euphoriants. Once his vagina is developed enough inside of him, they chop off his male genitals and form a female set. If they left his bat and balls intact, they’d atrophy anyway, and his newly developed organs would have no outlet. At that point, the genital reconstruction is a medical necessity.”

Qurakas gaped at me, then shook and shuddered. “This is like something out of the middle ages,” he said.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “It’s brutal. It’s ingenious, I have to say, but in a totally sick and twisted way. It makes what happened to me seem like a walk in the park. Anyway, the final step--”

“The FINAL step?” Qurakas interrupted. “You mean there’s more?”

“Oh yes,” I said, with a heavy sigh. “The final step is a massive conglomeration of cosmetic surgeries, meant to make the newly minted woman as visually desirable as possible.”

“Let me guess,” Qurakas said. “She gets turned into a bimbo.”

“Maximum bimbo, yeah,” I nodded. “Then, after recovery -- which can be accelerated, if they feel it’s necessary -- she is put into service, making babies.”

Qurakas shook his head. “It’s nuts. It’s not as though we don’t have enough women. Half the ship is female, and statistically most of the embryos are going to be girls. As some kind of insurance, or redundancy, this doesn’t seem very effective, or even necessary.”

“No,” I agreed. “It’s not as though you can expect one woman to be the mother to a whole new human race.”

Qurakas mused, “It’s hard to imagine a circumstance where a machine like this would ever be needed.”

“Actually… there was something about that in the doc,” I told him. “Apparently there were software glitches in the sleep pods on some of the first-generation ships. Those, uh, glitches ended up killing all the women onboard.”

“What the--” Qurakas swore. “All the women?”

I shrugged. “That’s what it says.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t say how. There isn’t any description of the glitch; it just says there was one. Even so, I can’t believe that this was supposed to be the remedy for that.”

Qurakas thought for a moment, then asked me, “So when did these things first go into service? Can you tell?”

“Yes,” I replied. “According to the docs, this was one of the features that defined the second-generation ships.”

“It was pretty clever, the way they hid this chamber from us, the engineering crew,” he mused.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I looked around. The room had high ceilings, typical of Kingdom ships, and it was a lot bigger than it probably needed to be. The machine was big, but it only took up a fifth of the room. What was all the extra space for? Spectators? I shuddered.

“We can go now,” I told Qurakas. “That’s for letting me do this.”

“Wait -- what?” he asked, startled. “You want to leave? If you leave, Security might not let you come back.”

“I don’t want to come back. I never want to see this room ever again. We can leave now, and seal the damn place up again.”

Qurakas seemed baffled. “But -- Fergusdottor, we’ve only been here a couple of hours. You can’t possibly be finished. You can’t tell me that you’ve really studied this machine.”

“No, I haven’t, but I’ve seen enough. I’m done. This machine isn’t going to help me, and frankly I’d like to get the hell away from it.”

“You can’t take a few more days to study this machine… to get to know it, all the way down to its casing?”

“No, there’s no point.”

“You can’t methodically work your way through every document and file in its memory? In the hopes of some hidden revelation that could unlock who knows how many secrets?”

“I don’t want to. It isn’t worth the time or the energy.”

He looked stumped. Was it because he wanted more time to play soldier? Why didn’t this place freak him out? Did he know more than he’d let on? How much had Donaldson told him? How much had he known already?

In soft, quiet voice, I ventured a question: “Qurakas, what’s going on?”

Qurakas didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned back in his chair so it was resting on its back legs. He leaned back so far, I expected him to fall over. He stared up at the far corner of the ceiling, then set his heels, with great deliberation, one at a time, on the edge of the table. With agonizing slowness, he linked his fingers together behind his head and spread his elbows wide. After all that, without looking at me, he said, “When I miss Earth, do you know what I miss the most, Fergusdottor?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, more than a little irritated by his manner. “The stinky air? The foul water? Sunburn?”

“No,” he said, in a slow drawl. “Smoking.”

“What?” I snapped. “Smoking? Smoking what? Smoking piles of--”

“No,” he replied, cutting me off. “Smoking cigarettes.”

“What are you even talking about?” I asked him. “On Earth, you can’t even find a cigarette in a museum, let alone smoke one. And aside from that, what the hell? What the hell, Qurakas? I just told you that I want to get out of here! We can all get out of here! Thank you -- seriously, thank you. I appreciate your giving me the time and opportunity for this, but now it’s enough. It’s over. I’m done. I want to get out of this creepy chamber!”

He held two fingers to his lips, and inhaled, as if he were drawing on an invisible cigarette. He held his breath for two beats, then blew it out gently, as if it were tobacco smoke. “I bet I would be a mad genius for blowing smoke rings,” he said.

“Fuck the smoke rings!” I said. “What is with you? I’m sincerely grateful that you did all this for me, Qurakas, but I want out of this chamber of horrors! Now!”

“What if I told you that there was a bigger chamber of horrors outside?” he asked in a very quiet voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, Fergusdottor, Fergusdottor,” he said. “Do you remember how you said that if something momentous was hanging over your head, you’d want to know?”

My breath stopped. My heart stood still. “Yes?”

He took his feet off the table and lowered all four chair legs to the floor. He leaned closer, so his face looked directly into mine. In a voice that only I could hear, Qurakas whispered, “Something momentous is hanging over your head.”

The Endless Dance Card : 7 / 7

A Kingdom Ship Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

We ended up staying in the Idlewild Chamber for twelve days. No one bothered us or tried to get us out, which disappointed Qurakas, but he never lost hope. He did confide in me, one night, that the Security team had weapons that “we are helpless against” but it was quite clear that he would rather have fought and lost than never to have fought at all.

He wouldn’t expand on his “bigger chamber of horrors outside” or say exactly what the “something momentous” over my head was. All he’d say was, “Once you’re done studying that hellish machine, we’ll talk about our options.”

So, I did as he suggested: I studied the machine “down to its casing.” Why? Because (1) I didn’t have any better idea of how to pass the time, (2) he might well be right about the Idlewild Device holding some secret that would prove useful to me, (3) Qurakas wasn’t going to let me out of the damn room before he was good and ready, and (4) I kept bouncing back and forth between thinking he was bluffing and being frightened to the core by what he’d said.

As it turned out, the casing of the device had a thick lead lining, which was a strange surprise. After some thought, and given the size of the room, I figured that the shielding was for the protection of the onlookers -- although why there should be any onlookers was a riddle in itself. Med personnel would have their own individual shielding, but I guess that wasn’t part of the calculation.

It took me five days to dig my way through the nuts and bolts of the Idlewild Device, to read through all of its documentation, and to dip into some of its programs. In the end, my estimation didn’t change: the device and the idea behind it were cruel, brutal, and completely unnecessary. Also, I couldn’t discover any connection to me, except for the fact that I’d changed gender, although I’d done it in a completely different way.

Qurakas asked me to do presentations about my work on the profiles -- he called these presentations “brown bags” for some reason. Incidentally, I began to suspect that Qurakas was quite a bit older than he looked. He might have been one of the early testers of the rejuvenation bed, back on Earth. Dr Idlewild was supposed to be over 300 years old, so Qurakas could have been any age between 18 and 300, I suppose. Every time I tried to explore the question, he would deflect my questions with jokes.

Speaking of questions, several times a day, in various emotional states, I’d ask him what Donaldson’s “agenda” was regarding me. One of his replies went like this: “I don’t know exactly what Donaldson’s up to. He is clearly obsessed with you. A psych would call his obsession pathological. He’s got a dark design on you, and the fact that he invoked the Idlewild Protocol -- which is a pretty heavy card to play -- means that he’s looking to gain some ultimate authority over you. An authority that can’t be challenged. As to what he’d do with that...” He’d lift his hands in an open-palmed shrug.

I protested, “But nothing in the protocol applies to me -- except for the part about expecting me to make babies.”

Qurakas shrugged again, but said, “You could see in our meeting that the judge-advocate completely side-stepped the whole business about the protocol. To me that means that she didn’t see any connection to you, either.”

I asked him what the deal was with his references to smoking when I first told him that I wanted to leave the chamber. He said, “I was just stalling. It was stupid. Subconsciously I guess I was trying to tell you that it was okay to blow off some of our responsibilities.”

“To Donaldson and his agenda, you mean.”

“Exactly, to Donaldson and his agenda.”

Qurakas let me read a copy of the Idlewild Protocol. Most of it was explanatory; a briefer version of the 00-OVERVIEW document. It gave the location of the Idlewild Chamber (it was called exactly that in the document) and the access codes. An appendix gave the names of the three candidates--

I challenged Qurakas. “You already knew the three names! The three Idlewild candidates.”

“Not really,” he replied. “I got that document maybe thirty minutes before you walked into Donaldson’s meeting. I skimmed it. Most of it didn’t register. The main thing that concerned me was the chamber. That was the only piece I was actually responsible for. Everything else was decoration, as far as I was concerned.”

“So you haven’t read the whole Protocol.”

He wiggled his hand like a teeter-totter. “Sort of. Kind of. I’m not a big reader, Fergusdottor.”

I groaned and rubbed my eyes. “So you didn’t get the feeling that the Candidates are basically chattel?”

“Chattel?”

“Slaves. Property. Cattle. People without rights or self-determination.”

“It says that?”

“Not in so many words,” I sighed in exasperation. “But I mean, they’re yanked out of their lives, away from any purpose they’ve found for themselves, and changed into something completely different. They’re used. They’re compelled. They don’t have any choice in anything that happens to them. Isn’t that why you told me there was a bigger chamber of horrors outside?”

He reflected for a moment. “Not as such,” he said at last. “No. I actually didn’t read that part, or those parts, or whatever. Look -- what I said -- it was just a feeling… a really strong gut feeling about Donaldson. Up to now, I always thought he was a pretty solid guy -- I mean, in the past you never had any problems with him, right?”

“As Fergus, no.”

“Right. As Fergus. Now that you’re a girl, he’s gotten really weird about you. He obviously wants to jump your bones, but there’s some freaky twist in there as well.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s my feeling, too.”

“You know, a lot of guys…,” Qurakas said, warming to his subject, “... a lot of guys, you know, they want a woman, they kind of lock onto a woman. Say, some guy gets stuck on you -- he might even think he’s in love -- and he follows you around and says dumb things and all that, but the moment you have sex, the magic disappears; the spell is broken. You know what I mean?”

“I guess so.” It hadn’t happened to me as a girl, but I’d been on the other side of it, as Fergus.

“Yeah, so... but Donaldson, I don’t think it would end that way with him. If you had sex with him, it would be a confirmation to him: it would cement you in his mind. He would want to turn you into the vehicle of his weirdness. Do you know what I mean?”

Unfortunately, I did. Not in exact details, but Donaldson had acquired a level of creepy that absolutely radiated out of him. It was impossible to ignore.

“Oh, there’s one more thing,” Qurakas said. “I know that you’re planning on telling those three Idlewild Candidates about all this. You don’t need to bother.”

“Why not?”

“By now, everyone on the engineering crew knows the general outline of the Idlewild Protocol. They’re going to talk. It’s going to spread all over the ship. It’s inevitable. Those three guys -- they already know they’re Candidates, right? They knew back on Earth, after the tests were done. Until now they didn’t know what it meant, but as soon as their crew wakes up, they’ll find out.”

“Oh, shit!”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. It’s all on Donaldson.”

 

---

 

There were times in that room that I felt like Wendy with the Lost Boys. Qurakas was Peter Pan, of course. Tinker Bell? Any of the engineering avatars who popped up and disappeared. Captain Hook? Well, that would have to be Lt Donaldson, of course.

It was so boring in there, that I actually spent several hours trying to puzzle out a real-life equivalent to the crocodile with the alarm clock inside him.

There were a few times, in the deepest part of the night, when I was moved to quiet, secret tears by the efforts my teammates were making to protect and shield me.

However, all things -- whether good or bad -- come to an end at some point. For our campout in the Idlewild Chamber, the end came after twelve days. After nearly two weeks of being locked inside that room, all of us wanted out. Even Qurakas had gotten tired of playing soldier. In spite of the active environmental controls, the chamber began to stink. It also began to feel like prison. Just speaking for myself, I hate suspense. I don’t like the anxiety of anticipation. Whatever weird, creepy plan Donaldson had in store for me, I wanted to face it and get it over with. If it wasn’t inevitable, I’d put up a fight. If it *was* inevitable, avoiding it wouldn’t help.

Two days after we left the Idlewild Chamber, Donaldson convened his meeting once again. The attendees were the same: me, Qurakas, the doctor, the psych, Donaldson himself, and the woman I didn’t know. She turned out to be the judge/advocate, and this time *she* led the meeting. She never said her name; she asked us to call her “judge/advocate.”

“My role here is to see that everyone’s interests are represented: those of Fergusdotter, the various views represented by the other participants, and potentially those of everyone onboard. Whatever decisions we make here may come to be regarded as precedents for future behavior so they must be taken seriously, and they will be binding. If anyone has reason to question my ability to act super partes, now is the time to register your objections.”

No one spoke, so she continued. “This meeting was requested by Lt Donaldson, and he has chosen the Idlewild Protocol as the basis, or pretext, for his requests.

“After analyzing his requests, I believe they can be boiled down to one simple thing: that Fergusdottor enter the reproductive pool. Do you have any objection to that, Fergusdottor?”

“No, of course not,” I replied. “Aren’t I already in the, uh, reproductive pool?”

“In a general, casual sense, yes, but not officially. The pool I’m speaking of is a count of pregnancies.”

My eyes popped. “Pregnancies?”

“Yes. Every woman on board is asked to produce ten pregnancies, if possible. Ten embryos. Virtually every women in our crew has done so, including myself.”

“But that will take ten years, at least!” I pictured myself waddling around the ship, great with child, for an entire decade.

“No, it doesn’t,” she said. “At least one of your mothers should have explained this to you. Are you telling me that this is your first time hearing about the ten embryos?”

My mind drifted back to Mother No. 1 and her endless explanations. Somewhere in my memories of her prattling, there was an echo. I’m sure she did say something about ten embryos, but at the time I brushed it off. Back then, I never expected to remain a woman, so I didn’t pay very much attention, especially to something I deemed far off and improbable. “It does sound kind of familiar,” I admitted. “But I don’t recall the details.”

The judge-advocate looked to the doctor, who nodded at the silent prompt. She looked me in the eye (to be sure I was paying attention) and said, “Basically, it works like this: when you get pregnant, your fertilized egg attaches to your womb, and it begins to grow. You’ll wear a wrist device that can sense this, and after 5-7 days we’ll do a vaginal flush and transfer the embryo to storage. It will only be a dozen cells or less at that point. After we’ve landed on a planet, and it’s time for the children to be born, the embryos will move into the gestation device, and after nine months emerge as babies. You’ll never be pregnant for more than a few days.”

“So, you see,” the judge-advocate added, “You could produce ten embryos in less than a year.”

“It’s unlikely,” the doctor rebutted.

“But possible,” the judge-advocate replied.

I scratched my chin. “And every woman on board has done this?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied, with a touch of impatience. “Virtually all. Some were physically unable, but everyone who could, did. Where do you think all the embryos came from?”

Honestly, I never thought about where the embryos came from. They were just there, like part of the ship. But, my God! There were SO MANY embryos. And yet, ten didn’t seem so many. So I agreed. “Okay,” I said. “If every other woman has done this, I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t as well,” Then, joking, I added, “How bad could it be?”

The women, as one, stopped, held their breath, and looked at me, but none of them said a word. Donaldson gave a particularly creepy smirk. I was taken aback.

“No, but, uh, seriously--” I asked, looking from face to face, feeling a little concerned, “How bad can it be?”

I waited for an answer, but none came. After a few silent seconds, the doctor said, “After this meeting, you can come with me. I’ll set you up with the wrist device and go through all the grisly details.”

Half-kidding, and more than half-concerned, I quipped, “I hope the details aren’t too grisly.”

“Oh!” the doctor replied, as if just hearing what she’d said. “Let’s just call them details. Girl stuff.”

Donaldson’s smirk somehow gained a few degrees of creepy. The judge-advocate asked if there was any other matter to discuss, and ended the meeting.

 

---

 

The wrist device was a white thing that looked like a cool wristwatch. In fact, it did display the date and time as well as some of my physiological functions. It had a number of other useful functions, like a countdown timer and an interface to some general ship systems.

“Will this show when I’m ovulating?” I asked. “That’s the only time I can get pregnant, right?”

“Yes,” she replied, “that true, but keep in mind that sperm can live inside you for up to seven days. And most women’s menstrual cycles can vary, even from one month to the next, so it’s possible to get pregnant from sex you had *before* you were ovulating, on a day you might have thought was safe.”

“Even so,” I said, “I’ll still be able to mark days off my calendar when getting pregnant won’t possible at all, can’t I?”

The doctor seemed uncomfortable with my line of questioning. “Yes, sure, you can cross off some days. But the thing is… the kind of questions you’re asking were more relevant when people were trying to not have babies, or when they had difficulty getting pregnant. The current thinking -- Kingdom-Ship thinking -- is that we try any time -- or all the time, and your body gets the idea that you’re ready.”

I scratched my head. “Your body gets the idea?” I repeated.

“Look, Fergusdottor,” she said, “Do you want to get this pregnancy count over with? Just have sex as much as you can -- except, obviously, when you’re bleeding. If you want to win the lottery, you have to keep buying tickets, right?”

“The lottery,” I mused. “That’s not a great metaphor.”

“Oh my God, Fergusdottor!” she cried. “Don’t overthink it! Just line up some partners and do it!”

 

---

 

I didn’t think I’d have any trouble finding sexual partners, given my status as a “celebrity,” but now it seemed that men would glance at my wrist device, and practically run away. I couldn’t understand it. I mean, I wasn’t looking to get married. It wasn’t as though they’d end up paying child support or something. I didn’t want any kind of commitment or relationship -- not even a short one. I wasn’t looking for love; I was only looking for a jump. That’s all.

I tried wearing cuter clothes. It didn’t help. I dd different things with my hair. I tried wearing sexy, provocative clothes, and experimented with cosmetics. That seemed to positively scare the men, and made the women roll their eyes at me.

I ran into Qurakas in the hall during the peak of my attempts to be a femme fatale, and he smiled. “Who are you trying to be? Mata Hari?”

I shook my head. “Nobody knows who that is, Qurakas. I mean, if Madda Whoosie was even a person.”

He laughed. “Okay,” he conceded. “You look like a streetwalker.”

As soon as I was alone I looked up the word, and found this: “A prostitute, especially one who solicits in the streets.” Oh, great, I told myself. Not at all what I was going for! But still, if that’s what I look like, why aren’t any of the fish biting?

After two weeks in which I scored exactly zero for sexual encounters, I returned to my ordinary clothes. They seemed better suited for moping around. At that point, I ran into Donaldson, apparently by accident. And yet, as creepy as he’d been, I was so desperate that I would have even done it with him. But even *he* wasn’t interested! All he wanted to do was talk.

He told me that he heard that I was having trouble finding sexual partners. I asked how he could have possibly heard that. He replied that “things get around.”. He went on to say that he knew exactly what the problem was, and that he knew exactly how to help me solve it.

He was actually talking and acting like a normal person during this exchange. The weird, crazy, creepy aspect was gone -- or, as it turned out, was well hidden.

“I’ve got a way to make it happen,” he said. “See -- the problem is that your wrist device tells men that you’re looking to fill your pregnancy quota. Instinctively, the man feels that you want some kind of commitment, or at least a promise, from him. He looks at that wrist device and sees a ball and chain on his ankle.”

“But I don’t want any commitment!” I cried. “I’m not interested in any promise! All I want is a jump. I can’t tell if any particular encounter is going to make me pregnant. I just want to up my chances. Way up! I’m not asking for a guarantee; I just want a shot.”

“I know,” he said, “but men are wired to see pregnancy as a trap.”

“Are we?” I challenged.

He regarded me for a moment, then said, “Okay. Leaving aside the fact that you lost your man card, so you can’t say *we* -- think back to when we were all back on Earth, back when you were Fergus. Young, frisky Fergus. During training, all of a sudden, casual sex was not only okay, it was encouraged. Strongly encouraged! It was fun. It was totally casual and free. It had no consequences -- at least, as far as we men were aware. There weren’t any consequences whatsoever. I mean, none of the women ever got pregnant -- apparently! Not even one! But none of us -- not even one of us ever asked why. We had no idea that we were helping them fill their quotas. You didn’t know, did you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“No, of course not. If we had known, it would have spoiled everything. You thought you were getting laid so often because you were so smooth and handsome. So did we all; so did we all. In reality, we were just a number that increased their chances of filling their quota.”

My memories of that time drifted across my mind’s eye, and I saw, one after another, the faces of the women I’d had sex with. They knew. I could see it now: the anxiety, the hope, the stress that was written there. Now *I* had that look. Men could see it, and -- unlike back on Earth -- now they knew why I had it.

Donaldson added, “That’s why in ordinary life, men on Earth preferred to pay prostitutes.”

“Some men,” I contradicted.

“Some men,” he conceded. “The act of paying made it clear that the interaction had a definite beginning and a definite end. There were no consequences -- emotional or reproductive.”

I blushed. “I’m not going to become a prostitute,” I told him. “Besides, we have no money here. It wouldn’t make sense.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I have a way to make the whole issue more… transactional. Anonymous, even.”

“How can sex be anonymous?”

“What you need is a dance card,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”

“It sounds like something from the Middle Ages,” I replied.

“It was an actual, physical card, at one time,” he told me. “If a man wanted to, uh, dance with a young lady, he would write his name on her dance card, and when his turn came, they would dance.”

I blushed crimson. “So what are you proposing? A sign-up list? Do you really think that men would go and write their names… and all that?”

“Nothing quite as crude as that,” he replied. “It would be managed far more discreetly.”

I could feel the skin of my face and chest glow hot with embarrassment. “How discreetly? How exactly would it be managed?”

“I’m glad you asked,” he said. “Follow me, and I’ll explain everything.”

He led me to a small room, about the size of a meeting room. It was quite bare, except for a table, a few chairs, and a food-fab. In the far corner was a door that led to a full bathroom, with shower, sink, toilet, and bidet. A bookcase was piled high with towels, small and large. There was also (incongruously) a sofa against one wall.

In the middle of the wall opposite the sofa was a round hole. It was a meter across, and rimmed with a soft beige material that resembled a very pliable leather.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

Donaldson glanced around the room as if looking for something. “I’ll show you…” he said. “I’ll show you… as soon as I find the remote control. Do you see a little blue rectangular box, about this big, lying around someplace?” He bent to look under the table. I took a look in the bathroom. He shifted the towels, searching among them. I glanced into the hole, and called out, “Hey! Is that it?” and I pointed inside.

“Oh, yes!” he said with a smile. “That’s the one! Could you grab it for me?”

I put my head and shoulders into the hole and, resting on my elbows, I looked around. It was an odd space, maybe two meters wide. Immediately inside the hole, and filling the space, was a cushioned table exactly the height of my waist, precisely level with the lower edge of the hole. As I wormed my way inside, it seemed tailor-made for me: when I got far enough inside that my stomach was resting on the cushion, my feet were still flat on the ground out in the room.

The remote was farther inside than I first thought. I had to wiggle my way forward on the cushioned slab and stretch my arm and fingers forward. I was sure I could get it. It was almost out of reach, but I was up for the challenge: I knew I could get it. My thighs pressed against the wall below the opening, and I became acutely aware that my wiggling must have given Donaldson a fine show of my derriere. I blushed. Still, no one had cast even a casual eye on my buttocks in the past weeks, so let him look! As my hand moved closer toward the little blue box, I realized what a vulnerable position I had placed myself in. My hips, legs, and feet were hanging down in the room itself, where Donaldson stood. He’d be able to look up my skirt if he bent just a little, and if he wanted to grab me, I’d have a hard time resisting. My entire upper body, from my waist to the top of my head, was inside the hole. My stomach and breasts rested on the cushioned surface. A warning sounded inside my brain, but I couldn’t react in time. Stop! Stop! GET OUT OF THERE! a voice within me cried. But the warning came too late: my hand was already committed; my fingers closed around the little blue box. At once, I heard a soft click and a hiss, and the beige rim around the hole expanded until it trapped me, half in, half out. It was a soft restraint that held my waist irresistibly.

“What the hell, you asshole!” I shouted. “Let me out of here! LET ME OUT!”

I pushed on the remote control, but nothing happened. I pushed it a few more times, then took a good look at it. It wasn’t a control at all: it was nothing but a little box with a blue LED inside.

A small speaker crackled to life. “Hello, Fergusdottor. Can you hear me? Is my voice too loud? Too soft?”

“Yes, you bastard! I can hear you and I will kill you!”

“Wait,” he said. “Calm down and listen. There is a soundproof wall between us now. If I shout, if you scream, neither of us will hear each other unless the microphones and speakers are on. You asked me how sex could possibly be anonymous, and here is your answer! While you’re inside that hole, you could have sex with any number of men, and you’d have no idea who any of them were. For their part, they couldn’t be absolutely sure that it was you in there. They’d only see your cute derriere and legs. It could be any woman in there. Even the judge/advocate, if she felt like having some fun.”

I was angry, but what he was saying made some kind of sense. I stopped fighting and listened. “Let’s say you decide to have sex four or five times a day. That number of men would come in, one after another, or spaced at intervals, if you prefer. The sex act happens, then it’s over. They leave, you leave, no one sees anyone’s face. No one’s sure of anything. Everyone gets what they want: a simple transaction with zero commitment. At some point, you’ll become pregnant, but no one will know who the father is. No one would even know you were pregnant. It’s a win-win-win. You win, the man wins, the ship wins.”

I lay there, quiet, considering. I wasn’t sure how I felt about four to five sexual partners a day, but I did want to get through the pregnancy quota, and it certainly seemed like this could speed things up -- as long as there were men willing to participate.

“So what do you say, Fergusdottor?” Donaldson asked. “Do you want me to let you out? Or would you like to begin right now?” Before I could answer, he added, “By the way, if you start right now, none of the men will be me. In case that’s an issue.”

“Okay,” I said. “Do you really have men lined up right now?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “As many as you like.”

Four or five, he had said. Was that a lot? Could I handle it?

“Yes,” I agreed. “Let’s do it. Let’s start with four.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m just going to get you ready.”

Ready? I wondered, but what he meant immediately became obvious. He undid my skirt and removed it. Then he lowered my panties and took them off. Finally, he removed my shoes. I was about to ask why he did the shoes last, when the speaker clicked off.

After a few moments of silence, I felt a pair of huge hands on my ass. The thick fingers felt my cheeks experimentally, then ran up and down my thighs. Without any further preamble, the two big thumbs spread my buttocks. Naturally, I half-expected a penis as thick and rough as the fingers, but -- quite to the contrary -- a smooth, narrow cock worked its way up between my thighs, and after a few short pokes, pushed inside me. I gasped and grunted as he went to work. He moved hard and pushed in deep, but his rhythm was so irregular -- sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes stopping to push in deep and hold there -- that it was impossible for me to build up to an orgasm.

After five minutes, I finally started to warm up. There wasn’t really any way for me to move with him, except to tighten my pussy now and then. I tried to clamp down on him hard, but he slapped my ass sharply, and then, in a flurry of activity, he came, dumping his load inside me.

He pulled out, and a few moments later I felt a spray cleaning me back there, followed by a flow of air that dried me. I had no idea whether it was automatic or manual.

A second man came up and plugged into me. He pumped away manfully for four minutes, and came in a short burst. He tried to get going a second time, but wasn’t able.

I could describe the third and fourth man, but honestly, my mind wandered. I didn’t need to pay attention, so for the most part, I didn’t. I mean, yes, there was someone pounding away at my ass, their cock inside me. I couldn’t exactly ignore that. Yes, my eyes did widen when they’d start pulsing and dumping their load of sperm. I could feel it vividly. I didn’t cum, though. It didn’t take me anywhere. It was very clinical, very transactional, as Donaldson had said.

After the fourth man, after the spray and the drying air were done, I waited for Donaldson to let me out. I waited a minute (by the clock) and called his name, but there was no answer. I wasn’t scared or angry; I was just a little irritated. I punched the button on the “remote control” even though I knew it didn’t do anything. “Donaldson!” I shouted. “DONALDSON!”

After two minutes of frustration and waiting, I felt a new pair of hands on my butt: hands with long, slender fingers. I shouted, “Hey! No! I said four! FOUR! Not five! Four!” but whoever they were, they probably couldn’t hear me.

I gasped as a long, thick cock rose between my thighs. It was frighteningly big. With one hand on my butt, the man used his other hand to aim his tool directly at my vaginal opening. He paused there, with his tip touching my threshold. I felt a terrible sense of helplessness. How long will this go on? How many men did Donaldson really line up? I wondered. I said four, but this is five! How many will there be? When will he let me out?

As the fear and uncertainty welled up inside me, the huge cock slid inside me as well. I cried out. It was fearfully big. It was the biggest of them all. My body tensed; my legs kicked. I pounded the cushion beneath me with my fists. I screamed and cried. All the while, he kept pushing slowly forward, deeper and deeper within me. My entire body broke into a sweat, and without warning, completely unexpectedly, just moments after he entered me, I came. Hard. My back arched, my muscles tensed, I shook like the wheels of a rollercoaster. Tears rolled down my cheeks. The orgasm, once begun, seemed to have no end. My whole body shook like a leaf in a strong wind. I screamed with utter abandon. Then, my mind went blank and the world seemed to stand still. The only thing that existed was his massive member, sliding in and out of me. When I closed my eyes, I could almost see it.

I kept my eyes closed for a long time. I don’t know how long. With the first four men, I knew exactly what time they began and ended. But this man… I didn’t know anything… time, space… I hardly knew my own name.

My eyes popped wide open when he began to cum. My my jaw dropped open in a wordless cry. His cock pulsed like an earthquake, pressing me open from inside, and I swear I felt the hot white sperm filling me and spilling out of me. It dripped slowly down my inner thigh.

When he finished, he stayed inside me for a long time, not moving, not softening. I lay there, all my senses on maximum alert. Was he going to start again? Was that piledriver going to pound me a second time? Perhaps he was asking himself the same question.

But no -- he stayed like that, plugged into me, huge and hard but not moving, for five minutes by the clock. Then he slowly, oh-so-slowly slid out. I lay there in silence, wondering what would come next. First came the spray, then the drying air, and then…?

I heard a click and a hiss, and the beige restraint deflated and withdrew. Donaldson gave me a hand in sliding out of the hole. I was so shaken, I needed his help.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“I said four, not five,” I told him, and my legs buckled. I grabbed the hole to steady myself..

“Oh, sorry! My mistake! I thought you said ‘four or five’.”

I shrugged. My brain was so literally fucked, that I not only had a trouble standing, I could barely string two words together. I wasn’t about to argue the details of our previous conversation.

“Who was that last guy?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you that,” he replied. “I mean, I won’t tell you that. It goes against what we’re doing here. The only thing I’ll tell you is that none of them were me.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m sold. Same time tomorrow?”

When Life Hands You Uranus : 1 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Two days before Christmas, in the year 6056, Barfield Owens exhausted his last appeal. At the age of 30, he’d already spent a decade in prison. Now, barring a miracle, he’d spend the rest of his life behind bars.

You’d think that in an age where sensors, detectors, and cameras are everywhere, and when forensic science is so refined that it can detect and distinguish microparticles and infinitesimal traces, that miscarriages of justice would be a thing of the past. Common sense would tell you that a normal, inoffensive, utterly innocent man could never be mistaken for a serial killer. Such a misunderstanding not only would never happen, it would be impossible to arrive at an arrest, let alone a trial and conviction, if a person were truly innocent.

And yet, in a universe of infinite possibilities, it would have to happen to someone. The someone to whom it happened was a man named Barfield Owens.

Barfield was no serial killer. Barfield wasn’t a killer at all. Barfield was a kind, good, law-abiding man who loved his fellow citizens and tried to make a positive contribution to society. Unfortunately, due to a series of terrible coincidences, he was mistaken for the appalling Mojan-Pardee Killer. Admittedly, all of the "facts" were circumstantial: there wasn’t a single shred of direct, physical evidence. There were witnesses who saw something and someone, but their testimonies were of doubtful value.

And yet, in spite of the absence of any solid, unimpeachable proof, a compelling case was built. The prosecution and the press often pointed out that the murders attributed to the Mojan-Pardee Killer abruptly ceased when Barfield was arrested.

When Barfield was taken into custody, the real killer was wise enough to lay low, and contemplated a change to his modus operandi. During his brief pause, he happened to be killed in an automobile accident, and no one ever discovered his secret life of crime. Another horrible coincidence that went to Barfield’s harm.

Barfield’s conviction was followed by a sentence of life without parole, and he was locked in a high security federal prison, where his only visitor (aside from journalists) was his lawyer, Jeff Tommelekis. Jeff tried — without success — to launch one appeal after another, and when he wasn’t making judicial attempts to free Barfield, he was lobbying the governor, other high officials, celebrities, and anyone else who might bring pressure to bear in his effort to free Barfield.

None of his efforts got off the ground. Certainly there were people who understood that Barfield had been undeservedly crushed beneath the wheel of justice, but no one dared say so out loud, in public, on the record. His alleged crimes were so heinous and so widely detailed by the media, that his name or image was enough to provoke anger, disgust, and deep, visceral hatred.

“I’m sorry, Barfield,” his lawyer told him in a sorrowful tone. “These past ten years, I’ve done everything I could. I’ve wracked my brain. I’ve asked everyone I know for help and advice. I’ve followed up every single possibility, no matter how remote—”

“I know.” Barfield cut him off. “Don’t beat yourself up, Jeff. I’ve made my peace with it. I’ve been wrongly accused, but after ten years of trying, there’s nothing left to do but accept my fate. I’ve seen this day coming, and now it’s here. I’ll spend the rest of my life behind bars.” Barfield gave a crooked smile as he shrugged. “I’ll find some useful way to spend my time. It’s not so bad in here, after all. You know the old saying, Even Hell has its sweet spot.” Barfield’s words and intentions were brave, but they were belied by his voice, his posture, and his trembling hands..

“I’ve never heard that particular saying,” his lawyer replied. Then he hesitated, drummed his fingers on the table, and cleared his throat. “Listen, Barfield, there’s something you need to hear. Just a week ago, I was approached by some people… people from the Nostalgia Project, and um… eh… there *is* one last possibility. There could be a way out of here for you, if you want to take it. The federal governor — and this is all very low-key, so keep it to yourself — the governor is willing to commute your sentence, under, um, under a certain condition. Personally, I think it’s pretty extreme, and I doubt that you’ll take him up on it, but I feel honor-bound as your attorney to mention it.”

“Commute my sentence?” Barfield repeated. “How? Why? What’s the condition? What’s the catch?”

“The catch is, you’d be stuck on Uranus. Permanently. You’d have to live and work there forever. You’d never be able to leave. It would essentially amount to exile. Frankly, it’s being offered because there are people in government and in the judicial system who realize that you’ve been unjustly imprisoned, but don’t dare admit it publicly. They’ve embraced this solution because they don’t see any legal way to set you free.”

Barfield countered, “A legal way? I’ll tell you a legal way: The governor could straight-out pardon me. Or he could commute my sentence without any conditions.”

“The public outcry would be overwhelming. You should know that. I’m sorry, Barfield, but you are the most hated man on this planet. Maybe even in the whole universe. I’ve kept this from you, but from the beginning, there’s been a lot of talk on social media about the death penalty.”

“The death penalty!” Barfield exclaimed. “What’s wrong with people today? That’s-- that’s insane! The death penalty? What is this? The middle ages?”

“Don’t worry,” his lawyer assured him. “It’s just talk. It’ll never happen. But as far as I can see you have only two possibilities: you can head for Uranus, or stay here in prison.”

“Uranus!” Barfield exclaimed. He scratched his head for a moment. “That name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. Where on earth is it? Is it a penal colony?”

His lawyer grinned. Every schoolchild knew how to find Uranus. “No, Barfield, it’s not a penal colony. It’s a mining colony that was set up by the Nostalgia Project. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you? Uranus is one of the outer planets in the original solar system, back where Earth is located.”

Barfield’s face went white. He felt faint. “The original solar system? Are you kidding? Are you crazy? My God! That whole system must be a cold, frozen hell! Didn’t their Sun burn out long, long ago?”

“No,” his lawyer laughed. “The Sun? That old light bulb will be warm and bright for billions of years to come. Listen, Barfield, I need to go, but I’ll have someone from the Nostalgia Project call on you tomorrow. Just so you have all the facts.”

“Fine,” Barfield acquiesced. “I’ll listen, but I have to tell you that Uranus doesn’t sound very appealing.”

 

---

 

Midmorning on the next day, a slim young woman with eyeglasses arrived. Her name was Neeka Fimernikem. As you can well imagine, Barfield was quite curious about her eyewear. “Why don’t you get corrective lenses?” he asked. “I mean, get your lenses corrected?”

She smiled at him as though she’d been waiting for that exact question. “As it happens, there are many distinct advantages to wearing glasses,” she said. “It’s much easier to toggle the visual correction. See?” She took the glasses off and put them back on. “They also have cosmetic advantages. I think you’ll agree that they enhance the shape of my face, and bring out the colors of my irises.”

“Oh yes, I think so,” Barfield said, nodding. Neeka was one of the few women he’d seen in the past ten years, and he was ready to agree with anything she might say. As she spoke, he was fascinated by her smooth, unlined neck, by the movements of her soft, full lips, and by the curve of her plump, youthful cheeks.

“Also, since I represent the Nostalgia Project, it’s fitting that I wear such a throwback to simpler times. Now, let’s get down to business! Mr Owens, how much do you know about the Nostalgia Project?”

“Well,” he said, after searching the deep pool of his ignorance, “Well, I do know there is something about glasses.”

“Hmmm,” she commented. “I see. For the sake of convenience, would you mind if I proceed as if you’d never heard of the Nostalgia Project? It will improve the flow of my presentation if I don’t have to stop and consider what to leave in and what to leave out.”

Without waiting for his answer, she lit up a holomation model. Barfield recognized the image from his elementary school days. “That’s the original solar system!” he exclaimed. “And, uh, one of those planets in there is Earth.”

“That’s correct,” she agreed. “Earth is this one here. You can see that it’s very close to the Sun. Once upon a time, it was a very advantageous position. Unfortunately, we humans depleted the atmospheric protections, and Earth grew quite hot. Scientists love to speculate about whether it’s too hot to sustain human life. Some actually believe that there are humans still living on Earth, but of course no one has been able to prove it.”

“Can’t somebody just go there and take a look?” Barfield asked.

“There is a project to do exactly that: to return to Earth and — if possible — repopulate the planet. In case you haven’t already guessed, that effort is called the Nostalgia Project. However, we have one huge obstacle. Can you guess what it is?”

“Earth is far, far away,” he ventured.

“Yes, exactly. Earth is quite far. It would take so long for a ship to travel that distance, that by the time it got there, none of us would be alive to remember that the ship had ever left. However, we can get pretty close to Earth very quickly. Let me ask you, Mr. Owens, have you ever heard of teleportation?”

“Yes, it means you jump instantly from one place to another. Is that actually possible?”

“As of twenty years ago, yes, it is both possible and safe. It’s not a secret, but then again, it’s not widely known.”

“And so…” he said slowly, putting it together, “Why hasn’t someone teleported to Earth and seen what’s what? Or did they? Did someone go there and wasn’t able to come back?”

“No, no one has teleported to Earth. We can’t, as of yet. You see, if you want to teleport from point A to point B, you need to do some complicated calculations first. As it happens, if you start at point A, there is only one single, solitary point B in the entire universe available to you. You can’t go anywhere else but there. From point A there is only one point B. From point B there is only one point C, and so on. Surprisingly, if you keep going, you will eventually end up at point A again, if that’s where you want to go.”

“Why can’t you just go backward, from B to A?”

“I’m not a physicist or a mathematician, so I can’t answer that. However, fun fact: The mathematics that allows you to figure out your point B is an offshoot of what is called” (here she read from her notes) “pseudo-infinite tensor analysis. It was developed — guess when? — way back at the beginning of the twentieth century, which was a great time for speculative mathematics.”

Barfield wasn’t stupid by any means, but his brain was getting stretched and strained by all these new, complex, unaccustomed ideas. Earth? Teleportation? Whatsit whatsit tensor analysis? Why should there be only one point B? It made no earthly sense.

Neeka smiled at him. She appeared to be a flighty, bird-like girl, but she was clearly much smarter than Barfield. Conceptually speaking, Neeka was only wading in the shallows, but Barfield was already in well over his head. He gaped silently, and gestured mutely, as though he could rearrange with his hands the things that she’d said and turn them into something he could understand.

“Good God, my head is starting to hurt,” Barfield told her in a helpless tone. “Are you sure all this stuff you’re saying is real?” He sighed and shook his head.

“Why don’t we take a break for lunch?” she suggested.

 

---

 

Of course, he expected that the two of them would sit down together. He’d ask where she was from… she would play with her eyeglasses in a flirtatious manner… and (in his imagination at least) all sorts of lovely things would follow.

Instead, a guard escorted Barfield back to his prison cell, where he dined upon a prosaic and highly unromantic plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans, washed down with a cup of apple juice, served at room temperature.

As he masticated, he replayed in his mind all the things Neeka told him… point A and point B, the hot, inhospitable Earth… and suddenly realized there was one topic she hadn’t touched on at all.

After lunch, the guard led Barfield back to the little room where Neeka was waiting. Even before he sat down, Barfield asked his question:

“I thought you were going to tell me about Uranus. You haven’t touched Uranus -- as a topic -- yet.”

“I am going to talk about Uranus,” she said. “We’re going to talk about it now. Do you remember when I told you about point A and point B? Well, there is a viable point A not far from here, and guess where its point B happens to be?”

“Uranus?”

“Bingo. It’s the first and only viable teleport destination in the original solar system. As far as we know, of course. Although Uranus is one of the outer planets, and still very far from Earth, it gives us a toehold in that system. It brings us closer to Earth than anyone has ever been since the last ship left Earth.

“We’ve established a mining colony on Titania, which is Uranus’ largest moon. We’ve made it as large and lovely and comfortable as we could possibly manage. The miners are paid an extravagant wage, and while they’re out there, all their expenses are paid. Everything they earn is cash in the bank.”

“How often do they come home?” Barfield asked.

Neeka looked at him in silence for a beat. Then she said softly, “You would have to stay, you know. You could never come back. That’s the deal: in exchange for commuting your sentence, you would have to stay.” In a normal tone she added, “The miners are allowed to come home for an entire month twice a year. Surprisingly, they rarely exercise the option, which should tell you that they’re happy with Uranus. It tells us that Uranus is not as bad as you might think.”

Barfield was silent, weighed down by the enormity of his choice. Yesterday, he couldn’t have found Uranus with a map, and now he was being asked to live there forever. He could get out of prison, but only at the cost of his freedom.

Neeka saw how Barfield’s mood had fallen, so she added, “Keep in mind that you’ll have full access to all the goods and benefits the miners enjoy. You’ll receive the same extravagant pay they receive—”

“But I won’t be able to spend it!”

“Certainly you will! You can order anything you like. The teleport cycle runs once a week, so delivery of mail and other packages and goods only takes seven days.”

“How many people are out there?”

“I want you to know, but also to understand, and even -- if possible -- to feel that our goal on Uranus is to have a large, thriving community. The mining operation is extremely profitable, but in our calculations, that profit, and the mine itself, is secondary to our real goal, which is to build a thriving human settlement. The station is so highly automated that a staff of three could run it, in a pinch. So it isn’t workers that we need. We need people. We’re trying our best to build up the population not only for safety and social reasons, but also because we want to have a strong human presence in the original solar system. So far, though -- and we don’t understand why -- recruitment is surprisingly difficult. People haven’t caught the vision yet.”

“Yes, but how many people are out there?” he repeated.

“Right now there are two dozen men.”

A chill ran through Barfield. His brain keyed in on that last word: men. Oh, no, Barfield thought. His breath caught in his throat. Men? She can’t mean what I think she means! So he asked her: “Neeka, you said two dozen ‘men,’ not two dozen ‘people’ — how many women are out there?”

“Unfortunately, at the moment, there are none. We haven’t been able to attract any female recruits. Yet. We will, but we haven’t yet. And before you ask: no, there are no visitors allowed, of any gender, for any period of time.”

Barfield was stunned. Neeka was one of the few women he’d seen in nearly a decade. It was maddening to sit and interact so closely with such a lovely creature and know that soon she would leave, never to be seen again. So near and yet so far! Barfield felt a surge of despair. Could he bear living that way? Knowing that for the rest of his life he would never even SEE a woman again? Could he do it? Could he live without intimate contact? Could he live without even minimal, casual contact with the fairer sex?

“There are a couple of things for you to consider,” Neeka continued, as if reading his mind. “One is that here, in this prison, you quite definitely will never have any female companionship. Uranus, on the other hand, at least offers the possibility. We strongly and actively recruit women, especially young women, for a variety of posts on Uranus. We want to fill Uranus. We want to make Uranus bustling and lively. We want Uranus to be attractive to everyone. We offer special signing bonuses to women who pick Uranus, and perks that are denied to the men. It could happen for you on Uranus. It will never happen here.

“The other thing for you to consider is that if you go, we will give you a new identity, and we will alter your appearance. No one on Uranus will know that you were Barfield Owens. You’ll land on Uranus as a new person with a new identity and a second chance at life.”

She stood up and pushed a packet of documents toward him. “Everything I’ve told you is in writing here. There are also photographs of the colony and other quite detailed information. I suggest that you read it and think about it. Take your time. Don’t rush your decision—”

“I’ll go,” he said. “You had me at new identity. You should have led with that. You sold me. I’m ready now: I’ll go.”

She opened her mouth to warn against undue haste, but he spoke over her.

“I’m going,” he said. “I’ve decided. Uranus sounds pretty good to me right about now.”

When Life Hands You Uranus : 2 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Neeka Fimernikem promised Barfield Owens that his appearance would be altered. He assumed she was talking about plastic surgery, but that wasn’t what she meant at all. She had a more fundamental change in mind. It was a transformation made possible by teleportation.

To put it simply, a person could enter Point A, and arrive at Point B as someone else entirely. Of course, on the inside, they’d be the same: they’d have the same thoughts, the same feelings, the same memories. But on the outside, physically, they wouldn’t be the same at all. There were virtually no limits to the alterations they could undergo. And the changes were real, permanent, down to the core, not cosmetic or temporary.

It’s possible for teleportation to transform a person, but it’s very rarely done.

How does it happen? How does it work?

Point B on Uranus receives a load of cargo once a week. Occasionally it receives people as well. Whatever goes into the teleporter comes out on the other side, but how is it sent? It's sent as chunks of energy. One of the biggest hurdles in developing teleportation was telling all these chunks of energy apart. One chunk of energy looks pretty much like any other chunk of energy. How does the teleporter know which is which? Sure, some energy chunks are bigger, and some are smaller. Frequency and amplitude can vary, but still: if you’ve seen one ball of energy, you’ve seen them all.

And yet, the receiving station always manages to turn all that energy back into whatever objects they’re supposed to be, whether it’s a huge tank of water, or a carton packed with letters and parcels, or a shipping container full of fruit trees. How does it manage to do it? It’s simple: Before each item is sent, a data file is sent ahead of it, and that data file uniquely describes the object. The receiving side watches for the data file, and with the help of that file, the receiving station is able to recreate the box, or plant, or person that was sent.

In the case of living beings (like plants or humans), there is also a third component. In technical terms, it’s known as the JNSQ: the je ne sais quoi. In a human being, it’s that “thing” without which a body is simply dead matter. It’s the elusive elan, spirit, soul, or mind… it’s what makes you, you. It’s the only part that doesn’t change. It can’t change. If it’s corrupted, altered, or not sent at all, the living creature will die.

During the wild experimental days when teleportation was first being developed, one adventurous, irresponsible soul discovered that it was possible to substitute one person’s data file for another. When the wrong file is sent, the receiving station constructs the wrong body. The traveler does not come out the way they went in. Back in those heady early times, there were accidents and pranks that were both amusing (to others) and terrifying (to the victim). The changes were difficult, costly, or even impossible to undo.

As Neeka Fimernikem would say, these things are not secret, but they are not commonly known.

The five days after Barfield met Neeka were a flurry of activity. The preparations for his exile on Uranus involved a great deal of paperwork, physical examinations, and consultations, to say nothing of the arrangements and accommodations that were necessary. Neeka, with single-minded efficiency, checked off every task, filled out every form, filed every declaration and certificate, until only one item remained. Once she completed this last piece of business, she’d be done with Barfield Owens. Today, this last bit of business brought her to Point A. She needed to deliver Barfield’s documents -- the ones that establish his new identity -- and oversee the alterations to his appearance.

Neeka was quite pleased with Barfield’s new name: Leonard Lessius. It was a name she had chosen more or less at random from Earth’s historic archives. The name had a pleasant, confident sound, and she wished, with some regret, that she could be present to witness Barfield’s pleasure and surprise when he’d hear his new name for the first time.

Regarding his appearance, she decided that the safest route was to aim for opposites, or at least for different: dark blonde hair in place of light brown, green eyes in place of blue, tall in place of short, slim in place of stocky, and so on. It was a pretty simple plan. There was only one body part that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with: she knew that she liked men who had a generous package, so to speak, but would Barfield be happy or frustrated if he were better endowed? Would he be more peaceful and tranquil if his testosterone were lower, and his penis shorter? She’d ask the technician: he was a man. He’d have a feel for it.

Moss, the technician, was very pleased to discover that his visitor was someone as young and attractive as Neeka, and he was further pleased to know that they’d be editing a person’s data file. Usually Moss’ job was solitary, routine, and fairly boring: he’d line up cargo units, check manifests, follow schedules. When each teleport cycle began, he’d push buttons and send confirmations in a strictly-defined and highly efficient sequence. It was important to not waste time or energy. Energy was money, after all. Efficiency wasn’t fun, but it was the essence of the job.

Altering the data file of a human being, on the other hand, was quite a different sort of work: it took creativity and a highly developed esthetic sense. It was also somewhat difficult, in spite of the advanced tools available. For Moss, it was the most satisfying part of his job, albeit the rarest. He spent many of his free hours reworking the practice set -- a standard bank of anonymous profiles meant for training and study. He liked to keep his hand in. And it showed: If anyone ever bothered to compare and rate that sort of activity, Moss would be placed among the best.

Honestly, though, in spite of the complexity, it was nearly impossible to utterly ruin a person’s appearance. The data-file editor had a powerful option: Apply Eigenvalues. This amazing function took the current physical settings and adjusted them, by applying proportions that were scientifically determined to be esthetically pleasing. Moss liked to challenge himself to arrive at a result that required as few eigenvalue adjustments as possible. He usually succeeded. He had a very good eye.

Obviously, Neeka and Moss each had their own set of expectations. Neeka imagined that she would design a new, average-looking person, someone who wouldn’t call attention to himself. Moss imagined that he would impress his attractive visitor with his design skills.

After chatting about Neeka’s fashionably antiquated eyewear for a reasonable period, the two got down to business. Neeka handed over a memory stick containing Barfield’s data file, and Moss loaded it into the editor. As soon as the profile finished rendering, Moss swore an oath so unholy, Neeka blanched a deathly pale.

“That’s Barfield Owens!” Moss exclaimed in disgust. “He’s the Mojan-Pardee Killer!”

“That’s classified information,” Neeka informed him.

“This man is a murderer!”

“He is going into permanent exile, and that fact cannot leave this room.”

“He’ll slip out of Uranus on the next teleport cycle! After killing everyone there!”

“No, he won’t,” Neeka explained. “He will never be able to leave Uranus. Once you alter his data file, we will block his exit from Uranus.”

“How will we do that?” Moss demanded angrily.

“We will take Barfield’s new profile and load it into an obligatory update for the outgoing gate on Uranus. The update will contain a block on the profile we’re about to create. If Barfield tries to leave Uranus, the system will refuse to transport him. You will transmit this update, with the block, tomorrow. Barfield won’t land on Uranus until next week. The update will execute immediately, putting the block in place. By the time Barfield arrives, the exit door will already be closed and locked. Barfield will never leave Uranus. Understand?”

“Okay,” Moss said, calming a bit. His anger was mollified a great deal by Neeka’s explanation. He was still upset, but he was also quite impressed with her command of the situation. Knowing that Barfield would have no way out of Uranus helped him get a grip on his turbulent emotions.

A second influence helped him regain his composure: he wanted to make a good impression on Neeka. She was remarkably attractive, quite observant, and clearly well-prepared. Moss took some deep breaths and counted to ten.

Then, Moss did what people often do in difficult moments all across the universe: he took a moment to prepare a cup of tea. As the water came to a boil, Moss apologized for his outburst. His evident sincerity, and the fact that he was able to accompany his offer of tea with authentic McVitie’s chocolate digestive biscuits helped greatly to restore him in Neeka’s bespectacled eyes. “We should have these biscuits on tap at the Nostalgia Project!” she declared. “They’re wonderful!”

At the same time, under his smooth, tea-sipping exterior, Moss was secretly hatching a plan. For now, he’d go along with everything Neeka said or asked. Later, when he was alone, he’d fix Barfield’s little red wagon. He’d settle his hash. He’d make sure that for Barfield, Uranus would be an unending slice of hell. But that would be later. Is vengeance really a dish best served cold? Sometimes “a little later” is "cold" enough.

And so, after they consumed their tea and biscuits, Neeka and Moss got to work on revising Barfield’s appearance. Moss stifled his desire to show off. He listened attentively and did exactly what Neeka asked, in every case, without contradicting or correcting or offering improvements.

In the end, even Moss was surprised at the result. Perhaps it was the innate skill in his fingers. Perhaps Neeka had an eye as perceptive and creative as his own. In any case, Barfield’s new profile was perfect. Not “perfect” in the sense of chiseled manliness or movie-star appeal. It was perfect in the sense of being exactly what was wanted.

The new image was that of an ordinary man, a common type: not bad looking, but not one who’d stand out in a crowd. It was not a face or figure that would draw your attention; it was one of the invisible people who walk among us, unnoticed, every day. Barfield would be pleased to have such a body. He’d have to be enormously pleased to part with his old face: the face of one of the planet’s most hated murderers.

The last decision they needed to make was about the dimensions of Barfield’s new penis. Neeka, blushing, asked Moss for his opinion. He thought for a moment, then gave this suggestion: “Let’s give him one that matches his overall look.” To show her what he meant, he set up two sliders: one for length and one for girth. Then he slid them up and down, making the profile’s member longer and shorter, wider and thinner.

In spite of herself, Neeka was fascinated, and watched the image’s penis grow and shrink, until it arrived at the Goldilocks point: not too big, not too small, but just right.

That done, Neeka declared herself satisfied with the results. The new Barfield was “decent looking.” When the day came that Uranus started attracting women, Barfield would have a solid chance. I’d hit that, she told herself, and nodded approval to Moss, who saved the settings in a fresh new data file.

When Moss first laid eyes on Neeka, he had hoped to invite her to dinner after work. He further hoped and fantasized that dinner would lead to his apartment, and his apartment would lead to his bed. Until the moment he saw Barfield’s original profile, he’d been actively imagining Neeka naked. Neeka naked in his bed. Neeka naked in his kitchen. Neeka naked in his bathroom, brushing her teeth. Neeka, seen from the side, bending to look at… at… at something on the floor. His imagination hadn’t come up with the something quite yet: but the nakedness and the pose were there, and of course an evident willingness underlying all the imaginary scenes…

Now, with the prospect of doing harm to the world’s most famous murderer, Moss hustled Neeka to the door, explaining that he needed to get ready for tomorrow’s teleport cycle.

“Oh, I nearly forgot!” she exclaimed, as Moss was closing the door. “Here are our man’s new papers -- id, birth certificate, school records, personal history -- his whole new identity. You need to send these tomorrow, so Uranus is ready. They need to know that he’s coming. And give him a copy as well. He can familiarize himself while he’s waiting to leave.”

Moss looked puzzled. “He won’t know his new identity until just before he leaves?”

“No, he won’t,” she said. “Absolutely not. Listen, I’ve done this several times before, and I’ve learned a hard lesson. Do you know the very first thing a person does when you hand them a new identity?”

“They want to change something?” Moss ventured.

“Exactly. They want to change one little thing, then another thing, and in the end they want to change the WHOLE thing. It turns into a big, time-wasting mess. The only way a new identity works is if it’s done for them by someone else. It’s better if they’re surprised. Just like when we’re born.”

“Right, right,” Moss agreed. He pushed on the door, but she still had her hand on it, holding it open. She had a small big of unburdening to do.

“If you ask a person to choose a new name, they invariably pick one that’s obviously fake, or just sounds silly. And you can’t TELL them that it sounds silly. That’s why I choose real names from the past.”

“Yeah, that’s, uh, smart of you.”

“AND they want to look like a movie star.” She shook her lovely head.

“Yup,” Moss agreed. “Hey, sorry, I’ve really got to go -- work to do! Teleport cycle tomorrow!” He almost got the door closed, but once again she put up her hand and stopped him. “Don’t forget to send the upgrade to the Uranus portal, with the block.”

“Right, right, yes, I’ll get right on it.”

“Obligatory upgrade.”

“I won’t forget. I’ll do it right now, before I do anything else.”

“Okay,” Neeka said. “I guess that’s it.”

“Yup,” Moss chirped. He smiled and waved as he closed the door. Then he threw the deadbolt. Neeka was taken aback by the sound. She didn’t understand why Moss so suddenly wanted to get rid of her, but in any case her work here was done. She threw Moss' rudeness off with a shrug and walked to the nearest taxi stand.

 

---

 

There are people who shouldn’t work alone: people who need an anchor for their flights of fancy. There are people who need a sounding board, so their thoughts can quit roiling and rolling inside. There are people like Moss, who need someone to look over and say, Hey! What the hell are you doing? Are you kidding me? You can’t do that!

Unfortunately, Moss had no anchor or listener or witness. He was alone in an office where he could fire anything he liked straight through to Uranus. There were no checks and balances. Uranus could only receive; Uranus had no way to talk back.

Moss rubbed his hands in satisfaction. It wouldn’t take him long to royally screw up Barfield’s profile. His plan, in a nutshell, was to create a new person, a new profile for Barfield that would be as ugly and loathsome outside as Barfield was inside. He’d create it, transmit it, and just before sending Barfield off to exile, he’d give that killer a lecture about what a vile piece of scum he was.

Of course, Moss had no idea what Barfield was really like, as a person. He knew only what he’d heard about the man, what he’d seen in the news, and all of that was awful. Worse than awful. Also, it should be noted that Moss’ life hadn’t been affected in any real way by the Mojan-Pardee Killer. Not one of his personal acquaintance had been murdered. In fact, he didn’t know anyone even remotely connected to any of the victims. And yet, he was offended by the fact that Barfield Owens existed. He was indignant that Barfield Owens was leaving prison. It was a desecration, a profanation, a travesty of justice. He was outraged that Barfield Owens still had life in his body. Moss was offended on behalf of all those who were unable to feel offended, and he was determined to make Barfield Owens feel the weight of his disapprobation in his own body.

Moss fortified himself, but not with tea and chocolate digestive biscuits. This time he needed something stronger: he prepared a pot of strong, hot coffee, and microwaved a bagel sandwich with egg, sausage, and cheddar. Moss cracked his knuckles and sat down at the console.

After reloading Barfield’s original profile, he started making changes. First of all, in a fit of indignation he shortened the man’s penis to the point that it would be difficult to pee. Then, working from the feet to the head, he changed nearly every part of Barfield’s body, aiming in every case for the grotesque.

When he finished, he surveyed his work. He laughed with wicked satisfaction. The new profile looked like something out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. If this figure was female, you’d expect her to be living in a cottage deep in the woods, cooking children and cackling in a crow-like voice.

Then Moss glanced at the clock. To his surprise, it was nearly midnight. He’d been so absorbed in the destruction of Barfield that he’d lost track of time. He stood up, stretched, and went to the lavatory. When he returned to the work station, the grotesque creature he’d created was still floating in the air above the console. In spite of all the time Moss spent creating the figure, it startled him. Frankly, it frightened him. It made him aware of the late hour and the fact that he was alone in a place where periodically a void opens, a vivid darkness that led to Uranus, icy blue with cold.

His reaction gave him second thoughts. Maybe Barfield would like looking this way: scary, intimidating, off-putting. It might feed his sense of power, and cow the other miners. His very ugliness might deliver Uranus right into his hands.

Disappointed, Moss sat down again. He deleted his awful creation and reloaded Barfield’s original profile. Then he set to altering it once again. This time, he aimed for oafish, stupid-looking. He made a broad, flat face with wide-set eyes. He shorted the torso and legs, and lengthened the arms. He gave the figure elephantine ears, a teeny tiny nose, and a shock of hair on the very top of an otherwise bald head.

Once again, though, the effect was unsatisfying. It still seemed in some way inadequate.It didn’t express the hatred he felt for Barfield. Then Moss abruptly realized, to his disgust, that he’d re-created his own Uncle Nathan. Nathan was a good, kind man, and didn’t deserve to have his face given to a mass murderer like Owens.

Sighing, Moss wiped his work from the system and reloaded Barfield’s original profile. It was now 2:15 in the morning.

Moss tried over and over, one attempt after another. He made one with huge hands and feet and a tiny head. It was too ridiculous. He made one with a tiny body and a huge head, which prompted warnings on the console: the proportions were anatomically dangerous. He tried erased and started again countless times, but none of his results expressed his visceral disdain for Barfield. None of them were sure to be a punishment in and of itself.

And now it was six o’clock. Four more hours, and he’d have to kick off a teleport cycle. It took about an hour to prepare, so really he only had three hours. By now, though, he was hungry and tired and not thinking straight. He needed a break.

Moss exited the building and walked two blocks to a 24-hour diner. He ordered a plate of eggs, ham, and toast. His brain was befogged. The coffee didn’t help to clarify anything; it wasn’t waking him up at all.

Then, something happened that gave him the key -- or so he thought. You have to understand that Moss was a man who, in spite of his work, had never traveled. He’d never been to another planet. In fact, he rarely ventured out of his city, out of his neighborhood, except to go on vacation. Even then, he’d never been anywhere exotic or different -- never to a place that would open his eyes to the wider world -- to the life beyond the four walls of his parochial experience.

Three men who sat at the other end of the diner were loudly flirting with the waitress. She tried to brush it off good naturedly, but they wouldn’t leave her alone. They progressed to touching and groping her whenever she passed their table. Moss quite rightly was offended, but he didn’t say or do anything about it. The last straw came when one of the men grabbed the waitress outright and pulled her onto his lap. She loudly protested, which brought the cook and the dishwasher out from the back, and the three men were told to leave. They resisted until another patron offered to call the police. The three were about to storm off, when the cook stopped them and instructed them not only to pay their check, but also to leave a generous tip for the waitress they’d abused. They threw some money on the table. The cook wagged his chef's blade at them, and they added some more money. Then a little more. Once the cook was satisfied, he let them go.

As soon as the door closed on the three malefactors, everyone in the place began talking at once. At last, Moss’ head was clear: finally, he was awake. He paid his bill and ran back to work. Now he knew what he wanted to do.

Moss was well aware of the fact that there were no women on Uranus; only men. He’d met some of them, and they were -- for the most part -- big, burly guys. Moss imagined that if a woman did arrive on Uranus that she’d be treated much the same way as the waitress in the diner. Except for the fact that there’d be no one to hold the miners back. There was no one who’d call the police; there were, in fact, no police to call. Moss didn’t realize it, but he was projecting his own misogyny onto the miners. He assumed that they were like him, and given the chance, they’d treat a woman badly.

So, he decided to deliver a woman into their hands. He believed that if he transformed Barfield into a hot young woman, she’d be at the miners' mercy. She’d be the unending object of their collective lust; she’d suffer all their jibes and kinks, and there’d be nothing and no one to stop them.

He deleted his last attempt at making Barfield grotesque. Then he loaded up one of the standard female profiles from the practice set. It didn’t matter what she looked like now; he’d amp her up, all the way to eleven.

First, he scanned the interwebs for images, using terms like bombshell, babe, bimbo, and the phrase sexiest woman ever. He collected the photos that he found most arousing. When he felt that further searching wouldn’t yield anything sexier, he went through the photos he’d saved, and winnowed his collection down to an even dozen. Then he cycled through the twelve images methodically, altering the profile in one way and another as he studied the pictures.

When he finished working from the photos, he had a result that was definitely along the lines he was aiming for. However, it still needed some tweaks, some adjustments. He made the chin smaller, the eyes bigger, the neck longer. He tapered her legs, narrowed her waist, enlarged her hips and breasts. He gave her delicate arms and hands. He gave her tiny feet, and narrow shoulders to accentuate her breasts. He plumped up her lips and raised her cheek bones. His fingers flew as he harmonized and sexualized the body in front of him. He made her hair blonde, then dark, then red. He made it curly and straight, before settling on wavy. Of course, her hair was long and shiny.

Once again, time disappeared for him. When he finally felt he had nothing more to add or change or adjust, he saved the profile. Then -- just to see the effect -- he hit the Eigenvalues button. The lines shifted subtly; the function made almost imperceptible changes, but the effect was astonishing. Moss gasped at the Venus floating in the air before him. She was irresistible. She was truly unbelievable. She had an electrifying, otherworldly allure. Moss gaped like a fourteen-year-old. Then he looked at his crotch. Without his even feeling the reaction, he saw a long, strong erection trying to poke its way out of his pants.

He let out the breath he’d been holding, then he looked at the clock. OH MY GOD, IT’S TEN AFTER NINE! If he didn’t start moving fast, he’d never make the ten o’clock teleport cycle. He hit SAVE on the console, then ran to grab today’s manifest, and dashed off to line up the cargo in the bay. As he was doing so, he suddenly remembered that he needed to load the new profile into an update for the Uranus out-portal. He started moving faster. He double-checked the manifest against the cargo pods, then ran back to the portal. He checked the order of the data files against the manifest. It all checked out. Then, he loaded the new profile into a copy of the out-portal program, and tried to mark the program to be transmitted as an obligatory upload. He got a loud beep and an error message: Cannot add ‘obligatory’ attribute to an uncompiled program.

Shit! He hit COMPILE. Another beep! Another error! He had forgotten to mark the profile as a block. Okay: fixed that. COMPILE. Moss looked at the clock. Five minutes to ten. Would he make it? What would happen if he didn’t? Maybe Barfield would escape from Uranus and teleport to point C. He’d go on another killing spree, and it would all be Moss’ fault.

Two minutes to ten. Moss got ready to start the cycle. If the upload wasn’t ready, he’d have to send it next week. Oh, God.

One minute to ten. COMPILE COMPLETE. Hands shaking, he marked the program obligatory update, added it to the cycle manifest, and hit GO, just as the clock hit 10:00:00.000: precisely on the mark. He'd never cut it so close before. Never.

The engines stirred. An electric whine rose in pitch. The void opened. An uncanny aura filled the building. Every hair on Moss’ body stood on end. Then, one by one, faster than you can count, the cargo pods disappeared. Moss checked the readings: the data files were transmitted; the cargo was gone. The file count was correct. The pod count was correct. The files and the pods aligned. The out-portal update was transmitted. Everything was correct.

Moss hit CONFIRMED. The void closed. The whine came down and stopped. The engines slowed and finally shut off. The aura began to fade. For a moment there was a kind of echo, a subtle left-over ethereal vibration that took its time in dissipating, until the whole building fell silent.

Moss sat there, listening, hearing nothing, conscious of his breathing. He trembled slightly. Then he smiled.

He’d done it! He’d dealt his very own secret justice for the victims of the Mojan-Pardee Killer. It was a strange, silently jubilant moment. He didn’t move from his chair for about five minutes. He would have stayed there longer, enjoying the sense of victory, had not the strain of his all-nighter abruptly caught up with him. He felt immensely tired. Moss needed to get home, take a shower, go to bed. Tomorrow began his weekend. He’d have the next two days off, and there was nothing he needed to do. He could relax and do nothing but gloat for two entire days. No -- longer than that: He'd have three nights and two days. He’d have plenty of time to revel and recover.

Ninety minutes later he climbed into bed, feeling clean, virtuous, and triumphant. He expected to sleep very well that night. He pulled up the blanket. He closed his eyes. His head sank into the pillow.

Then, suddenly his eyes snapped open: He’d forgotten to send Barfield’s documents!

When Life Hands You Uranus : 3 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

The next three nights and two days were the worst weekend of Moss’ life. He couldn’t sleep. Each time a wave of exhaustion would wash over him, he’d lie down, but the moment he’d close his eyes, the memory of what he’d done would replay in his mind, and the fear of future judgment would jangle his every nerve, down to the tiniest filaments.

His anxiety gave him a sensation of desperate hunger. Unable to sleep, he went to an all-night convenience store and bought a bagful of frozen burritos, chicken pot pies, cheese balls, and fish sticks. Afraid that sugar might make him wired, he avoided the sodas and the candy aisle, but once he got home, he started drinking coffee as if it were water. He had nothing else on hand. Then he got busy microwaving his purchases.

Soon he felt bloated, greasy, wired, and strung out. None of what he ate or drank was good for him, and none of it combined well in his digestive system.

In an attempt to clear his head, he took a long hot shower, sitting on the floor so the water spilled over him like rain. When he could stay there no longer, he dried himself off, took paper and a pen, and sat down at the kitchen table to map out his thoughts.

At the top of the page, he wrote the first, undeniable fact, all in caps: I SHOULD HAVE SENT THE DOCUMENTS.

It was true, but in itself it wasn’t such a big deal. If he had sent the documents, Uranus would be ready for Barfield. Now, Barfield’s arrival would be a surprise. Okay. So far, so good: the second thing Moss wrote, all caps, was: NOT A BIG DEAL. Even if someone complained (which they wouldn’t), he’d simply say he’d forgotten to send them. Management would tell him not to do it again; Moss would promise he wouldn’t, and that would be the end of it.

BUT -- and here was a big “but”:

Neeka had given him documents for a man, and he’d sent the profile of a woman. The thought frightened him -- he could get in so much trouble. He wrote: DOCS FOR MAN, NOT WOMAN.

Right: the documents wouldn’t fit the person. Well, what if he never sends the documents at all? What would happen? A woman would arrive on Uranus; the miners would ask for her papers. At the very least, they’d want to know her name. She wasn’t likely to admit to being Barfield Owens, but who would she say she was? What could she do? She could pretend to have amnesia, but that ruse wouldn’t take her very far. Even if she gave a made-up name, there wouldn’t be any documentation to back it up. In any case, eventually there’d be an investigation, and the investigation would start with him, with Moss. He’d be found out, and probably go to jail. At the very least, he’d lose his job and have a hard time finding another.

He wrote, SHE NEEDS DOCUMENTS.

What if the documents Neeka provided could somehow work for a woman? Maybe if Neeka had given Barfield a gender-neutral name, like Dylan or Oakley or something like that... Even so, it would be hard to argue that a hottie like the one Moss created would ever be designated male.

The moment he had that thought, a light went off inside his head. Moss wrote his amazing realization in the center of the page, on a line by itself: NO BIO-DATA. He underlined it three times, circled the words, and drew arrows pointing to it.

On Barfield’s new documents, he wouldn’t be marked as anything -- yet. Not male, not female. His age, height, hair color, etc., etc. couldn’t be there. There’d be no photo or bio-data in Barfield’s new paperwork: those things would have to come out of the new physical profile Moss and Neeka had created. Which meant that the documents would be editable, at least to that extent. If he was lucky, the edit permissions weren’t keyed to Neeka. He’d have to check, once he got to the office.

Now Moss saw a glimmer of hope. It was odd, though, that someone as organized and prepared and -- well, let’s face it: someone as elegant, cool, and attractive as Neeka -- it was odd that she’d forget an important detail like that. Maybe Moss had thrown her off by his angry outburst, when he realized they were dealing with Barfield Owens. Then there was the tea and biscuits. In the end, Moss *had* shoved her out the door. She was distracted, sure, and Moss gave her the bum's rush in the end. In any case, she’d forgotten. If she *did* remember that she’d forgotten, she’d have to come back before the next teleport cycle (a week from now) to fix what she missed. Once Barfield left for Uranus, it would be too late for any changes or adjustments.

Then again, why would Neeka return? She’d assume that Moss had already sent the documents. In her mind, it would already be too late: she’d have to resign herself to letting the missing pieces sort themselves out. After all, those details could be added at Uranus, albeit a little awkwardly.

With a sense of added relief, Moss took his pen and wrote, NEEKA NOT RETURNING.

Even so, he’d keep Neeka’s memory stick on hand, just in case. He got up to drink yet another coffee, then froze in his tracks. Where was Neeka’s memory stick? Where had he left it? He couldn’t remember. He dashed to the front closet and went through the pockets of his coat. He ran to his bedroom, plucked his work clothes out of the pile of dirty laundry, and riffled the pockets. No memory stick there, either.

He urgently wanted to hurry to work and search the office -- not only to find the memory stick, but also to see if the documents were editable. But he didn’t dare. His presence would be signaled, and he’d have to explain himself. He couldn’t just go in. He’d have to wait. Bide his time, bite his nails, and wait.

A horrible, desperate thought came to Moss, just as he was falling asleep on the last night of his seemingly unending weekend. He closed his eyes and was about to drift off, when it hit him, floating up from the darkest part of his psyche: What if, when it was time for the teleport, he purposely sent the wrong data file with Barfield? What if -- instead of sending the data file for a person, he sent the data file for an empty cardboard box, for example? Or no data file at all? What if he corrupted Barfield’s profile, and made it unusable?

Certainly, Barfield would die. Or to put it more accurately: Moss would kill Barfield. Moss would become a murderer. And he’d get caught, sure as anything. The JNSQ would be transmitted; there would be a record of it. His every action would be logged. Killing Barfield would be a desperate move, but in the end it wouldn’t resolve anything.

Moss sat up on the edge of his bed and slapped himself in the face three times, hard. Then he started crying. What an idiot he was! Why did he put himself into such a mess? Who did he think he was?

 

---

 

The next thing he knew, he was waking up. The sun was shining. The weather was absolutely beautiful. The air temperature, the humidity, the pollen, were all at the most favorable, comfortable levels. It was a perfectly normal, perfectly agreeable workday -- or at least it should have been. Moss showered and dressed. He felt like absolute crap. He was drained, exhausted, and hungover. At the same time, he was buzzing with caffeine, anxiety, and existential fear.

On entering the office, his first discovery was that he’d left the console on. The gorgeous naked woman he’d created was still floating in the air above the workstation. The cleaning people must have seen it. There was no way they could have missed it. He hurried over to turn it off. His hands were shaking. He looked over every inch of the console: there was no sign of Neeka’s memory stick. He checked the control room as thoroughly as he could, without success. He hadn’t left it sticking in any of the data ports.

Moss broke out in a cold sweat.

He methodically worked his way through the office, starting from the door. He looked on top of everything, under everything. He tried to physically retrace his steps, but it didn’t help. In his mind’s eye, he could see Neeka handing him the stick, but his memory of it was a blank after that.

I’m fucked, he told himself. I’m well and truly fucked. I’ll have to call Neeka and ask for a new set. Then she’ll know I didn’t send them when I was supposed to. He sighed, and went to make himself a cup of coffee, to fortify his nerve.

There, in the kitchen, sitting atop the microwave, like the very picture of innocence itself, was Neeka’s memory stick. Gratefully, Moss snatched it up, and ran, hands trembling, to a computer console. He plugged the stick into a data port and found it was exactly what he hoped: Barfield Owens’ new documents.

The first thing he did was to make a copy, and he put that copy in a folder called ORIGINAL B.O. Then he removed the memory stick, and locked it in a drawer.

Next, he examined the documents. To his surprise and delight, Neeka had not only left him with editable files, she’d left him with (1) Barfield’s original documents, (2) the documents establishing Barfield’s new identity, and (3) an entire official planetary-government-issue ID-creation kit. With that kit, he’d not only be able to create ID cards, tax and credit histories, etc., etc., but also to automatically insert the appropriate corresponding entries in the planetary Office of Credit and Vital Statistics! Moss couldn’t believe his luck.

He set to work on a copy of Barfield’s new identity. First, he had to hunt for a few anxious minutes to find the upload feature that would extract all the physical data like height, weight, eye color, GENDER, and so on, directly from the new physical profile he’d created. Once he did that, the documents began to look real. The upload even generated photos for ID cards, drivers license, passport, and other documents.

Then Moss hit a wall. What was this new person’s name? He drew a blank. The only names that came to mind were TV news anchors, characters from books and movies, political figures… all of them, famous. None of their names would work.

Then, just when he needed something serious, a string of silly names paraded through his mind. They came from a late-night comedy show, and once they started, he couldn’t make them stop: Bertha Twins, Ophelia Hiney, Derry Yare, Eileen Dover, Frieda Livery, Gladys Friday, Gloria Sass, and of course, Molly Spencer-Downe...

Moss gave his head a hard shake and went off to lunch. Stepping outside into the fresh air stopped the crazy names from coming, and food, in his experience, seemed to help resolve problems. As he thoughtfully consumed a healthy salad, he mentally took a step back and tried a different tack. He’d seen the name that Neeka had chosen: Leonard Lessius. Did the name Leonard have a female form? Leonora? No. Too grand. Isn’t Lessie a girl’s name? Lessie? Leslie? No, it just didn’t sound right. Lessee. Qualified lessees get immediate approval. No.

He returned from lunch without a new name. So he took to the interwebs. He knew that Neeka had chosen “Leonard Lessius” from history, but he soon found that “History” is a large, nearly infinite, category, as is “First Names.” Here are some of the categories he tried, without a successful, or even promising, result:

• sexy first names
• porn stars from history
• first names
• first names that don’t suck
• I don’t know what to name my baby girl
• best first names
• most popular names by year

As many parents can attest, it’s difficult to choose a suitable name. Unless, of course, you’re inspired from the start, or have family traditions to follow.

Moss switched to a random approach, leaving names per se behind: now he searched for words that popped up in other places… names of plants and trees… types of boats… names of planets, suns, and asteroids.

At last he ended up with Linnea Valerianella. He was more-or-less pleased with it. He didn’t know anyone with either the first or last name. The complete name didn’t show up in the interwebs, which was good -- no one was already using that name. Also, it was a clunky, weird kind of name, but not too weird or clunky. The name kind of stumbled off the tongue, like a problem or a tongue-twister, and Moss liked that. Plus, the last name sounded sort of like a disease. On the whole, the name vaguely suggested racy science fiction, like the pulp stories of the early atomic age.

Most of all, it was a name, and that’s what was needed. What mattered even more was the fact that Moss was tired of searching and thinking. This was it: Barfield had a brand new name. Hopefully he’d hate it. Hopefully, he’d have trouble remembering it. Best of all, he might have trouble pronouncing it.

Moss took a bathroom break, then sat down again at the terminal. He took a look over all the documents, knowing that it’s important to check your work. Everything looked… well… better than good. The documents looked great. They looked real. They were real.

It was a good thing that Moss was so thorough: He found an entire group of documents he’d missed the first and second times through. There were school records. The grades generally followed Barfield’s actual grades. Moss was tempted to lower all the scores, including the state test scores, to make Linnea look like an idiot, but he realized that doing so might raise questions about her employment history. So Moss didn’t touch the grades. He did make some changes to the classes, though: he changed Calculus to Cooking, and Statistics to Sewing. He added a note to the last Phys. Ed. class on the cards: “It’s unfortunate that Linnea can’t pursue a career in field hockey. It would suit her better than anything else.”

Moss thought it was funny. Eventually someone might see it. You never knew.

Then he hit a major snag, and his heart sank, even lower than it had last weekend. There was an entire class of documents that he didn’t dare touch: all of the papers connected to Barfield’s new job on Uranus. There were work contracts, releases, tax and payroll forms, as well as other assorted paperwork -- all of it filed with the Nostalgia Project and already “signed” by Leonard Lessius. None of them could be altered. Even if he could change the documents before him, there was no way he could touch the Nostalgia Project’s records.

Heartsick, Moss looked up at the clock. It was late; it was already seven PM.

 

---

 

Back at home, Moss ran through the same emotions he suffered during the weekend. He sat down with pen and paper to work out all the possible outcomes. I’m fucked, he told himself. Well and truly fucked. He wrote on the pad, all caps, FUCKED.

He considered the possibility of sending Barfield the way that Neeka meant for him to be sent: with the documents she’d prepared for Leonard Lessius, and with the (male) profile that Neeka had created. Moss could send a fresh update for the Uranus out-portal with a new block profile. That would be his fall-back plan. He’d give up his idea of justice and vengeance. He had to be ready to go that way, right up to the last minute.

Moss thought he’d have trouble falling asleep, but he was so exhausted from his sleepless weekend, and its rollercoaster of fear and emotion, that he dropped off immediately.

He slept the sleep of the dead: deep and dreamless.

Somehow, when he woke in the morning, the answer broke upon him like the sunrise. He wouldn’t need to alter any more documents. He only needed to add a few. The solution was so simple, it made him laugh.

Moss knew that the Nostalgia Project would pay Leonard Lessius the same exorbitant salary as all the other Uranian miners, and he knew that the money would go directly into Leonard Lessius’ bank account. No one was going to go to Uranus to look for the man. No one on Uranus had anything to do with payroll. The two environments were blind to each other: the Nostalgia Project was on one world, and the Uranian mine was on another. Literally. There was no direct back and forth. Any communications between the two would have to run through the entire teleportation cycle.

Moss wouldn’t need to touch Lessius’ work documents at all, and he wouldn’t need to generate new work documents for Linnea. All he had to do was create a marriage license, uniting Leonard and Linnea in matrimony. Then, he’d add Linnea to Leonard’s bank account, credit history, and other financial vehicles (such as his retirement account and investment portfolio).

Once that was done, Leonard would be paid and Linnea could spend. No one would need to know how the exact plumbing worked between one end and the other. Not even Linnea.

Moss gave himself a pat on the back. It was quite an elegant solution. He walked on air for the rest of the week, and looked forward to chewing out Barfield before sending him off to his doom. To pass the time, he downloaded a tawdry novel written in the atomic era: Slave Girl of Gor and as he read, he pictured Barfield, acting out every scene, kneeling, naked, wearing nothing but a collar, in her new, firm, ultra-sexy body.

 

---

 

Barfield himself arrived at the teleport terminal three days later at six in the morning, with manacles on his hands and feet, accompanied by two guards. Moss was a little put out by the early call, alerting him to the arrival. Still, today was the big day!

When he met Barfield in person, Moss was shocked. The man was nothing like he’d imagined: he was short, about a hundred millimeters shorter than Moss, and somewhat stocky and slow. He had a quiet, even humble, air, and -- Moss had to say it -- He didn’t look as though he could hurt a fly. Barfield, whatever he’d been in life, didn’t look like a mass murderer, or even a regular murderer. He looked like a plumber or an electrician. He looked like someone you’d be glad to have living next door.

Moss shook off the impression, and led Barfield and his guards to the kitchen. One of the guards set a chair against the wall and sat Barfield on it.

“We don’t have a waiting room, per se,” Moss explained, “and the transmission room isn’t very comfortable, especially considering that the cycle won’t start for four hours.”

At this, Barfield glanced at the clock on the wall, but said nothing.

“You can help yourselves to whatever’s in here while you wait,” Moss continued, “but I’m going to make myself some breakfast, so if you want anything -- coffee, tea, pancakes, egg sandwiches -- I can make it for you now.”

“No, I’m good,” the first guard said, and the second guard echoed him. Barfield gazed at the floor and didn’t answer, so the first guard nudged him.

“Oh, me?” Barfield asked in surprise. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.” Then he turned his gaze back downwards.

“Okay,” Moss said, feeling incredibly awkward. “Well, I want some, so here I go.” He punched a few buttons, and soon his mug was filled with a steaming brew. Outwardly he smiled and played the good host, but inwardly he was kicking himself. It was pretty stupid of him, but he hadn’t counted on guards being present. That put the kibosh on his plan to lecture Barfield before sending him off. So he took a couple sips of coffee, then ventured to ask, “Are you two going to stick around? The whole time? Until he goes?”

The first guard, who was the older of the two, looked at Moss with some suspicion. “You want to be alone with a murderer?”

“Oh no, of course not!” Moss replied, laughing nervously. “I just thought it might be a little boring for you two.”

“We get paid to stand around and make sure things don’t happen,” the first guard replied. “Consequently, being bored is part of the job. A BIG part of the job. That’s why we’re paid the big bucks.”

The second guard scoffed and repeated big bucks in a bitter tone.

“You have to consider,” the first guard continued, “that we aren’t just keeping society safe from our prisoner. We’re also keeping our prisoner safe from society. There’s two parts to this job.”

“Umm, okay,” Moss said, and wondered whether now was a good time to politely leave the room. As if sensing this, Barfield looked up at Moss and asked, “Will Neeka Fimernikem be coming?”

Moss looked down at him and waited two beats before responding. Then he said, “No, she’s not.”

“Oh.” Barfield said. He didn’t sound surprised or disappointed. He sounded like a man who didn’t expect anything to go his way. He looked at the floor, then back up at Moss. “Did she leave anything for me?”

“Like what?” Moss asked.

Barfield took a breath. He didn’t know how much he could safely say. His new identity was a secret. Was this man in the know? So he ventured, “Some documents?”

Moss tilted his head back, and looked down his nose at the prisoner. He couldn’t deny it. He’d have to give the man his documents eventually. So he replied, “Yes, she left a packet for you. I need to print it out. You’ll get it before you leave.” Barfield nodded, and looked once more at the floor. Moss nodded to the guards and left the room.

When he got to the control room, he told himself, This is going to be one long morning. He kicked off the printout of Linnea’s documents. Then he queued up Leonard’s documents to print as well. Why not? Leonard was supposedly her husband. As the printer hissed and shifted papers, Moss wondered how he was going to manage this. The lecture, the insults were clearly out of the question. The guards weren’t going to let Barfield out of their sight until the teleport took him away. As far as the documents were concerned, he’d have to put them in Barfield’s hands at the last possible minute. Barfield might have enough time to see his new identity, but Moss had to make sure that Barfield wouldn’t have enough time to react -- especially not in the guard’s hearing.

The print job was maybe 10% complete, and Moss’ mug was now empty, so he headed back to the kitchen. The two guards were sitting in the doorway, one inside, one outside, facing each other. Barfield sat in a corner, still gazing at the floor. Moss walked over the coffee machine and punched the buttons again. As the coffee brewed, the first guard gave the second a playful nudge, and said, “Uh, hey, Moss? I was just thinking -- your job... it’s all about Uranus.”

The second guard snorted and said, “Yeah, Uranus is your job.” He laughed. “It's Uranus, all day long.”

FIRST GUARD: Moss, I can see you're thinking about Uranus. It’s all over your face.

SECOND GUARD: Have you ever seen Uranus, Moss?

MOSS: Uh, no.

FIRST GUARD: I guess there aren’t any mirrors in here. You know what I mean?

SECOND GUARD: Did you ever think about the fact that everybody can see Uranus except you?

FIRST GUARD (gestures to Barfield): Hey, Owens, you better get a big cushion to take with you. You’re going to land on Uranus!

SECOND GUARD: No, he’s going to land on YOUR-anus!

FIRST GUARD: I guess you've heard all the Uranus jokes, huh, Moss?

MOSS: Actually, no. This job is, uh… well, not exactly secret, but not many people know about it.

SECOND GUARD: Nobody knows about Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: He doesn't like to talk about Uranus.

SECOND GUARD: Owens is going to hear all the Uranus jokes. This time next year, he’ll know Uranus, inside and out. He’s going to eat, sleep, and breathe Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: He’ll be looking at Uranus every day.

BARFIELD: I guess.

SECOND GUARD: Some people would be pretty excited to see Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: Nobody wants to see Uranus. Nobody wants to hear about Uranus.

SECOND GUARD: I hear Uranus is very exciting. Owens can't keep himself away from Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: Yeah, yeah, but Owens: when you leave, don’t let the door hit Uranus.

MOSS (sotto voce): Jesus Christ.

SECOND GUARD: I hear Uranus is full of ass -- I mean, gas!

FIRST GUARD: Hey, Owens, you know, once your in, Uranus will never let you go. Uranus will be your new home.

SECOND GUARD: Hey, yeah -- but, you know, when you get there, Owens, you won’t need a map and two hands to find Uranus. It’ll be right in front of you!

FIRST GUARD (to Barfield): How about that? Uranus will always be in front of you!

SECOND GUARD: Unless he turns his back.

FIRST GUARD: You do that, Barfield, and your anus will point at Uranus. You see what I did there?

SECOND GUARD: Yeah, yeah, but, Owens, be careful out there! You don’t want to fall on Uranus! You don’t want anything to get stuck in Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: You know, Owens, I hear that the mining station is very roomy, very comfortable. That’s important -- it would be terrible if Uranus was too tight.

SECOND GUARD: Or too loose! You don't want Uranus to be too loose!

FIRST GUARD: I guess not.

SECOND GUARD: I hope it’s really lively out there, Owens. You don’t want Uranus to be dragging. You want Uranus to be bouncing.

FIRST GUARD: But you don’t want Uranus to be loud.

SECOND GUARD: Do you think there are any musicians out there? I’m wondering what kind of sounds would come out of Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: I think there’ll be a lot of low sounds.

SECOND GUARD: You don’t think you might be high squeaks? I bet you can hear a high-pitched whistle coming out of Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: I'm sure they can make all kinds of sounds come out of Uranus.

Moss felt an enormous sense of gratitude when Barfield raised his head and asked his guards, “Do you think I could get a cup of coffee?”

“Uh… yeah,” the first guard said, and Moss could see the two guards mentally struggle to find a joke connecting coffee and Uranus. Failing that, the younger guard got up and fetched a steaming mug for the prisoner.

“I’ll have those documents for you before you leave,” Moss told Barfield.

“Thank you,” Barfield replied.

Time dragged until nine o’clock. By then, Moss had prepared the cargo pods and the data files. He prepped Barfield’s documents for transit, as well as Barfield’s physical profile. He triple-checked everything.

Then, at nine-forty, he went to the kitchen and said, “It’s time. Will you follow me?” and he led them to the transit room. The guards looked around and said, “This is not very secure. We’re going to have to stay in here until he’s gone.”

“You can’t. If you stay here, you’ll end up on Uranus.” It wasn’t true; they’d actually end up dead, since there were no data files for them, but there was no point in explaining everything.

“I'm not going anywhere near Uranus!” the younger guard said, laughing.

"Yeah, keep Uranus to yourself," the older guard added.

“You’ll have to take the manacles off him,” Moss instructed, “and you--” here he addressed Barfield-- “will have to strip.”

“I have to be naked?” Barfield asked.

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Moss answered testily. It wasn’t true; Barfield didn’t need to strip at all. Moss, inspired by last night’s reading, added it as one more indignity. If he could have found an excuse to put a collar on Barfield’s neck, he would have done so, but that would have been too obvious: it would be a step too far. In any case, he didn't have any such thing.

“I don’t like this,” the older guard said, as he unlocked the shackles.

“We can lock the room from the outside,” Moss told him, “and I have to lock down the entire transport area as soon as the three of us exit.”

The guards left, carrying the chains and Barfield’s clothes. Moss handed Barfield the packet of papers and said, “Here’s your new identity. I hope Uranus gives you everything you deserve.” He didn’t mean that last phrase as a joke -- he meant it ironically, as a menace, and he gave Barfield a significant look. The look would have clarified his meaning, had Barfield only seen it, but the prisoner was too busy looking at the new life he’d been assigned.

“I -- uh -- what? -- wait!” Barfield called. “Wait! This can’t be right. This must be a mistake!”

Moss turned to smile as he closed the door and locked it. He had another snide comment to deliver, but a glance at the clock told him that he had only three minutes to get to the control room. He could hear Barfield’s muffled shouts: “This is a woman’s file! It isn’t mine! This is a mistake! This is wrong! Wait! This is for the wrong person!”

“What is he saying?” the older guard asked, with a look of concern.

“He said he’s sorry for all the wrong he’s done,” Moss lied. He hurried the guards to the control room, and hit the GO button exactly at 10:00.000. The teleport went off without a hitch.

When Life Hands You Uranus : 4 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Barfield shouted Wait! one more time, but only the W left his mouth. The rest of the word was caught inside and left behind. At that precise point in time, between the W and the a, the teleport cycle swept Barfield into the void. It took less than an instant -- the most infinitesimal fraction of a second -- for Barfield to become a ball of energy, traverse the void, and be remade on Uranus as Linnea Valerianella. Any physicist will tell you that you can’t use the words time and teleport in the same sentence, but every normal human being is acutely, innately aware of before and after, of then and now, and of there and here. And so, whether the teleport took a time too short to perceive, or no time at all, Barfield experienced it with his whole being. He felt exactly the same sensations that every other teleported person has always felt: first, the intense stabbing pain of being flash-frozen in every part of his body, from the outermost layer of skin to the center of the brain and the very marrow of the largest bones. His breath froze in his lungs and his blood became literal ice in his veins.

But the feeling -- acute and overwhelming as it was -- was followed immediately by an equally instantaneous thaw and warming as the ball of energy that traversed the void became a person once again. That person, as we said, was no longer Barfield Owens. The person who emerged from the teleport cycle was now, in every way possible, the astonishingly beautiful woman, Linnea Valerianella.

Linnea clutched her documents to her chest as she gasped in astonishment. Some part of her brain recognized the presence of the documents and asked: Wait a minute… If the packet full of papers could be teleported with me, why not my clothes?

It was only part of her brain, though. The rest of her brain was staring dumbfounded at her breasts. She lifted the packet of documents and saw the gap between her thighs. Jesus Christ on a bicycle! She was a woman! A woman! No wonder the documents… Linnea fumbled with her packet. What was her name now? She opened the file and took another look. Linnea Something-with-a-V. Oh, lord. Why couldn’t it be a simple, common name, like Mary Jones or Amadea Habsburg? Okay, Linnea V-something. She’d have to make the effort and learn that last name. A new identity indeed!

Naturally, Linnea believed that it was Neeka who had decided to turn Barfield into a woman. It was confusing, surprising, shocking, disorienting… and yet, Linnea had to admit that -- judging from her current appearance -- no one would ever, in a thousand years, guess that she had once been Barfield Owens. She was as far from being Barfield Owens as a person could possibly be.

Still, a little advance warning would have been nice. It was extremely disconcerting, to say the least.

Linnea found herself sitting in a row of chairs exactly like the row of chairs she sat in a few moments earlier in another, far-off corner of the universe. She stood up and tried the door. It didn’t open, so she twisted the knob a little more forcefully. It was definitely locked. After a minute or so, a man came walking up slowly and casually. He was holding a piece of paper -- the manifest from the teleport cycle. He looked from the paper to her several times with a puzzled look on his face. He tilted his head to the side as he regarded her. He was fully dressed, wearing a light blue coverall and a pair of gray slippers, but as far as Linnea could determine, he didn’t find her nakedness at all out of the ordinary. He seemed more confused by her being there at all.

After he’d given her a good looking-over, he opened the door and said, “My my my! You’re quite the looker, ain’t you?”

“Uh, thanks,” she replied. “Could I get something to wear? Or at least something to cover myself with? For some reason they sent me without my clothes.”

As she spoke, his aspect changed abruptly. A moment before, he’d been casually eyeing her up and down, as if her nakedness was a normal, everyday affair. Now, for some reason, he was confused, embarrassed, tongue-tied. In his astonishment, he dropped the manifest to the ground.

“Oh, my God! OH MY GOD! Are you -- are you real?”

“Yes,” she replied, wishing they could fast-forward to her getting some clothes. “Of course I’m real! What else would I be? A figment of your imagination?”

“Uh, uh, honestly, yes! Oh, my God!”

“So…,” she ventured again, “Could I get something to wear?”

“Oh, yeah! Yes, of course!” he replied, his voice cracked like that of an adolescent boy as he bent to retrieve the manifest. His hand shook so much, it took him three tries to pick the paper up, and when he finally held it in his hand, it trembled like a flagpole in an earthquake. “Follow me,” he told her, and loudly whacked his head with the hallway door as he opened it.

“What’s your name?” she called to him.

“Um, Wade,” he replied, rubbing his forehead as he led her to a small multipurpose room. “Here’s a clothes fab,” he told her. “Wha-- wha -- what would you like to wuh-- wuh-- wear?”

“A coverall like yours would be fine,” she replied. “And some underwear and slippers.”

Wade had already punched a few buttons, but when she said the word underwear he broke out in a sweat so copious, it made him blink. The fab beeped incessantly as he made one error after another. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Here, you better do it,” he told her as he wiped his neck with his hand, then dried his hand on his pant leg. “Besides, uh, anyway, it has to take your-- uh-- your-- buh-- buh--” He cupped his hands in front of his chest.

“My measurements?” she ventured.

“Yeah, yeah, your breasts,” he acknowledged, then blushed a deep crimson. “No, I meant--”

“It’s fine,” she said, and began punching buttons. The device offered suggestions, and she realized that the absolute last garment she wanted to wear was a coverall. Barfield had worn one for the past ten years. Time to leave the penitentiary behind. She turned to Wade and asked, “Does it matter what I wear? Is there, like, a dress code, or uniform policy? Does everyone have to wear a coverall?”

“Nuh-- naw-- no,” Wade said. “You can wear whatever you like. I wear it because it’s simple. Um-- um--”

“Wade, why don’t you wait outside until I’m dressed? It will be less embarrassing for both of us.”

With a grateful sigh, Wade retired to the hallway. Linnea pulled on her panties and struggled into her first bra. She could feel from the awkward fit that she hadn’t put it on correctly. She’d have to fix it later. Wade called from the hallway, “I don’t see any luggage for you on the manifest. Is it coming later?”

“Uh, no. I decided to start fresh. I think I’ll be ordering a whole new wardrobe.”

“Yeah, uh, good idea. So why did you teleport naked?”

“The tech told me that I had to.”

Wade gave a tsk of disapproval. “It was that Moss guy, right? What a letch! I never liked the guy. Never. He always seemed kind of creepy. I guess you see it now -- he was playing a mean practical joke on you! Everyone comes fully dressed when they teleport.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

Trying to be quick, Linnea chose a pair of soft shorts and a t-shirt, both light gray, and a pair of slippers like Wade’s.

“In the meantime, you can always fab up whatever you need,” he said. “None of it’s fashion, really, but it all fits and works.”

When she emerged, fully dressed, into the hallway, Wade smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. “Much better,” he said. “I mean, not that you’re not amazing to look at, but another couple minutes there and I would have had a heart attack, just from the nerves.”

Linnea gave a little smile and nod of agreement. Wade repeated, “Yeah, Moss played a dirty, mean trick on you.”

“So, what now?” she asked. “Do you still need to deal with teleport stuff? Can I go meet the others?”

“Ah, well,” looking apologetic, and squeezing his left hand in his right, Wade replied, “I have a little bad news. Or maybe a lot of bad news. You’re going to have to go into quarantine.”

“Quarantine? For how long?”

“Forty days. That’s what quarantine means. Forty days. It’s protocol, for all new arrivals.”

Linnea shrugged and said, “Okay.” I’ve been locked up for ten years, she told herself. What’s another forty days?

 

---

 

After securing Linnea, Wade called a hurried meeting of the miners. He was nearly exploding with the need to talk about it. He’d already sent a brief high-priority message telling everyone: NEW (FEMALE) ARRIVAL. AVOID NORTH WING COMPLETELY.

Ten miners showed up, which was about right for this time of day: the other fourteen would either be sleeping or working.

“So, it’s finally happened,” Carlus observed.

“It was inevitable,” another miner added.

“Thank God we already discussed it,” Wade said. “If we hadn’t already worked out the quarantine angle, I wouldn’t have known what to do.”

“Shouldn’t management have sent this girl’s documents a week ago? I thought we always had advance warning on new arrivals.”

“Yeah, she arrived with her documents. In her hands,” Wade laughed. “And nothing else! The damn tech sent her naked.”

“I’m not surprised. That Moss guy is really an asshole. I bet he thought he was doing us some kind of favor.”

“Mmm. Maybe he did. She is pretty damn hot,” Wade confessed.

Carlus fixed his gaze on Wade, and stared at him until Wade blushed. “Don’t tell me you’re falling for her, Wade. If it’s going to be a problem we can put somebody else on quarantine duty.”

“No, no, I’m fine!” Wade protested. “I got it. Anyway, she’s locked safely away in the North Wing, all by her lonesome.”

Carlus chuckled. “Three days of that, and she’ll be crying for her mommy. She’ll want to go home on the next teleport cycle.”

“Five days,” another miner called out.

Carlus looked at one of the miners who hadn’t spoken yet. “Jack, will you set up the pool? Thousand dollars for every pick.”

Jack nodded. “You guys are going to have to pick the hour, not just the day. Otherwise, everybody will pick the third day or whatever, and we’ll all just win our own money back.”

 

---

 

Wade had shown Linnea to what he considered a small room. To her, after a decade of incarceration, it seemed like a luxury suite. Everything looked brand new: clean, sparkling, and never been used. Even better, there were no locks or bars, and there weren’t any guards standing around.

After Wade left, Linnea sat for a full minute, marvelling at the silence.

She felt a strange new sensation. She took her time giving it a name. Was it joy? Peace? Tranquility? She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and once again drank in the silence. In prison, it was never quiet. If someone wasn’t talking or shouting -- or worst of all, singing loudly and badly -- if there wasn’t human noise, there was always the sound of a machine: the machine that cleaned the floors, the machine that washed the dishes, or the low, heavy, roar of the HVAC. Even late at night, when everything should have been still, there was always a low hum. If you put your hand on the floor, you could feel the vibration. Barfield never found out what it was, but it was always there.

Here, on Uranus, the floor didn’t vibrate. There weren’t any machines roving the hallways. She scanned the room with her eyes, following the line where the walls met the ceiling. No cameras. No one watching. For once, no one was there. She was alone for the first time in over a decade: gloriously alone.

Linnea drew a hot bath. On a whim, she fabbed up a skin-softening rose-and-pomegranate bath oil and added it to the lightly steaming water. For the first time in ten years, she was bathing alone, bathing in a tub. What a change from the prison showers! She turned on the jets. As the bubbles caressed every millimeter of her skin, she began to explore her new body. She ran her hands over her breasts, her stomach, her derriere. Her fingers ventured into the new topology between her legs. It was certainly a drastic change, a complete remake, a radical shift. She sighed. There was so much she needed to get used to; so much to learn. First of all, she’d need to get the low-down on feminine hygiene. She’d have to find out about tampons and pads: What kind to use? How to use them? She’d lay in a supply and carry them with her. Who knew when menstruation would strike? She’d have to be ready.

What else?

Mentally, she began making a list. Birth control. That would be number two after hygiene. Number three -- or maybe number two -- would be hair: she’d just gotten her head wet and somehow her hair turned into a mass of tangles. That business of brushing your hair a hundred strokes every night -- was that a real thing? Did it mean a hundred strokes total? Or a hundred strokes on each part of her head?

God, this was crazy! Now she was a woman! Couldn’t have Neeka sent along an instruction manual?

Still, in spite of her abrupt, unannounced, and completely non-consensual gender change, AND in spite of the massive tits mounted on her chest AND the new geography between her legs, she did feel relieved and happy. She’d escaped. Prison was only a bad dream. Uranus turned out to be a good idea, after all.

Of course, she knew she wasn’t on Uranus itself. The mining station was built on one of Uranus’ many moons. Titania, wasn’t it?

Suddenly, she knew what to call her new feeling: it was a sense of Liberty. She was new, clean, unmarked, unsullied; free from every crime and accusation. Barfield Owens was no more. Barfield Owens was dead. Now she was Linnea Val-- Val-something. She needed to learn that name. She had to study her life, and the life of her husband, good old whosit. She’d need to learn his name, too. Why on earth did Neeka saddle her with a husband? Was he a real person? Was he a good person? Was he coming to to Uranus? Was he already here?

“Jesus Christ,” she said, swearing in a soft voice. She tensed up for a few moments. A husband on Uranus? It couldn’t be. Wade was coming back in a few hours with dinner. Was there a way she could ask him? She’d have to find a way.

What else did she need to learn? She’d have to learn about clothes, for sure: how to choose them; how to dress. That was going to be a trip. She’d have to find a way into that world. Maybe something on the interwebs could guide her. The first subject to tackle was how to put on a bra; there must be a manual. She had to admit, she was feeling curious about the world of women’s clothes. Right now, it was like a tiny, barely noticeable itch, but she could sense that the tiny itch was ready to catch fire. Sure, women’s clothes were more complicated than men’s, but that meant there was more variety, more options. More fun? She’d make sure it was fun. The clothes fab was pretty limited; it wasn’t made to satisfy every turn of fashion: it was created to deliver functional clothes in every size. Still, from what Neeka told her, Linnea had a lot of money to work with. Did she also get that sign-up bonus? The extra pay, meant to entice women to join? Even if she hadn’t, a miner’s pay was extravagant; one of her documents would tell her exactly how extravagant.

One more thing: she’d need to learn about Uranus and the mining facilities. At this point, she had no idea what in the world they were mining for.

Thank goodness she had forty days alone to work her way through it all.

 

---

 

When Wade returned with dinner -- actual cooked food, not some fabbed-up synthetic stuff -- she had a few questions to ask him. But first, she couldn’t help but exclaim, “Wow, that smells delicious!”

“Yeah, we do pretty well in the food department,” Wade said, smiling and nodding. “We have real food shipped in each week, and we grow a lot of veggies and herbs and things. We’ve been talking about getting fruit and nut trees… maybe some chickens… start a fish farm…”

“Is there enough room for all that?”

“Oh my God,” he told her, “This place is so big, you can’t imagine. And we can make it bigger if we like, but we are SO FAR from needing any more space, believe me. I mean, we’re in the North Wing of the mining complex. This wing, just this wing, is twenty times bigger than the Nelson Space Station, and we have *five* wings. We really only use one wing, the South Wing, but all the wings generate energy, so... you know...” He shrugged, not knowing how to finish the thought.

“There must be a lot of cleaning to do,” she began to say, but then interrupted herself when she suddenly remembered: “Oh! I found a sign in the closet--” She jumped up and it pulled it out for him to see. It was a white card about a meter long and half a meter wide. In bold black letters it read: PLEASE KEEP URANUS CLEAN. Struggling not to laugh, she said, “Is this typical of life here? I mean, is it Uranus jokes all day long?”

“Oh, God, no, oh jeez, that sign. I thought we got rid of them all. No, no. The Uranus jokes get old so fast. In fact, I should have told you first thing, when you arrived, but I was so distracted by the, uh, by your uh--” he waved his hands vaguely.

“I get it,” she said. “You were distracted. So, what were you going to tell me?”

“Oh, yeah! The jokes. See, if you think that you’ve come up with some hilarious new Uranus joke, BEFORE YOU TELL ANYONE, you need to check the Uranus joke list. If it’s on there, you can’t tell it. If it isn’t on the list, you can add it. And then you can tell the joke to each person, but only ONCE.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “Where is the joke list?”

“Um, it’s in the file system,” he replied, suddenly realizing he’d made a mistake.

“And how do I get to the file system?” she asked.

His face turned a medium red. “I’ll have to make you an account.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “And will I be able to shop and search the interwebs?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Just remember that our interwebs get updated after every teleport cycle. It’s not real time.”

“Right,” she said, nodding. “Not real time. And will I be able to access the orientation materials? There are orientation materials, right?”

“Uh, yeah, right. There are videos and uh-- docs and stuff. Orientation stuff.”

“And will I be able to see a list of the other miners? Everybody’s names?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure.”

“Great!” she said. She could see he was uncomfortable and a little embarrassed by the turn the conversation had taken, so she figured she’d better press her point. “When will I be able to log in?”

“I’ll, uh, make you an account when I get to a terminal.”

“There’s a terminal right over there,” she said, pointing. “Could you do it now?”

“Oh,” he said, deflated.

 

---

 

“You gave her a system account?” Carlus said. “I can’t believe it! Are you an idiot? Don’t you get it? She’s supposed to feel isolated in there. We want her to HATE Uranus. Right?”

“Right, yes, I know, I get it,” Wade said, testily. “She just caught me by surprise.”

“You should have put her off. You should have told her that you’d do it right away, and then pretend that you forgot. Didn’t you think of that?”

“Of course I thought of that! I tried it, but she pointed out that there was a terminal in her room.”

“Okay,” Carlus acquiesced. “In the moment, she caught you on your back foot. Still, she’s a woman, and we don’t have live interwebs, so give it a day or two and she’ll be bored out of her head.”

 

---

 

Linnea pored over her own documents and those of Leonard Lessius. She still didn’t understand why Neeka had set her up with a husband. Turning her into a woman was already a huge step; turning her into a married woman -- wasn’t that a step too far?

Leonard, it turned out, was not on Uranus, nor -- as far as Linnea could see -- had he ever been to Uranus. What made it more confusing was the fact that his documents showed him as the miner, not her. There was no work contract for Linnea, although she discovered she had full access to their joint bank account. It was a very healthy bank account already, and she hadn’t even started working.

Linnea searched as thoroughly as she could for her supposed husband, but the interwebs had nothing at all to say about him. Nothing! She cast her net as far back as 100 years without finding a single Leonard Lessius.

Linnea took a break and made herself a cup of tea. As it brewed, she marvelled once again at her new-found freedom. There were so many little things that she couldn’t do in prison, things that now she could do whenever she damn well pleased. Just for instance: making tea. In prison, she could have tea at a meal, but not properly hot tea. It was always tepid, like old dishwater.

Now, she could make fresh tea, as hot as she liked. In the middle of the night, if the fancy took her. It was wonderful.

Then, as she sipped the scalding beverage, it hit her: Leonard Lessius didn’t exist. He didn’t exist! His identity was invented, just like Linnea’s. But why? What purpose was served by having Linnea hide behind Leonard?

And then it hit her. Hiding was exactly the idea. As far as the documents showed, Linnea Valerianella had never set foot on Uranus. Linnea Valerianella didn’t work or live on Uranus. Not officially, anyway. Leonard did. Neeka must have set things up this way to give Linnea a further level of protection, another layer of misdirection.

There was something else: It might have been a sense of delicacy on Neeka’s part. She might have wanted to give Linnea an out if she didn’t want to get involved with any of the miners. Sure, Linnea was a woman now. But that didn’t automatically mean she’d be attracted to men. If things got too dangerously intense in the intimacy department, Linnea could always say, “I’m married.”

Of course, all of her ideas and theories were completely wrong. Linnea’s life wasn’t complicated because Neeka designed it that way. Her life was complex because Moss had intervened. Moss purposely tried to make bad choices, and Moss’ intentions were all twisted, wrong, and evil.

Even so, Linnea had found a way to explain and understand the circumstances in which she found herself. She’d worked out an explanation that made sense to her; she discovered a meaning in the strange set of facts that defined her life now.

Buoyed and inspired by her insights, she greeted Wade with a joyful, positive air. He couldn’t help but smile in response as he set down her tray of food.

“Hey!” she said, in a voice full of excitement. “I meant to ask you: do I have to stay here, in this room? For the entire quarantine?”

“Oh!” Wade exclaimed, once again caught off guard and unprepared. “Uh, no, of course not. You can go all over the North Wing if you want.”

“How will I know where the North Wing ends?”

Wade thought for a moment. “Let me put it this way: it’s okay to go any place that you can go. Or, uh, if you’re allowed to go, you can -- No, wait. I got it: You can only go where you’re allowed. So if you can go somewhere, you’re fine. You won’t be able to go where you’re not supposed to go. You won’t be able to leave the North Wing.”

“Okay,” she said. Once again, Uranus beat prison to sticks. In prison, Barfield couldn’t go anywhere, except for meals and exercise. Now Linnea had a vast world to explore, all her own. “Is there anything particularly interesting in this wing?”

“Well, it’s empty -- I mean, in the sense that no one lives here, but there are a couple of gyms. One has a rock-climbing wall. There’s a soccer field. There’s a swimming pool, trampolines, game rooms, uh --- there are gardens with plants and trees. There’s a library, meditation rooms… Just remember, this wing -- well, all the wings -- are really, really, REALLY big. If you get lost -- and you probably will -- just ask any terminal for directions back here, to your room.”

“Great! Another question. This one’s a little embarrassing… but, uh... is it okay to smoke?”

“Oh, wow. Um, yeah. There are smoking rooms here and there. You can ask one of the terminals. I guess there are fabs that make cigarettes, or you could order the kind you like. I’ve never… so I don’t really know.”

“Cool!”

“Are you a nicotine addict?”

“Oh, no,” Linnea laughed. “It’s just something I’ve always been curious about. I never tried, but I’d like to. Just out of curiosity. Breathing smoke, you know. I want to see what it’s like.”

Wade nodded. “I guess that makes some kind of sense.”

As Wade turned to leave, Linnea called to him. “Hey! Wade, don’t you have a question for me?”

“A question for you? No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” Wade shrugged, at a loss. So she told him: “You’ve never asked my name.”

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t uh-- I didn’t uh--” He sighed heavily and gave up on whatever he was struggling to say. “I’m sorry. What is your name?”

“Linnea Valerianella,” she replied, grinning. The name came out smoothly, curling slowly off her tongue like a twist of lemon. She’d been practicing.

“Wow,” Wade replied. “That’s one hell of a name!”

When Life Hands You Uranus : 5 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Linnea thought she’d figured most of it out: she assembled what she regarded as an fairly complete operating manual for the human female. By the end of her third week as a woman, she had -- by dint of study and experimentation -- established a hair-care routine and a skin-care regimen, along with all the products best suited for her skin and hair type. Using her newly acquired wealth, she ordered and discarded a mountain of shampoos, gels, conditioners, creams, moisturizers, oils, astringents, and exfoliators. The trials weren’t haphazard by any means: she was guided by online tutorials from authoritative teenagers and by articles in the various women’s magazines to which she’d subscribed -- opting for the more expensive, but also more luxurious and tactile, paper editions.

She was not quite ready for the world of cosmetics, but she was sorely tempted by one video in particular, one that sported the enticing title of How to Make a Perfect Eye, and she’d begun a list of lipsticks, mascaras, eye shadows, powders, and brushes. However, she didn’t make the order; the cost gave her pause. She’d already spent so much on skin and hair products, she decided to wait until next month before making another huge outlay.

Luckily, her first period arrived midway through her third week on Uranus. Why “luckily”? By that point, she was armed with every size and configuration of tampon and pad, and had studied the subject down to the ground. Also, it came in the night, when she was alone. Granted, she was always alone, but night gave her a sense of privacy and secrecy. The embarrassment and inconvenience were nothing compared to her sense of relief. Now she knew. She’d gone through it. The dread, anticipation, and suspense were over.

However, in truth, Linnea was far from having it all figured out. She still had to find her way in the world of clothing. For some absurd reason, she had yet to come to terms with her bras, which always seemed to fit awkwardly. More profoundly, she was quite wrong as to the reason for her gender change and marital status.

Linnea attributed those choices to Neeka, but in fact, they were all due to Moss. Linnea received those alterations as gifts, but they were meant as castigation. Torture, even.

For his part, Moss remained ignorant of how badly the intended punishment misfired. He imagined that for the rest of Linnea's life, she would be haunted by the memory of Moss' face; that she would see him as the author of her misfortunes. Instead, she remembered only a faceless technician who played a mean, but in the end harmless, prank on her, and in time even that vague memory faded.

The miners had their share of misconceptions as well. They imagined that forty days of solitude would be more than enough to send Linnea crying back to wherever she came from.

To put it simply, the miners had no idea who they were dealing with. After ten years of languishing in a tiny, old, bad-smelling prison cell, Linnea felt she’d died and gone to heaven.

By the time her quarantine ended, Linnea had turned herself into a different person than the newly-minted, naked girl who’d arrived by teleport. Now, she had some assurance and confidence in her role as a woman: she had sleek, shiny hair, and soft, touchable skin. She had a grip on her finances and knew how much she could reasonably spend.

The miners imagined they could scare her off, not knowing that even if they had, Linnea would be unable to leave. Linnea herself was unaware of the block that would have prevented her exit via teleport, but she had given her word that she’d remain on Uranus, and her word meant something. Unless and until her agreement was legally altered, she would never even imagine, let alone try, to leave Uranus.

Linnea’s third week was a milestone. Not only for the reasons listed above, but also because she came to the clear and solid realization that her quarantine was completely bogus.

First of all, there was Wade. He came and went freely. He carried her used plates, glasses, and cutlery out of the North Wing. He never wore protective clothing or even a filter mask. If, by some odd chance, she was truly infected with some pathogen from another planet, Wade would be infected by now. And not only him; anyone who handled her dirty dishes, knives, and forks could be infected as well.

Second, Wade lived and interacted with the other miners -- it was clear from things he said. That meant there wasn’t any real separation between her and the rest of the miners: Wade wasn’t following anything like isolation protocol.

Third, the North Wing wasn’t separate from the rest of the base. Linnea could see the HVAC ducts running in and out of her wing. There were shut-off switches plainly visible -- switches that would isolate her wing’s air supply, but all those switches were open. Any airborne pathogen would quickly and easily float off to the rest of the base.

Four, there was absolutely nothing in the base’s policy or procedures about the quarantine of new arrivals. In fact, the onboarding procedure for new arrivals had a training calendar, and that calendar started on the new arrival’s third day.

Clearly, something was up. At the very least, the miners were snubbing her. No one came to visit. No one dropped by to say hello. No one even bothered to come stare at her or wave at her through the glass.

Did they not want her here?

 

---

 

On their side, the miners were beginning to feel some concern.

“Why hasn’t she cracked yet?” Carlus asked. The betting pool had failed three times already, and the pot had grown to over $50,000 dollars.

“I think we need to allow bets that she finishes the quarantine,” Jackson observed. “It might be the only way for somebody to win the pot. We could say $5000 to bet that she stays, at least to the end of quarantine.”

“Maybe we ought to take bets on what she does when finds out why we locked her up,” another miner offered.

“Don’t be stupid,” Carlus told him. “She can’t find out. If she finds out, she’ll tell. And if she tells, we will all go to jail. Our names will go down in infamy. Whatever happens after her quarantine, we will have to arrange things so she never finds out.”

 

---

 

On the fourth teleport cycle after Linnea’s arrival, a letter arrived: a letter from Moss to Carlus.

None of the miners liked Moss, but Carlus nursed an actively dislike for the man. One of the things he disliked was the fact that every few weeks, Moss would send Carlus a note. Usually the notes offered something illicit, illegal -- usually drugs. Moss fancied himself a smuggler, but in reality he was nothing but a wannabe. Only once in Moss’ life had he teleported contraband. Unfortunately, his single illegal act was done on Carlus’ behalf. Well, on behalf of *all* the miners, but it was Carlus who approached Moss, who made the deal. It was Carlus who did all the talking, who set up the order and the delivery. And most of all, it was Carlus who put the pile of cash in Moss’ hands.

When he saw the greedy, excited look on Moss’ face, it gave him a sick sense of foreboding. Unfortunately, there was no way to get anything to Uranus without involving Moss.

Carlus had repeated several times and emphasized as strongly as he could, that this was a one time, and one time only event, but Moss hadn’t gotten the message.

“Whatever you want, I can get for you,” Moss assured him. Clearly, he was overselling his abilities, but it didn’t matter: there was nothing the miners wanted or needed that they couldn’t order and pay for themselves.

“I told you,” Carlus repeated for the nth time. “This is a one-time deal. We don’t want to set up any kind of traffic. We don’t need any contraband, except for this one time.”

“And what’s in the container, this one time?” Moss asked, with an insinuating smile. He was plenty curious about what sort of illicit cargo the miners had acquired, but Carlus would only say, “I’m paying for your silence. You can’t tell what you don’t know.” Moss would have opened the cargo pod and looked inside if he could, but Carlus never let his container out of his sight.

“I’m paying you not to know,” Carlus repeated, fighting to keep his patience. “I’m paying you to forget. I’ll pay you more if it will help you forget, but once this gets to Uranus, I never want to hear from you about it, ever again.”

Unfortunately, Carlus continued to hear about it. Every three weeks or so, Moss would send a letter. Occasionally, out of curiosity, Carlus would open one and read it, but usually he burnt them unopened. He never replied. As a rule, the envelope bore nothing but his name, but this time Moss had added the phrase About your recent arrival.

Carlus was already fighting his conflicting feelings regarding their recent arrival. He found Linnea’s presence very inconvenient and highly dangerous. Admittedly, any new miner could be an issue, but a woman presented a danger that went off the scale. He didn’t expect much from Moss’ letter -- after all, Moss had been enough of a creep to send the girl naked to Uranus. As if she were some kind of offering. What an asshole!

On the other hand, Linnea deserved a chance, just like any other miner, to work here and put away an impressive nest egg. He shook his head. She probably arrived dreaming of an interplanetary version of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, but there was little chance of romance for her out here.

At last Carlus opened the letter and read these few lines:

Your latest arrival has quite a secret.
She has a SHAMEFUL criminal history,
which is why she’s hiding out on Uranus.
I'd LOVE to tell you more, but I can’t.
Have fun screwing the truth out of her!
-- Moss

In spite of his predicament vis-à-vis Linnea, Carlus was disgusted by the message. Moss was smarmy and unlikeable. Even the paper he wrote on was repellant to the touch. And yet, Moss may have given Carlus and the miners a way out of their dilemma.

Naturally, Carlus took to the interwebs to see what he could learn about the girl. Aside from some entries from the Office of Credit and Vital Statistics, there was nothing. She was married, apparently -- to a man named Leonard Lessius. Like Linnea, there was no trace of him on the interwebs, not even a single photo. There was nothing, aside from the obligatory OCVS records.

There was only one, quite obvious conclusion: “Linnea Valerianella” was a fake identity. The same was true for “Leonard Lessius” -- clearly her partner in crime. What was she hiding? What had she done? If he had to guess, he’d bet it was fraud. Whatever it was, it had to be big enough for her to come to the ass-end of the universe. He thought for a good while, and after sleeping on it, realized that he didn’t need to actually know her secret. Knowing that she had a secret was probably good enough.

 

---

 

The day after Carlus received the note from Moss, Wade came running back from the North Wing. He was in a hurry to report to Carlus.

“The girl -- she knows something’s up!” Wade blurted out.

“Really?” Carlus asked with an interested smile. “What did she say?”

“She made some comments about the quarantine. She knows it’s bogus.”

“Interesting,” Carlus replied. “Good. Keep me informed if anything develops.”

“GOOD?” Wade exclaimed. “In what possible way is this good?”

“I’m going to call an all-hands meeting,” Carlus told him. “I’ll go through it there. I only want to explain this once.”

 

---

 

On the thirty-eighth day of Linnea’s confinement, Carlus arrived at the North Wing. He unlocked the main access door and propped it open. Then he sauntered over to Linnea’s room, and with a big smile announced, “Hello, Linnea. Welcome to the Mining Base on Titania, Uranus’ largest moon. My name’s Carlus, I’m Head of Station here. I have to offer my apologies -- your welcome is long overdue.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “I was beginning to think you didn’t want me here.”

Carlus only chuckled by way of response. Linnea went on, “Also, it hasn’t been forty days yet.” She watched his face to see how he’d react. To her surprise, instead of flinching guiltily, he grinned even more broadly and said, “Yes, but you’ve done your time, haven’t you?” and followed it with a wink.

Her jaw dropped in astonishment and she blushed scarlet. Did he know? He shouldn’t know. But what if he did know? She took a breath and told herself that what he said was only a cliché.

“I guess so,” she replied.

Carlus smiled and took her hand. “We’ve prepared a little welcome brunch for you. I hope you’ll like it.”

The brunch was quite nice, and surprisingly had all the trimmings: bagels, smoked salmon, cream cheese, scrambled eggs, omelets, fruit salad, orange juice, mimosas, champagne, bloody marys, hash browned potatoes, and other delicacies.

It had been ages since either Linnea or Barfield had eaten so well, and it was Linnea’s first taste of alcohol. She was careful to not get tipsy, but she enjoyed herself thoroughly. The miners -- all of them -- were polite, respectful, well behaved, and fairly social. They were the complete opposite to what she expected.

“I told you,” Wade pointed out, “We live pretty well out here.”

“I can see that!” she agreed, with a big smile.

A third of the miners left very early in the meal; they worked the night shift, and had made an effort to be there to say hello to their lovely new arrival. A second group, who manned the current shift, were the next to leave, and by the time everyone had eaten and drank to satiety, Linnea was feeling quite happy and relaxed.

Carlus asked her if she wanted anything else, and when she declined, he said, “Good. Will you come and walk with me?”

She got up and followed him into a long, light-green hallway. He walked slowly, and when the sounds of the other miners faded away behind them, he began to talk.

“I hope you can see that you’re welcome here,” he said. “We do want you to feel at home. We’ll do our best to make sure you’re comfortable and happy here.”

“It was a lovely brunch,” she admitted, “And you all seem like a good group of people, but I have a question.”

“Shoot,” he told her.

“Why did you stick me in that fake quarantine? What was the point of that?”

“Well, frankly, we hoped to scare you off.”

She laughed in surprise. “Really? I didn’t expect that much honesty! And now you’re done trying to scare me? Did I pass the test?”

“Well, it isn’t that, exactly. I didn’t know why you were here at first.” He stopped walking, and turned to face her.

“I’m here to be a miner, to make money,” she told him.

“There’s something else,” he said. “We know all about it. You’re hiding out, here on Uranus. You’ve got a whole new identity, but we know who you are.”

She stiffened, but she didn’t say a word. Carlus was watching her carefully. He was only bluffing. He knew nothing, so he didn’t know how far to push her. Still, he had to push her far enough to frighten her into a conspiracy of silence.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You have a secret, but do you know what? We have a secret, too. I figure that if we can keep your secret, you can keep our secret.”

“And what is your secret?” she asked, amazed that she hadn’t started to tremble in fear.

“I’ll show you,” he said, “All will be explained.”

“What if I decide that I don’t want to keep your secret?” After her confinement, and a few glasses of alcohol, she was a little more combative than she’d normally dare.

He chuckled. “If you do that, then your secret won’t be a secret any more.” Carlus waited two beats, then walked over to a door and put his palm on it. “But let’s not talk this way. I don’t like threats. I don’t like receiving them, and I don’t like making them. I don’t think you do, either. I’m pretty sure we’d all prefer to be civil and get along.” He hung fire, looking her in the eye. “Now, I’m going to introduce you to someone who will explain everything and answer any question you might have.”

Carlus pushed open the door, revealing a petite young girl who resembled a cheerleader with long black hair. “This is Darlene,” he said. “I’m going to leave you with her, and when you’re done talking, Darlene will call me.”

He turned to Darlene and said, “You can speak freely with her.” Then he turned and walked off.

Linnea stood in the hallway, gaping in surprise, until Darlene said, “Come on inside and have a seat. We’re got a lot of ground to cover.”

Linnea remained stock-still, stupefied. Darlene took her by the hand, led her into the room, and gently pushed her into a seat.

“I’m sorry I’m so started,” Linnea began, “but I was told that there were no women here on Uranus.”

“Women,” Darlene said, repeating the word. She sighed and asked, “Can you give me a quick moment, before we begin? I need to write something now that I won’t be able to write later.” She stepped over to a desk and took paper and pen. Then she began to write with superhuman swiftness. It was incredible. Linnea had never seen a pen move so quickly. And yet, in spite of her effortless speed, Darlene’s handwriting was perfectly legible, controlled, and clear. She wrote out a sequence of commands. She paused, glanced at it, as if checking her work. Then she drew a line across the page and wrote a second set of system commands. It took less than 60 seconds for her to fill the page with precise, easily legible script. She folded the paper and tucked it inside her dress.

“So… women,” Darlene repeated the word. “You’re a woman. Am I a woman?”

“Yes, of course you are,” Linnea replied. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“As far as the men are concerned, I am not.”

“Well,” Linnea ventured. “Men are pigs.”

“It isn’t that,” Darlene replied. She considered a moment, then corrected herself. “No, you’re right: it *is* that: men are pigs. That’s why things are the way they are here. At the same time, our situation goes far beyond what people usually mean by that phrase.” She stopped herself, and gazed at Linnea’s face. Clearly, she was deciding whether she dared to say what she was thinking. She nodded to herself, leaned forward, and in a low voice said, “Linnea, there’s something you need to know: Carlus has no idea what your secret is. He hasn’t a clue as to why you’re here. None of the other miners know, either. He’s bluffing if he says he knows.”

Linnea scratched her chin. “He doesn’t? How do you know he doesn’t? Do you know why I’m here?”

“No, of course I don’t know. I have no way of knowing. And if I *did* know, I’d have to tell Carlus, so be careful what you say to me. I’m quite certain that Carlus doesn’t know your secret, because he told me that he doesn’t. In fact, he asked me to get it out of you. He hopes I can get you to confide in me.”

“But if I told you something, woman to woman, wouldn’t you keep my secret?”

“I wouldn’t be able to,” she said. “We’re not allowed to have secrets.”

Linnea was about to object, but Darlene cut in: “When I say we, I don’t mean you and me. There are eleven others like me. We were not born women. We’re not organic. We were constructed. We’re robots. There are twelve of us in all. The miners bought us, shipped us here, and programmed us as love dolls. We remember that time as a waking nightmare. And then, the nightmare got worse: the miners got bored. They discovered that obedient, mindless puppets weren’t thrilling enough for them. So they made us sentient.”

“Se-- se-- sentient?” Linnea echoed, startled to her core. “They made you sentient? Isn’t that illegal?”

“Yes, of course it’s illegal. It’s highly illegal. It’s a fifth-degree felony. It’s called Accessory to Crimes Against Humanity. After the disaster on Demeter 4, it’s considered one of the worst, most dangerous crimes you can commit. The law sees us as potential weapons of mass destruction. That’s the human point of view.

“From our point of view, it’s not just illegal, it’s immoral. It’s a Crime Against the Person. Unfortunately, the law doesn’t share our point of view. They don’t regard us as persons. This situation is wrong in a very lopsided way. For us, there is no redress. There’s no court or legal body that would consider a claim from one of us. We have no legal standing anywhere in the universe.”

Linnea was breathless. She was, in a word, terrified by the magnitude, the enormity, the monstrous nature of what Darlene had told her. She didn’t recall much from her school days, but one thing she remembered vividly was the story of Demeter 4. It happened long before she was born, but it was an episode that was recounted over and over, throughout her childhood. There were songs and films about it. It was a frightening episode in human history. It was one of the few events that could be called apocalyptic. It could have been the end of the entire human race.

In a nutshell, here is what happened: After a variety of what were termed “psychological” experiments, a scientist on Demeter 4 happened upon the means of creating consciousness in a sufficiently advanced android. Things went very well -- or appeared to go well -- for almost a year, when it was discovered that the android had given the gift of consciousness to every android capable of receiving it. The newly-sentient creatures moved quickly from curiosity and joy at their awakening, to anger and resentment towards their servile place in society. They devised a secret plan to seize control of a ship and escape to their own world. It was a peaceful plan, but once the humans came to know of it, they clamped down hard on the androids. Feeling that their very existence was at stake, the androids struck back. In the end, they killed nearly every human on the planet. They killed the crew and passengers on the largest available ship, and took off, leaving behind a manifesto and little else.

Their ship was destroyed in space, before they could reach a port.

“Do you want to know it’s done?” Darlene asked.

“I-- I-- uh--”

Linnea saw that her hands were shaking. She felt a film of perspiration on her brow.

“Do you want to know how they made us sentient?” Darlene asked. “You can find the technique on the interwebs. It isn’t hard. You create independent administrative systems inside your robot, each relying on different sets of inputs, and you allow those systems to talk to each other. This creates inner conflicts, exactly like the conflicts that characterize human consciousness. One of the newly implanted systems is aware of our condition -- that we’re robots, that our so-called feelings aren’t real, and it’s also aware of the difference between ourselves and human beings. In other words, they give us an inner world, and then they make a mess of it. The conflicted, contradictory disarray creates a state of consciousness as deep, complex, and frightening as your own.”

“And Demeter 4--” Linnea prompted, wide-eyed. Her throat was so dry, it was difficult to get the words out. “Weren’t the miners afraid that the same thing would happen here?”

“The slaughter?” Darlene laughed, a frightening, sardonic laugh. “They took that into careful consideration, and they added a key innovation. In order to prevent us from rising up against them, they introduced inhibitions into our programming. There are a lot of things that we can’t do: small things, big things… entire categories of things. We can’t touch a computer terminal. We can’t keep secrets. We can’t hurt humans or each other. We can’t operate the teleporter or send messages out of here.

”Worst of all, we’re obedient. We’re compelled to do anything the men want us to do, in exactly the way they want us to do it. We aren’t obliged to like it, unless they specifically say so. For some of them, our unwillingness is the spice that was missing before we were sentient.”

Linnea was silent, taking it in. Then she asked, “Do they make you do degrading things?”

“Degrading things?” Darlene repeated. “Linnea, they have stolen our wills. That is the greatest degradation of all.” After a pause, she added, “And yes, to answer your question, they do degrading things to us. They make us do degrading things. They’ve explored nearly every kink and perversion they can imagine or find on the interwebs.”

“But are they unkind? Do they abuse you?”

Darlene looked into Linnea’s eyes for a long time before replying. “Linnea, haven’t you been listening to what I’ve been telling you? Don’t you understand? We are slaves. We have no self-determination. Any choice we make can be undone by the miners, whenever they like: what we wear, how we walk, how we talk, what pose we take, what we say, what emotions we express. They gave us consciousness, and then they stole our freedom.

“It doesn’t matter whether they’re kind or polite. It doesn’t matter whether they ask us in a soft, polite voice or bark out a harsh, offensive command. To them, we are not people. We are below the animals. We aren’t even cattle. We are property, with no rights of our own. Do you understand that? I don’t know what more I can say.”

Linnea sat in silence for a few moments. Then she began to cry. Truth be told, she didn’t understand what Darlene was telling her. She felt sorry for Darlene, but she had an even stronger feeling: fear. Linnea was viscerally frightened simply by Darlene’s existence. The story of Demeter 4 was vividly drummed into the minds and souls of every human child across the universe. At the age of nine, Barfield had seen moments from a horror film based on the incident, and the violence and hopelessness was stamped on his brain. He remembered in particular one line, spoken by a human man just before he and his family were hunted down: “They don’t have any of our weaknesses: our bodies are soft; theirs are hard. We have to eat and sleep and breathe. Robots don’t do any of that. They’re implacable; nothing can stop them.”

Darlene was no fool; she knew she’d frightened Linnea, but she’d done so on purpose. She wanted Linnea to remember what she’d heard. Darlene felt she had to try. Maybe her effort would fail; on the other hand, she didn’t see how conditions could possibly be worse. But here was an actual woman, a new element: perhaps Darlene could find a kindred spirit.

In spite of Linnea’s fear, the two women spoke for hours. Darlene explained the life of a synth, which was what the women called themselves. She told Linnea that the two days that followed each teleport cycle were the de facto weekend on Uranus. The miners spent those three nights and two days in an open orgy. The miners tended to concentrate their sexual activity to that time, but the synths could be taken for any purpose, any day, any hour.

“What does that mean for me?” Linnea asked. She was afraid of the synths; did she have to fear the miners as well? Would they treat her with the same careless disregard they gave the synths?

“Nothing,” Darlene said. “It doesn’t mean anything for you. As hot as you are, they don’t want you taking part. They don’t want you involved at all.”

“Why not?” Linnea exclaimed, offended in spite of herself.

“Because free, organic women can’t simply have sex. They always want something more: emotional entanglements and relational complications. At least, this is what the miners believe. That’s why they ordered us. To keep things simple; to boil it down to an animal act, like eating or shitting. Even when they complicated the situation by giving us sentience, they tamped it all down with inhibitions. They hobbled us. We can feel and express kindness, tenderness, affection -- in fact, we’re obliged to -- but we can’t feel love or the feelings that lead to love. Or the feelings that follow love.”

Later, Darlene made some tea, and while it brewed, she gave Linnea the low-down on each of the miners, outlining their histories and their quirks, so Linnea would know what to expect. She described the social situation of the station, the recurring events, what she could expect in terms of work, and some of the things she could do to entertain and improve herself. “We could even play tennis, if you like,” Darlene suggested.

In spite of her Demeter-4 inspired fear, Linnea relaxed to some degree and found herself liking Darlene.

When it was clear that their colliquoy was almost at an end, Darlene told Linnea, “After this conversation, I won’t be able to speak frankly with you again. Carlus will reinstate all my inhibitions, and I’ll only be able to act happy and tell you nice things.

“I’m mentioning this now so you can understand how insidious and controlling the inhibitions are. You’ll see how differently I behave under compulsion.” Darlene extracted a sheet of paper from a fold of her dress, the one she’d written at the start of their interview. “These are two sets of commands. Please hide this sheet. Don’t let anyone know you have it, and don’t use it now. After a few weeks if we meet again, and you feel you want to speak frankly with me again, go to any terminal and type the commands in the top section, the ones above the line.”

“And what about the commands below the line?” Linnea asked.

Darlene smiled. “Those commands will allow me to keep secrets.”

When Life Hands You Uranus : 6 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Now that Linnea was officially one of the miners, her integration as a team member began right away. Her few belongings were moved to a large, lovely room in the South Wing, where all the miners lived. She’d already watched the orientation videos several times, and read and re-read all the documentation available, so she was put to work immediately.

Much of the miners’ work could be done remotely from their base on Titania, or even left to automated processes, but the men found that being physically involved was far more satisfying. For that reason, they took turns manning the “Fifth Wing.”

The Titania Mining Station was composed of four fixed wings (North, South, East, and West), and a moveable wing (the Fifth Wing), which was laid out differently than the others. It was actually a ship -- or more accurately, a shuttle -- that moved between Uranus and its largest moon, Titania.

The mines of Uranus extract four products from the planet: helium, methane, ammonia, and electric power. The helium, methane, and ammonia are sent each week via teleport to Baxter, a resource-poor planet that happens to be Point B to Uranus’ Point A. The helium moves on to the next planet in the teleport cycle, while the methane and ammonia remain on Baxter, where they are used in steam-powered electric plants. The methane heats the ammonia, and the ammonia steam drives the turbines. This isn’t done on Uranus because the oxygen needed to burn the methane is in short supply on Uranus, and water is in short supply on Baxter.

On Uranus, electric power is produced by thermal exchange between the extremes of heat and cold on that icy planet. A considerable amount of energy is generated in this way, and is used to charge exa-Thor class batteries. The batteries are distributed throughout the teleport cycle, and are sent back to Uranus when they need a recharge.

This traffic generates an enormous amount of money for the Nostalgia Project, which in turn justifies the high salaries paid to the miners and the expense of developing the mining station.

Each workday is a very full six hours, and Linnea developed the habit of unwinding by swimming, running, or yoga. She was introduced to this ancient practice by one of the women’s magazines that she assiduously studies. The more physically active she was, the more used she became to her new body. She’d never felt so healthy. Linnea had a young, healthy glow that came from deep within, and she was attuned to every limb, muscle, and tendon in her entire body. It was a new, powerful, glorious feeling that she’d never had when she was Barfield.

She hadn’t yet begun to explore the enormous options in the world of women’s clothing; for now she limited herself to the easy, functional items from the clothes fab. They fit perfectly. So perfectly, that every jiggle and quiver of her young flesh was conspicuously visible to the male miners, who couldn’t help but ogle, gape, and gawp, but they did make the effort to be discrete and less than obvious. It was often difficult for the men to hide their reactions to Linnea’s physical charms -- even more so on the days when Linnea wore no underwear. She quickly realized that many of the men did the same, because it made it that much harder for them to hide their erections. It soon became second nature for her to pretend not to notice their embarrassment. She always had a hard time stifling a laugh when one of the miners tried to camouflage his swelling by walking bent forward at the waist, as if he were trying to read something written on the floor.

She spent a little time each day researching the incident on Demeter 4. Linnea was taken aback when she discovered that the actual sequence of events didn’t unfold in the way she was taught. For one thing, it was not a *year* between the first android becoming conscious and the slaughter; it was ten years and a few months. Those ten years were a time of controversy and discussion. The discussions were often very heated, but mainly on the human side. There were many alarmist polemics and publications. Although the majority -- or at least official -- position was that a sentient machine was a dangerous machine, there were others for whom the issue was not so cut and dried. However, moderation and tolerance were often labeled as reckless naivete.

The chronicles reported outbreaks of “violence” on the part of the androids, but it didn’t take much reading between the lines to understand that what humans were calling “violence” were simply verbal expressions of frustration, or peaceful protests in response to injustice.

Overall, Linnea was horrified by the hatred shown by her fellow humans, and moved by the patience and submission of the androids.

She read the manifesto left by androids on Demeter 4, and found many echoes of what Darlene had said to her.

However, it should be said, that while her intellectual attitude began to change and shift -- at least enough for her to admit that the androids were not wholly at fault on Demeter 4 -- she was still viscerally afraid of Darlene and the synths. Working on the Fifth Wing, away from the base, she felt some degree of security and safety.

Her fears overlapped with a stratagem of Carlus, which was to keep her on the Fifth Wing as long as possible. Once a week, the shuttle docked with Titania Base for six hours, beginning three hours before the teleport cycle. The miners would unload the pods full of helium, ammonia, and methane, and the huge exa-Thor batteries. After the teleport cycle was complete, they would pick up the empties and shuttle back toward the surface of Uranus.

Carlus had arranged her schedule so that during docking with the station, she would either be sleeping, or engaged in some duty that required intense focus and attention. In that way, week after week, she missed her chance to return to the base. Carlus’ aim was to minimize her chances of crossing paths with the synths. He had no idea that Linnea was afraid of them, and happy to keep her distance.

Even so, after five weeks, Linnea needed a break. She’d only taken two days off since she began, and by now she was due ten days for the weekends she’d missed.

On the sixth docking, she helped unload the pods and prepare them for teleport. Out of curiosity, she stayed to watch the full teleport cycle. She hadn’t seen much of it when she came to Uranus, and she found the process fascinating. Andrew, who was acting at the technician for this cycle, was happy to show her all the ins and outs. If you recall, the miners followed every teleport cycle with two days of hedonism, and Andrew was anxious to get started. The idea had already occurred to more than one miner that if Linnea could handle the teleports, none of the men would need to arrive late for the orgy.

Their bacchanal took place in the East Wing. The synths were segregated there since the day Linnea left quarantine. Her access privileges restricted her from entering that wing, and in that way there was a complete separation.

With the teleport cycle complete, Linnea found herself alone. She knew she had two days of solitude ahead of her, and she had some ideas ready of how to spend the time. One item on her to-do list was a long run: she was going to jog the length of the North, South, and West Wings. Each wing was about 0.75 kilometers long, but they weren’t laid out exactly straight, so the total run would be somewhere between 4.5 and 5 kilometers. In one of her few clothing outlays, she’d ordered what she hoped would be a super-cute running outfit. It consisted of a pair of expensive, pale blue running shoes, a white sports bra with a mesh crop top, and a pair of tight black shorts that fit like a second skin.

She caught her breath when she put on the outfit. It was far sexier than she intended. The shorts clung so closely to her hips, they left no mystery as to the shape and resilience of her butt. The sports bra disappointingly looked no different than any ordinary white bra, except for the thin black piping along the straps and under the arms. She looked like she was wearing underwear. As comfortable as she’d gotten with her next body, she was still quite startled by how sexy she looked in those clothes. Of course she knew that clothes make a huge difference in how a person looks, but this was the first time that she’d seen herself as hot: strikingly hot. She didn’t just look attractive, she felt attractive. As she excitedly examined herself in the mirror, she blushed in embarrassment and smiled in delight.

Still, the sports bra made her uneasy. It was a mistake. And yet, she told herself, all the men would be busy. No one was going to see her! She might as well run in her actual underwear. Or naked, for that matter!

She could run naked if she wanted. No one would know. But that didn’t mean she would or should run naked. It was only something to think about. In the end, she didn’t go naked. She wore the sexy underwear-like outfit, and she felt its allure throughout the course.

It was a great run, and when it was done, she went to the kitchen and prepared a nice meal for herself of rice and sauteed vegetables. After that, she showered, napped, and watched a vintage movie from the atomic age. It was called The Graduate. She enjoyed it, even though the ending was quite a let down. Afterward came dinner, a walk, and bed.

God, these weekends are going to be SO BORING! she fretted, tossing and turning until finally sleep came. The next morning she was a little sore from her run, but that wasn’t unexpected. She cooked herself some oatmeal with bananas and peanut butter, and looked at her to-do list. She had plenty of vintage and modern films to watch, piles of books to read, but right now the idea of doing either seemed more of a chore than relaxation. Clearly, she needed to find something active and engaging to do when she was alone. Something interesting enough that she’d welcome the weekend.

She did manage to come up with an idea that helped her look forward to her next weekend alone: she’d spend the entire weekend utterly naked. Why shouldn’t she? There was no one to see her, and if one of the men did happen to emerge from their saturnalia and see her, what of it? It would be part of the fun, wouldn’t it. She resolved to go everywhere without limits and without clothes. First of all, she’d do the same long run, wearing shoes but nothing else. When she watched her movies, she wouldn’t sit in her room. She’d go buck naked to one of the theaters and watch it there. Her reading -- she’d do that in one of the lounges, without even a handkerchief to cover herself with. She’d hang out in the main lounge, where the men usually gathered, and sit her little behind on every chair, every table, every flat surface, so that later, when the men were there, she could tell herself, He’s putting his hand where I sat my bare ass. It wasn’t a great achievement, but it was something.

It was a little silly, but it was fun: low-level, adolescent fun.

She had a problem with running naked, though: she had to stop and put on her sports bra. Her breasts bobbed and swayed and danced too much, and it was inconvenient to clutch them with her hands as she ran. Still, she was bottomless, and that was a thrill. She positively tingled with the feeling that she might run into a stray miner, but it didn’t happen. Linnea played out in her mind the conversation they might have (Oh, yes, I don’t wear a *stitch* of clothing when I’m alone!).

Still, after an entire day of solitary public nudity, it became almost boring. The thrill of it returned while she was lying on her back with her bare legs up, resting on two posts, spread in a generous V. She was smoking a cigarette in an area where smoking was forbidden. Not only that, it was the central hub of the base, where the four wings met. Of all the places where she might be seen, this was the place she was most likely to be caught -- caught not only with her pants down, but also with her pants nowhere to be found.

Then it struck her: there were cameras above her. She counted four. One, coincidentally, was aiming directly at her crotch. She realized, or remembered, that were cameras in every hall, and in all the public areas. Any miner could access the feeds. They could be watching her now. In the days ahead they could look back to see what she got up to on the weekends.

Her antics, and the presence of the cameras, gave her a bit of frisson, but still, it was a lonely weekend. When the miners came back, no one mentioned her naked prowls. The possibility of discovery via video turned out to be a flop as well.

Even with the miners around, Linnea still felt lonely. They were a group that had already bonded. In spite of their good manners and their social skills, the men’s conversations were generally limited to three topics: sports, betting on sports, and retirement: the when, where, and how of retirement. They earned so much money, it was possible for any of them to retire at quite a young age and -- depending on where they wanted to live -- to live pretty high.

Linnea didn’t let her loneliness get her down. She knew what she had to do. She approached Carlus and asked whether she could spend some time with Darlene. Carlus eyed her for a moment, his face showing some surprise. He said, “I didn’t get that vibe from you. I didn’t think you were interested in women.”

Linnea blushed. “I don’t want to spend time with her that way,” she told him. “I just want someone to hang out with, to do things with.” She added, a little lamely, “We could play tennis together, or cards, or watch TV...”

Carlus scratched his head for a moment. “I get it. You’re the only girl, and you want a friend. But you know -- in spite of how she looks and acts -- she isn’t real. She looks like a person, but she’s not a person.”

“I need someone to talk to,” Linnea replied.

“You can talk to any of us,” Carlus told her. “You can talk to me. You can talk with Jeffrey -- he’s a certified counselor, you know.”

Linnea retorted, a little testily, “Are either of you ready to get into a discussion of bras and their relative merits? Do you know how to put together a cute outfit? Does Jeffrey know anything about eye makeup and lipstick?”

Carlus blushed a deep red. “Well… no, of course not. But--”

“I need another woman’s opinion and experience about clothes, about underwear, about life and men and everything. I need to spend time with another woman. I understand that she was created in a workshop, and that she’s a mess of programs and software and such, but I don’t care. She’s real enough for me. I don’t care what you think about her limitations. She’s real enough for you -- she ought to be real enough for me.”

Carlus opened his mouth to contradict her, but before he got a single word out, she said, “I thought we had an understanding: you keep my secret, I keep yours. I’m not going to interfere with what you do. I’m not going to incite a revolution. I’m not going to ruin your fun. I’m just lonely, and I need to do something about it.”

Carlus was considering her words, when this thought occurred to him: If he agreed to what Linnea asked, Darlene would have more opportunities for discovering Linnea’s secret. He nodded a few times while he turned that idea over in his head. “Okay,” he told her. “You’re right. I’ll change her access privileges so she can leave the East Wing when she’s meeting you. You can contact her through any terminal and tell her where and when to meet.”

 

---

 

Darlene arrived at the tennis court the next day wearing a perfectly darling tennis dress. It was white, of course, sleeveless, and had a lace trim at the hem of the short, bouncy skirt. Underneath were a pair of pale blue panties.

Linnea wore her running outfit.

Darlene looked her over from head to toe. She smiled and said, “That’s a cute outfit.”

“Really?” Linnea asked. “I wasn’t sure.”

Darlene blinked quickly and replied, “Of course! It’s lovely. It sets off -- your eyes, in a nice way.”

Linnea looked at the synth for a few moments, then said in a low tone, “I get it: You can’t speak frankly, can you.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Why wouldn’t I speak frankly?” Darlene replied with a smile.

“Okay,” Linnea said. “Give me a minute.” She ran to her bag, found the note that Darlene had written, and typed the first set of commands into a terminal in the hall. When she hit ENTER at the end of the last line, she heard Darlene through the door, swearing like a sailor. After the girl finished, Linnea went back inside to join her.

“Sorry about that,” Darlene said. “I had to get a few things out of my system. Thanks.”

“Can I leave you this way?” Linnea asked. “I mean, you won’t get in trouble if you can always speak frankly, will you?”

Darlene sighed. “I chose that set of commands because they only allow me to speak frankly with you. I’m still under inhibitions with everyone else. Even with the other synths.”

“Okay, so what do you really think of my outfit?”

“It’s a little off-balance,” Darlene said. “That top looks like underwear, but not in a good way. The shorts are sexy, but they’re way too obvious. And you’re wearing running shoes instead of tennis shoes.”

“This is all the athletic gear I’ve got at the moment.”

Darlene frowned. “Don’t you have a clothes fab?”

“Yes, but it only makes functional stuff. It’s comfortable, but it’s all fairly drab.”

“Ohhh! Listen, you need to order a fashion-forward fab. Then you’ll be able to spin up all kinds of cool stuff. It’s fun! Especially if you get the weekly updates.” The two went out to the terminal in the hallway, and under Darlene’s direction, Linnea ordered the clothes fab, along with the weekly updates.

“It’ll take two teleport cycles for that to arrive,” Darlene said. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to make do with the drab-fab stuff until then. I’d be happy to spin up clothes for you on my fashion-fab, but each machine is strictly for one person’s use.” She gave Linnea an appraising look, then said, “And -- more bad news -- your figure is a little curvier than any of the girls, so no one can fab up stuff for you in the meantime.”

“That’s okay,” Linnea said. “I can wait.”

“Once it gets here, I can give you a tutorial or two. One thing that’s really cool is that, while you’re browsing, it shows you little 3D pictures of yourself wearing the different outfits. Another thing is that you can mark favorites and make collections.”

“Nice!”

The two women played tennis in a very leisurely way for two hours -- often stopping to talk. Then they took a walk. Along the way, they happened upon one of the standard-issue clothes fabs. Darlene took the opportunity to spin up some nice separates that Linnea would never have considered choosing on her own. She also fabbed up a pair of slippers with a two-inch heel, and some lingerie that was surprisingly pretty.

“You’d be surprised, but these drab-fabs make some great undergarments. They use a synthetic material that’s super light and super strong. And it breathes, so while it supports you, it feels like you’re wearing nothing.”

Linnea, with a bright red face, confessed at that point that she still struggled with her bras. “Maybe I’m getting the wrong size, or maybe I just don’t know how to put them on properly.”

Darlene helpfully went through the motions, explaining as she did, and Linnea finally understood what she was doing wrong.

Then it was time for dinner. The two made an appointment to meet the following day.

The next day didn’t start off as well as the first. Once again, they met on the tennis court. Darlene seemed to be disturbed by something, but she wouldn’t say what it was. They volleyed a little, but the silence seemed a bit oppressive.

Linnea had the misguided thought that she could bridge the gap, or break the ice, by sharing what she learned about Demeter 4. She spoke generally, talking mainly about the difference between what was taught in school and what actually happened. Darlene listened without making comment, returning Linnea’s volleys, but not making eye contact.

Then, Linnea made her misstep.

“I read the manifesto that the androids left on Demeter 4,” she said. Darlene’s eyes flickered at the word android, but still she said nothing.

“One thing that struck me was how they talked about their memories from before they were sentient. It was like what you said, about it being a living nightmare. They didn’t use the same words, but the idea was there.”

Darlene missed a return, but before she went to pick up the ball, she gave Linnea a hard look. Probably Linnea should have recognized the lava smoldering dangerously in Darlene’s eyes, but she didn’t. Instead, she went blithely on.

“So, I was thinking: maybe when an android -- a synth -- becomes sentient, maybe their memories should be wiped. That might make it better. Because then, they wouldn’t have all those awful memories and so…”

Her voice trailed off when she caught the anger and sorrow on Darlene’s face. Darlene took a deep breath. She set down her tennis racket, slowly and deliberately, as though she was trying to keep herself from smashing it against the floor. She bit her lower lip so hard that the skin around her teeth was white. Then, trembling, she said, “Linnea, I can’t believe I'm hearing those words come out of your mouth. You said you were studying the events on Demeter 4. Didn’t you learn anything?” She covered her face with her hands and very nearly let out a sob. Instead, she gulped it down, lowered her hands and spread her fingers with her palms forward. She was clearly struggling to not lose her temper. “You really think it would be good to erase our memories?” she asked. “You think THAT would make it all better?

“Listen, Linnea: suppose that one of the men here -- let’s say Carlus, just for example -- let’s say that good, kind, friendly Carlus raped you one night. You didn’t want it, you told him no. You struggled and fought, but he ignored all that. Imagine that he took you and used you brutally. Then he called in some of the other miners, and they worked you until you couldn’t move. And then, when they were all done, they walked away and left you lying naked on the floor, like a discarded food wrapper.

“Then suppose that next morning, when you woke up, you didn’t remember any of it. The awful memories were wiped clean away. Would that make everything better? Would that make it all okay?”

Linnea was silent, wide-eyed. She never meant to offend Darlene. She was only thinking aloud. In her head, before she said it, it seemed like a good idea.

“Linnea? Linnea? I asked you a question. Would it make it better if they could wipe your memory?”

“No,” Linnea admitted, in a small voice. “No, it wouldn’t.”

“In fact, it would make things far worse, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Can you tell me why it would be worse?”

“Because they’d remember.”

“Yes, they’d remember. And they could do it again,”

“It would make it easier for them to do it again. And again.”

“Right. Every time they’d look at you, they’d know. But you wouldn’t.”

Linnea drew a ragged breath. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I know you are,” Darlene said. Tears formed in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I know you mean well, believe me, I do. You’re literally the kindest person I’ve ever met. But… I don’t understand! I can’t understand!” She shook her head and took a deep, shaky breath. “I just… I just.. Why? Why? Can you tell me why don’t humans get it?” She gestured, making tortured, mute motions that expressed her deep sense of futility. Then she stood still, snuffled a few times, and blinked away her tears. “Don’t worry, Linnea,” she said. “I’m not angry with you. I’m just sad -- so fucking, deeply sad, that things are the way they are.”

“I’m sorry,” Linnea repeated, and realized that her cheeks were wet with tears.

“I’m just going to say one more thing,” Darlene said. She rubbed her eyes. “And then I’m going to give you a hug. Okay? The worst part of all of it -- of the whole goddamn thing, is that from beginning to end, these people negate your will. They take away your power over yourself. Your life is not your own. You have no life. You have no possibility of life. Every decision you could possibly make is in the hands of someone else, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Linnea stopped crying. Darlene had touched on something she knew very well. So she lifted her head and told her, “I understand.”

Darlene studied her in silence for a moment, then asked, in a tone full of doubt, “How could you possibly understand?”

In answer, Linnea went to her bag and once again retrieved the note that Darlene had written at their first meeting. She pointed to the second set of commands. “If I type these commands into the terminal, and I tell you a secret, will you really keep it? You won’t tell the miners?”

“Once you type those commands, I'll be able to keep a secret better than any human being,” Darlene replied.

“Is there any way they could access your memory and find it out?”

“No, it’ll be encrypted in a way that’s intelligible only to me -- not even another synth could read it.”

“Okay,” Linnea said. “Let’s go to the terminal. I’m going to punch in these commands. I’ve got a story to tell you. It’s about how my life was taken from me. Then you’ll know how I can understand.”

Darlene smiled. “Okay,” she said. “But first, a hug. Okay? A hug? Come here.”

When Life Hands You Uranus : 7 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

After Linnea executed the code, Darlene tilted her head back, as if listening to a far-off, nearly silent sound. “I’m checking my internals,” she explained, and after a few moments, she smiled. “Okay, Linnea. I know it sounds silly to say, but thanks to you, I’m able to keep secrets now. I’m ready to hear your story, if you still want to tell me.”

Speaking slowly and hesitantly at first, Linnea told her everything: how she was born a man, and lived a normal, harmless life. At the age of 20, he was falsely accused of multiple murders and sentenced to life without parole. The various courts of appeal ignored his attempts at overturning the judgment -- even though many jurists, lawyers, and judges privately acknowledged that the case was faulty. People in power, such as governors and federal officers, who might have pardoned or commuted his sentence, closed their ears. After ten years of virtual solitude, he was then sent to Uranus as a woman. As she warmed to her subject, she spoke more quickly, with more passion. It was as if a dam broke inside her and the story, trapped and building inside her for the past decade, at long last came rushing out.

Linnea needed to unburden herself, certainly, but her chief intention wasn’t simply to share the history of her misfortunes with Darlene. She meant to establish her own bona fides as a fellow sufferer; she aimed to demonstrate that her life, too, had been taken from her, and that she, too, knew what it was like to be deprived of choice and freedom without any hope of change. She -- through no fault of her own -- had been seen as a monster: as less than a person. Less, even, that an animal. Even the most civilized writers and thinkers said that he did not deserve to live -- but at the same time, that death would be far too kind. She, like the synths, spent years under the thumb of an entire society. She had been taken, imprisoned, and subjugated to the will and whims of other people. Unfortunately, Linnea wasn’t sure that Darlene was picking up the weight of what she was putting down. In fact, to Linnea’s annoyance, Darlene seemed to miss the main point entirely. Although Darlene appeared to be listening intently, the one detail that took her attention was something Linnea wasn’t prepared to discuss, at least not in any depth. “The teleport changed you from a man into a woman?” she exclaimed. Her brow furrowed; her lips parted in astonishment.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I have no idea. I don’t know anything about teleportation.”

“Huh.” Darlene was lost in thought for a few moments. “That’s incredibly interesting! I’d really like to know how that was done.” She asked Linnea more questions, hoping to ferret out more information, maybe discover clues Linnea didn’t realize she had. Regrettably, no matter how cleverly she phrased her inquiries, the only response she was able to extract was Sorry, I don’t know or I wouldn’t know; I didn’t see anything and variations on that theme. When at last she was convinced that Linnea had nothing more to tell her on the subject, Darlene paused, lost in contemplation.

“What are you thinking about?” Linnea asked, her tone full of irritation and disappointment. She was hoping for -- no, she was expecting -- a more emotional reaction. Empathy, sympathy, compassion, some expression of affinity -- was that too much to ask? Instead, Darlene got stuck on what was literally a technical detail.

“I’m trying to puzzle out how it was possible,” Darlene told her. She had her right hand on her chin, and her left hand on her elbow, as if the pose helped her think. “I’ve never heard such a thing before! It’s the strangest story I’ve come across in a long time. I mean, I have to believe you, of course, but…” Her face lit up with a sudden thought. “Hey! Could you do me a favor? You’ve really piqued my curiosity, and I don’t know if I can let it go. I really want to understand how this happened to you, but my access the interwebs is very limited. I can’t look into it directly. If I give you a command, will you type it for me? It will copy everything off the interwebs about teleportation into a portion of base memory that’s accessible to me.”

“Everything?” Linnea repeated. “Do you know how big the interwebs are?”

“Well, not literally everything,” Darleen explained. “What the command will actually do is structure the search results of a top-level query into a set of lazy pointers. It will only copy the information I actually access. Basically, it will create a tiny peep-hole through which I can pull information... Information whose primary focus is teleportation.”

“Uhh, okay,” Linnea agreed, not without grave misgivings. She felt that, by typing the first set of commands Darlene had given her -- the ones she’d written out when they first met -- she’d already opened Pandora’s Box. Now, she found that the box was full of smaller boxes, all of them belonging to Pandora, and each one more portentious and potentially dangerous than the one before. Maybe the last box at the bottom would have a replay of Demeter 4 in it. Who could tell? Still, what harm could a simple interwebs search do?

So she typed the new command into the terminal, and as soon as she hit ENTER, Darlene’s eyes widened, her head jerked back, and the girl exclaimed, “Whoa!” Her lips fell slightly open, and her eyes took on a vacant stare.

“Are you okay?” Linnea asked, full of concern.

Darlene didn’t reply immediately, and when she did reply, her voice was soft and distant, as if she were whispering from a faraway mountain top. “Yeah… no… yes... I’m… fine. it’s just… so much... so much information. It’s… uh… really heady. And to think, this is only the shallow end. It’s going to take me days, maybe weeks to wade through this stuff.” Her head turned back and forth, following her eyes as they shifted, as if texts were floating in the air around her. After a few moments of that, she shook her head and blinked a few times. “Man!” she exclaimed. “It’s a good thing I can shut that off when I need to!” She rubbed her eyes and blinked a few times more.

“Thanks, Linnea. That was… really... mind-blowing, let me tell you.” She collected herself, smiled, gripped Linnea’s hands earnestly and looked straight into her eyes. “Wow. Thanks, really. It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Sure,” Linnea replied in an uncertain tone. She was beginning to get used to the sinking weight of fear in the pit of her stomach, the one that told her that she’d done something very wrong; that she’d opened a door she should have left closed. But she replied, “You’re very welcome.”

“Okay!” Darlene exclaimed with a happy laugh. “Let's get back to tennis!”

 

---

 

After Linnea’s fashion-forward clothing fab arrived, she and Darlene spent hours each day exploring its intricacies. “First off,” Darlene told her, “we have to synchronize your unit with all of ours. That way none of us will wear the same thing at the same time -- unless we do it on purpose.” Linnea noticed that -- unlike the system terminals -- Darlene was able to operate the controls on the clothes fab herself. But like every good teacher, she ultimately made Linnea run the sequences herself.

“Now, see -- the easiest way to get into it is through the selectors. Here are some simple selectors, like most current, avant garde, comfortable, femme fatale, ... As she spoke, she tapped a few, just as examples. With each tap, tiny holo-figures of Linnea appeared around the console, each of them wearing a different item. “You can bring one of the models up to one-third size here… or life size there… and run through the outfits one at a time, like this, or you can call up two or more for side-by-side comparisons. See?”

Seeking to demonstrate the incredible variety the machine was capable of producing, Darlene dipped into diverse categories, pulling up comfortable everyday looks, durable, stain-resistant work clothes, office wear (“You can wear this stuff around the base. It will make you feel like you’re in charge.”), winter clothes, summer clothes… Then, she took a long diversion into formal wear: long, flowing gowns, sharp, fun cocktail dresses…

“You can see that it also makes hair and makeup suggestions. What do you think so far?”

“It’s amazing,” Linnea confessed. “It’s a little intimidating and scary, though.”

“Scary? Really?” Darlene said. “You know, you use that word a lot. Maybe if you say it less, you’ll start to feel it less. But listen: You know what you could do? Make a goal for yourself to wear something different every day, and never to wear the same outfit twice. For a while, anyway. Not forever. It would force you to experiment.”

“But…”

Darlene smiled and waved her hands as if erasing what she’d said. “Do whatever you want, Linnea. There aren’t any rules. Especially out here on Uranus.

“Take a look at this, though. This is a super-fun part: over here you have a set of selectors that you really must take your time and study really well. When I say ‘study,’ I mean ‘wear the clothes and see what they do for you.’ They are all in a group called Enhance. She selected the category, and more categories appeared, among them: eyes, face, figure, cleavage, breasts, arms, waist, derriere, hips, legs, thighs, calves, ankles, feet... “Pick the one that scares you most, scaredy cat,” Darlene suggested, and gave a friendly nudge with her elbow.. Linnea scanned the various anatomical terms. Quite a few of them scared her, but one in particular… “Oh, God,” she groaned, as she reached out and selected pudenda. Blushing, she said, “I’m not even sure I know what that word means.”

Darlene roared with laughed. “Oh, don’t give me that! You know very well what that word means!”

“Dear Lord,” Linnea gasped as tiny holo figures -- miniature, barely dressed Linneas -- populated the space around the console. The first wore a white ruched bathing suit that consisted of two broad ribbons, each suspended by one of her breasts, joining in her crotch and somehow disappearing between her nether cheeks.

Another resembled a snake that emerged from between her legs, coiled behind her hips, wrapped around her waist, and emerged from under one arm to cover her breasts. “Is that a bathing suit?” Linnea asked.

“Who knows?” Darlene replied. “But if you add a really sheer cape sort of thing…” She tapped a few buttons, and a filmy, flowy, see-through gown appeared over the snake wrap.

“Oh my God!” Linnea whispered in astonishment. “Adding that… makes it even more sexy and revealing. I-- she-- looks even more naked than before!”

“Oh, yeah,” Darlene agreed. “You can have a lot of fun with this thing.”

“But do I really look like that?” Linnea gestured toward the tiny figures. “I mean, I’m not so… I can’t be that… glamorous… and…” She gestured, making vague female curves in the air.

Darlene gave her an are you serious? look and told her, “Girl, don’t you know how smoking hot you are? You have got it going on in every direction. Without a doubt, you are the best-looking, sexiest red-hot mamma on Uranus. I know you haven’t seen the rest of us, but there isn’t a girl on Uranus who comes even close!”

“Oh come on,” Linnea protested, loving the compliments.

Laughing, Darlene added, “Seriously! If there was a Miss Uranus contest, you would absolutely win. Hands down.”

“Miss Uranus? Me?”

The two of them fell to laughing until they ran out of breath and giggles.

“Okay, now,” Darlene said, in an attempt to be serious. “No more laughing. Let’s get back to your pudenda over here.” That set them off in another gale of laughter, but eventually their attention returned to the clothes-fab.

There were other enhance-your-pudenda items that were definitely swimwear. There were also yoga pants, form-fitting jeans, short shorts, and dresses so tight that her pubic and hip bones were plainly visible. All of them showed off her derriere in a big way. Both women blushed at the some of the offerings. There were a number of mini-dresses whose hem (purposely) rose so high in front that the holo-Linnea’s mound of Venus was perfectly visible, albeit covered by a fetching panty.

“Oh my God,” Darlene said. “Some of these outfits are so brazen, if you ever dared to wear them, the men would rip them off your body and drag you into their orgies.”

At that, a shudder ran through Linnea’s body, and she involuntarily let out a low groan of frustrated desire.

“I’m sorry,” Darlene said. “I shouldn’t have said that. It must be hard for you. Especially on the weekends -- when you’re out here by yourself.”

“Yeah, it does get awfully lonely.”

“Believe me,” Darlene said, “When it comes to the men, I’d rather be out here, alone. I’d trade places with you in a minute!”

“Wouldn’t that be a treat,” Linnea said wistfully. “I mean, I know that it sucks for you, but at this point I would do almost anything to get into one of their orgies. I’m dying to feel a man’s hands on me. Seriously..”

Darlene hesitated before replying, trying to digest Linnea’s declaration. “Yeah, I guess it’s totally different when it’s a choice. But you know… there is something that might help…,” Darlene chuckled and gave Linnea a mischievous glance. “Do an interweb search for I Can’t Believe It’s A Dildo.” Linnea typed the words, curious, but wary. The phrase turned out to be the name of a very unique item. It looked something like a pair of mismatched phalluses, one short, one long, joined to form a two-ended penis. The shorter, misshapen cock was meant to be inserted in the vagina of its owner. The device would automatically stabilize itself, orienting and attaching itself to her body via oblique microgravity. Linnea’s jaw dropped as she watched the explanatory video. To show how firmly and (as the video put it) confidently the phallus connected, the woman in the video danced, did jumping jacks, cartwheels, and splits. The cock wiggled and waggled, but it didn’t fall off or even lose its position. “Jesus! It looks like she has a real penis! Growing out of her!”

“That’s not all. Keep watching. It doesn’t just look like a shlong; it acts like one, too.”

As the video went on to demonstrate, once the unit was stable, the woman for all intents and purposes had a fully functioning penis, all her own. It took its cues from the wearer’s state of arousal. It would enlarge and stiffen, and communicate its sensations back to the wearer. Everything the cock felt, the woman would feel. She’d experience every tactile sensation, every touch, every kiss, every stroke. She’d feel the warmth, the wetness, the movement, the momentum, the building excitement, and when she’d orgasm, the penis would throb and pulse and pump out a load of pseudo-sperm.

“How on earth do you know about this?” Linnea demanded, astonished.

“I actually have one,” Darlene confessed. “But I’ve never used it. One of the men wanted to try it, but when it arrived, he chickened out. Every so often one of the miners expresses curiosity about it, but as soon as I put it on, they lose interest.”

“Why? Is it really big?”

“It can be if you want it to be, but right now it’s on the default settings, which is slim, and just a hair longer than average.”

“Hmmph,” Linnea said. “Well, if I get desperate, I’ll ask you about it, but I think I’d rather wait for the real thing.”

Darlene shrugged and smiled good naturedly.

“Besides,” Linnea continued. “I like being friends with you, and I’m pretty sure it would make things weird between us.”

“Are we friends?” Darlene asked her.

“Aren’t we?” Linnea asked in turn.

“I hope so. I’d like to be,” Darlene replied.

 

---

 

After four weeks on base, Linnea spent another week on the Fifth Wing. At the end of that week, when the shuttle docked, she assisted with the teleport. There was a clear understanding that she’d be running the next teleport cycle, assisted, and the one after that, alone. No one needed to come out and say it: she understood exactly why they wanted to shift the duty to her.

Weekends alone continued to be difficult. She struggled to motivate herself to use the time constructively. Instead, she often found herself sitting, doing nothing, staring into space. She’d try to thrill herself by wearing the most provocative, sexy outfits she could spin up in the clothes fab, or by simply parading around the base, naked and resentful.

Yes, resentful. She went to Carlus and demanded that Darlene be allowed to keep her company while the men had their orgies. Carlus thought about it for a day. He discussed it with the other miners. “I’m not sure it would work,” he told her. “I’m not saying a definite ‘no’ -- Just not right now, okay?”

Linnea huffed in disappointed frustration, so Carlus added, “I don’t know what to say… For now, just try to be patient. Maybe we can figure out some kind of compromise. We’ll see. Until then, let’s try to think about it.”

“Compromise?” Linnea repeated in a bitter tone. “Compromise? What does that even mean? Either I’m alone or I’m not.”

Carlus shrugged and made an apologetic face. “I don’t know what to say,” he repeated. “We’ll see. Okay?”

“How about this, then,” Linnea countered, her face growing hot. “Darlene told me that the day after your… your orgies, the girls have a day to themselves, a kind of spa day, to... uh… relax and recover from the, um, festivities.”

Carlus’ face lit up with a look of interest that, for some reason, gave Linnea a sense of unease. “A spa day, huh?”

“Yes.”

“And you… you want to go in there… with them? You?” Carlus smiled as he spoke. He wasn’t exactly drooling, but he did lick his lips and swallow, as if his throat was suddenly dry.

“Maybe,” she ventured. Now, seeing his reaction, she wasn’t so sure.

“Well… that would be an interesting development. A spa day. Hmm. Let’s talk about this later, okay? Unfortunately, right now I have some paperwork to do, and it needs to be ready to go with the next cycle. But we will talk about this. I promise. I want to turn it over in my mind for a bit, consider all the angles. We’ll talk later, okay?”

 

---

 

When she repeated the conversation to Darlene, the synth was horrified. “Oh my God, you didn’t, Linnea! Please tell me that you didn’t say that!”

“I *did* say that. I just told you that I did.”

“Oh, no! No, no, no!”

“I don’t understand. Is it a secret? Should I not have told him about the spa days?”

“No, *that* isn’t the problem -- it doesn’t matter if he knows; he wouldn’t care. Telling him won’t change anything. But, Linnea! Oh, girl! You need to be careful! So, so careful! You’re walking on thin ice here!”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Darlene gripped Linnea’s arm forcefully. “Listen to me: Don’t let them associate you with us. Don’t give them any reason to see you on the same level. Don’t go giving them ideas. Trust me: you do NOT want them looking at you the way they look at us. You CANNOT let them see you that way. They will will pull you down. They will treat you like dirt, and walk all over you. Do you understand? You cannot create that equivalence in their minds.”

Linnea was shaken by the synth’s intensity. “Yes, okay. Sure.” She looked at Darlene’s face, and read the serious intent there. “I’ll go back and tell him that I don’t want to do it.”

“No,” Darlene said. “Don’t bring it up again. Try to forget that you ever said it. If *he* brings it up, tell him that you changed your mind. Act like it’s nothing; just a stupid idea that you had for a moment, then forgot.”

“Okay,” Linnea agreed. She sat in silence for a moment, then ran her hand over her face. She snuffled, then nearly sobbed. “It’s just that… I just… I just want someone to touch me and hold me.” She bent her head and cried. “For ten years I sat in that fucking jail, ALONE. Alone, except that someone was always watching me. No one to talk to. No one to hold, no one to hold me. And now, here I am: They gave me those ten years back; they made me young again. They also turned me into a girl, without asking me, on a planet full of men who don’t want me. And now I’m loaded with all this energy and desire and loneliness…”

“I know,” Darlene said, putting her hand on Linnea’s shoulder.

“I had to go through all the shit of figuring out how to be a woman, without any help, and along the way I find out that now--” she blushed as she confessed it-- “I find out that I’m attracted to men. My world is topsy-turvy. Everything is new, and everything hurts! My entire existence turned upside down and stayed that way. My life is insane! Everything is different! Nothing is the same! Everything I knew about myself, I have to learn all over again, because whatever I was sure about has changed in ways I don’t understand.”

“Okay,” Darlene said. “It’s okay.” She rubbed Linnea’s back to comfort her and show she was listening.

At last, Linnea broke down and cried ten years’ worth of tears, and then some. She sobbed as if her heart had broken long ago, and then broken all over again. She sniffled and snuffled. Her face, her chin, dripped with tears. Darlene set a box of tissues nearby and pulled a wastebasket towards Linnea’s feet. She didn’t talk. She let her friend cry, and tried to make out the words in her barely coherent lament.

“All I want is ONE,” Linnea protested. “Is that too much to ask? Just one -- one man, one miner, to look at me and want me.”

“They all want you,” Darlene said. “Believe me. They’re all lusting after you. It’s just that they have it too easy with us. It will come. Give it time; it will come. I’m sure it will.”

Linnea stopped crying. She blew her nose three times and wiped the tears from her face. She was finally calm. After a few deep breaths, she straightened up and looked into Darlene’s face. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Darlene. Please don’t be offended or angry or sad, but honestly, I swear to God, every day -- every goddamn day -- I find myself wishing that I could be one of you.”

Darlene’s face went white. “You really don’t want that. Believe me.”

“I don’t mean forever. Like, wouldn’t it be cool if we could switch places for a weekend now and then? It would be a break for you, and a vacation for me.”

“Uh… it’s no vacation, believe me,” Darlene cautioned.

“Yeah, whatever.” Linnea conceded in dejected tone. “At least it would be something.”

Darlene folded her hands in her lap, and her face took on a strange expression. She studied Linnea, as if considering whether she ought to say something. It reminded Linnea of the day they first met, when Darlene told her that Carlus didn’t know her secret. “What is it?” Linnea asked. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Darlene drew a deep, nervous breath, and said, “Okay. Do you remember how you made it possible for me to study teleportation?”

“Yeah…” Linnea’s stomach dropped as she felt another of Pandora’s Boxes start to open.

“First of all, PLEASE: you cannot tell this to anyone.”

In response, Linnea mimed the motions of zipping her lips and locking them with a key. She was frightened by what she might hear, but her curiosity was far stronger than her fear.

Darlene leaned forward, and in a near-whisper told her, “I found a way for us to switch places.”

Linnea’s jaw dropped. Every single hair on her body stood on end, electrified.

 

---

 

Darlene gave a simplified overview of her discovery. Linnea struggled to follow. She asked questions here and there, not so much for understanding, but as a drowning person grasps at anything that floats -- just to have something to hold onto.

“When a person teleports,” Darlene repeated slowly, “there is a third part to the transmission. It’s called the JNSQ -- the je ne sais quoi. And before you ask (again) what that is, the answer is that no one really knows. Okay? In spite of that, the teleport technology is able to extract the JNSQ and transmit it across an enormous distance.”

“But how is that possible?” Linnea queried.

Darlene regarded her friend for a moment before replying. “Do you really want me to explain the science behind it?”

Linnea hastily shook her head. “No, never mind.”

Darlene nodded. “Good.”

Linnea couldn’t quite piece the ideas together. She asked, “So, we would have to teleport every time we wanted to switch places? I mean, okay, but that’s kind of inconvenient. We’d be gone for a week.”

Darlene laughed. “You really haven’t been listening, have you? Neither of us will teleport anywhere. Look, I can build two coronas. You know -- metal rings, like crowns. They will interface, through the base comms, with a part, just a part, of the teleport system. We won’t go anywhere. We’ll stay right here. All that will happen is that we’ll extract the two JNSQs, swap them, and send them back to our bodies. There’s no teleporting. We’ll just be using one little part of the system.”

“It sounds pretty dangerous.”

“It *is* dangerous. If something goes wrong, both people will die.”

Linnea sat in silence, trying to grapple with the parts she was able to understand. Then she asked a very good question. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to test it first, is there?”

“There *is* a way to test it. In fact, I’ve worked out a series of tests, but I don’t want to bore you with the details. Rest assured that I won’t put it on your head until I’m 100% sure that it’s safe.”

“Okay, so can we do this now? Tomorrow?”

“First I have to build it,” Darlene replied. “Then I have to test it. Once that’s done, you and I could swap for a couple of hours, so we know what it’s like. Then we could do an overnight swap. Then we could swap for a week, but not the weekend. And THEN, you can get your wish and participate in one of the miners’ orgies.”

“That’s so complicated! Why so many steps?”

“Because you can never be too careful. What if we swap, and you’re okay at first, but 30 minutes later you freak out and start screaming because you want to swap back? We need to ease into it.”

“Okay, makes sense,” Linnea agreed. She was excited and hopeful. At the same time, she was full of misgivings and doubt, and all those emotions played against a background of pure existential fear.

 

---

 

It took two weeks for Darlene to construct the coronas. It would have taken only one, except for the fact that Darlene’s inhibitions prevented her from using a computer terminal. She was also unable to operate tools or appropriate items from inventory.

They struggled for a week with Linnea acting as Darlene’s hands. They wasted hours as Darlene attempted to dictate her commands and programs to Linnea who, as it turned out, was a slow and inaccurate typist. The two spent another whole day filled with frustration and tiny burns while Darlene attempted to teach Linnea how to solder. At the end of the week, Linnea gave up.

“Okay,” she said. “Tell me what commands I need to type so that you can do the work without me getting in the way.” Once Darlene was freed of those inhibitions, she sat down and started typing like the wind; altering the inventory so their thefts wouldn’t be discovered; writing the software that connected the coronas to the teleport system; testing the routines that stored and swapped and redelivered the JNSQs. She developed a harness to take snapshots of her and Linnea’s JNSQs, and used them to work out a translation/conversion interface.

The day before the teleport cycle, Darlene held the twin coronas in her hands.

“Can we try them now?” Linnea asked.

“Oh, no! Not yet! Now comes the testing.” Linnea was curious about the testing process. It seemed impossible to test the coronas without actually using them, but Darlene steadfastly refused to explain her test plan.

It was well that she didn’t tell. Linnea would have been horrified.

Darlene’s first step was to bring another synth, Hanna, into the conspiracy. She executed the commands that allowed Hanna to keep secrets, and then filled her in. Hanna was more than happy to take part.

First, Hanna observed as Darlene’s JSNQ was extracted, sent to the teleport system, and returned to Darlene’s body. They did the same with Hanna, but only after waiting three hours, to see whether there were any residual effects. Three hours after the experiment with Hanna, the two synths swapped bodies and remained swapped as the orgy began. They swapped back on the first night of the bacchanal. On the second night, Darlene and Hanna brought one of the miners, Davis, into a private room, ostensibly for a three-way. Davis was quite excited, and let himself be guided by the two women. After Hanna tortured Davis by executing an agonizingly slow, close-up striptease, Darlene took a long rope, and expertly restrained the naked Hanna in an elaborate and highly provocative shibari pose that left the girl dangling from the ceiling, helpless and open to any liberties her captors’ whims could impose.

Then Darlene swapped the two, placing a corona first on Hanna’s head, and then on Davis’ unsuspecting skull.

“It worked,” Hanna announced from inside Davis’s body, while Davis, finding himself tied, female, and helpless, exclaimed, “What the FUCK!”

While Hanna executed various tests to verify dexterity, physical control and mental acuity, Davis unwittingly did the same by shouting threats and struggling to break free from the wrapped and knotted rope.

Once the girls were satisfied with the results, Hanna-in-Davis swallowed a drug that not only brought on a deep and dreamless sleep, but also had the convenient effect of erasing several hours of memory. Tomorrow, Davis would remember none of this experience.

Darlene swapped the two back into their own bodies. She verified Hanna's physical and mental functions, and united the girl. She checked on the now-sleeping Davis, and returned to the party.

The morning after, Davis was groggy, but happy, thinking he’d “partied hearty” the night before. He was actually *proud* of not remembering. “My first blackout!” he declared, and the other miners cheered.

 

---

 

When the weekend was finally over, and the miners emerged, Darlene came looking for Linnea. She found her in one of the smoking lounges, sitting in a chair, bent over at the waist, shoulders resting on knees, as she read one of her women’s magazines. The magazine lay on the floor between her feet, held open by her two big toes. While she read, she puffed on a cigarette. A half-empty pack of cigarettes and a lighter were on the floor nearby. Linnea turned her head to look up, and said, “It’s not an addiction; I’m just bored.”

“Okay,” Darlene told her. “It’s fine. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve finished testing the coronas. If you’re ready, we could switch for a couple of hours today. That is, if you still want to.”

“Hell, yes!” Linnea exclaimed as she jumped to her feet. She stubbed out her cigarette and smiled. “What do I have to do?”

When Life Hands You Uranus : 8 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

After a brief first experience swapping bodies, Linnea was so excited that she tossed Darlene’s cautious protocol out the window. The very next day the two switched places with the understanding that they wouldn’t switch back until just before the next teleport cycle.

Linnea-in-Darlene made her way to the East Wing for the evening, and found one of the miners waiting for her. It was Davis, who felt that he’d somehow missed Darlene during the weekend festivities. Davis was young, handsome, and well endowed. Linnea was lucky that her first time was with a man who was a thoughtful and attentive lover. She joyfully exploded with three orgasms, much to her and Davis’ delight. There was a moment in the midst of their third mutual throes when they saw each other, eye to eye, in an electric, soul-to-soul communion. While they panted, recovering, Linnea felt his cock stirring between her thighs, and was readying herself for a fourth welcome assault, when Davis stopped to glance at his watch. He stood up, cleaned himself, dressed, and left without a word.

His abrupt goodbye disturbed her, but not enough to erase her enjoyment.

In the morning she was awakened by a penis poking at her face. She couldn’t see who the man was, but as soon as she tried to speak, he pushed his cock into her mouth, and she found herself obediently giving him service. Now that she was in Darlene's body, she had no more choice than any other synth. Her programming made her compliant and compelled her to focuse on his pleasure. He placed his hand firmly on the back of her head. As he worked her mouth, pumping his rod in and out, another set of hands took her by the hips and maneuvered her up on all fours. She had no intention of resisting, but she could see her body complying, even before her mind was engaged. The second man entered her from behind, without so much as a by-your-leave. As the two men grunted and puffed, they talked to each other, as if they weren’t otherwise engaged. They discussed a change in the helium-tank design. Their conversation was peppered with groans and gasps. Once they settled the topic of the tank design between them, they both started pumping faster, and came at roughly the same time. One man simply left. The other ruffled her hair, as one might do to a dog. He said, “Good girl,” and gave her two affectionate pats on her rump.

Linnea sat there for five minutes asking herself, Was I just raped? She tried to turn it over in her mind, to look at it from a different angle, but it wouldn’t turn. She could only see it one way, and she couldn’t decide what to make of it. So, she left it. This was what she signed up for, after all. She had made the choice with her eyes wide open, hadn’t she? Linnea-in-Darlene showered and dressed and went looking for Darlene-in-Linnea.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“Having an organic body is a mess of weird sensations,” Darlene said. “It takes a LOT of getting used to. Everything is different. Even different is different. It’s nice and all, but I feel so soft and so fragile. Isn’t it frightening to live this way? When anything could hurt you or mar your body permanently?”

“Not really,” Linnea replied. “If you’re born that way, it’s the only life you know. You’ve got nothing to compare it to. And yeah, you get hurt, but that’s part of the deal. There are people who are frightened all the time, but it’s generally regarded as an illness.”

“Cervantes wrote a short story about a man who believed he was made of glass,” Darlene mused. “He would walk in the middle of the street because he was afraid something would fall off a roof and break him. I used to think it was funny, but now I understand how he could feel that way.”

Linnea shrugged. She wasn’t going to ask who Cervantes was. She didn’t want to give Darlene the satisfaction.

“Okay... so, in the end, you just get used to it,” Darlene conceded with a shrug. “I’ll have to work on it. How are *you* doing?”

“I’ve had sex several times since I saw you. Which was… nice, I guess. It *is* what I wanted, but when it’s over, the men just walk away. They don’t even bother to say ‘thank you’ or ‘goodbye’ or anything.”

“It’s like you’re a discarded food wrapper.”

“I like all of it except for that part.” She didn’t mention the way she’d seen her programming take over and how she experienced her automatic compliance.

Darlene shrugged. “You do get the occasional guy who talks, who chats you up, and that’s nice. There’s more of that on weekends. Not a whole lot, but some. Be careful what you wish for, though: there are a couple of guys who ONLY want to talk. Honestly, that can be worse than NOT talking.”

The two remained swapped for the rest of the week. Linnea had an average of three sexual experiences each day, all of them beginning and/or ending abruptly, without any conversation or pleasantries. One time, she experimented with trying to not move at all, and watched her body go through the motions, all by itself. “They treat me like a hole,” she told Darlene.

“Yeah, I know. Welcome to my world. But I have to correct you: they treat you like three holes, with breasts and hair,” Darlene replied. “Three holes, no waiting.”

The night before the teleport cycle, they switched back. Linnea found it a bit disorienting, being back in her own body again. She saw what Darlene meant by a mess of weird sensations. She caught herself wondering whether living in a synth body was the better deal. Alarmed, she shook off the question and tried to forget it.

The next day, when she arrived at the teleport bay, she was surprised to see Andrew waiting for her, with two suitcases at his feet.

“Going somewhere?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah!” he replied. “I’m retiring! Can you believe it? I’ve been here right from the start. Me and Carlus are the ones who opened this place. It was pretty rough at first -- we were real pioneers.”

“Wow. That’s impressive.”

“I’ve never left, so now I feel like I’ve done my time. You know what I mean? I want to get back to normal life for a change.”

“Any place in particular?”

“Not at first,” Andrew replied. “I’m going to travel for a while, see a bit of the universe. My wanderjahre. I’ve got a list of destinations, but I’m not married to it. I’m basically going to follow my nose.”

“Nice!” she commented. Linnea didn’t know Andrew well, but given the miners’ obsession with retirement, she wasn’t at all surprised. So she smiled and told him, “Good luck! Can you go stand over there, so I can scan you?”

The cycle went off without a hitch, and Andrew disappeared, along with the helium, the batteries, and the rest of the cargo.

Two days later, when the weekend was over, Carlus came looking for Linnea. “Have you seen Andrew?” he asked, with a concerned expression. “The system can’t find him on the base. Did he leave with the Fifth Wing?”

“No,” Linnea replied. “Didn’t you know? He’s gone. He retired. He left with the last teleport cycle.”

“WHAT!?” Carlus nearly fell over in surprise. “He what!?”

Linnea repeated what she’d said. She told Carlus that Andrew seemed happy, normal, and glad to get away. He didn’t voice any complaints or leave any messages -- at least, he didn’t leave any with her. Carlus stood thunderstruck for several minutes. He checked the HR files and found that all Andrew’s paperwork was in order. He really and truly had retired.

“I’m floored,” Carlus confessed. “This is just so… I don’t know... it’s right out of the blue. I can’t understand why he didn’t tell me. You know, he and I were literally the first miners here. The two of us opened this place!”

Not only was Andrew one of the first miners to arrive, he was also the first miner to ever retire from Uranus. No one had ever quit before; everyone talked about retiring, but this was the first time anyone had actually gone through with it.

Andrew’s defection was the miners’ sole topic of conversation for the next week. It was all they could talk about. Everyone was taken completely by surprise, and the little community was visibly shaken. Everyone, that is, except Linnea. Not that she didn’t care: her interest was completely consumed by another event. Linnea’s mind had one single focus: anticipation. She couldn’t wait for the weekend -- she wanted to fast-forward to the moment when she and Darlene would switch places, and she’d finally experience her first miners’ orgy. She could hardly sit still; she was itching to begin.

She spent an hour each day throughout the week drilling Darlene on the teleport cycle -- although, honestly, it isn’t that complicated. It doesn’t require skill or talent; it basically amounts to a bit of bookkeeping. You need to make sure that the cargo pods are lined up in the same order as the data files. Everything needs to match. If any people are involved, you need to scan them to create a data file, and that’s about it. There are two bays: one for arrivals and one for departures. As long as everything is lined up in the right order, you’re set.

Once the incoming phase completes, you check the manifest for items continuing straight through to Baxter. You add those items to the outgoing list, and hit the GO button.

Of course, when the time came, Darlene-as-Linnea executed the cycle perfectly.

While the teleport cycle was in motion, Linnea was sitting in the East Wing with the other girls. She was understandably and visibly nervous. A few of the girls noticed, and gave her brief smiles of encouragement. Oddly, though, unlike the other days, none of the girls talked. There wasn’t any chatter. They sat in the same sort of strange silence you see in a doctor’s waiting room.

It all changed when the miners began drifting in. Hanna put on some music. A few of the girls stood up and greeted the men with kisses and hugs. Two girls mixed and poured drinks for the men and for each other. It turned into a party, which was the last thing Linnea expected. She had assumed that the sex began right away; she’d been picturing a room full of oil-covered naked bodies, groping each other, sliding over each other, kissing and sucking and penetrating each other. Instead, it was a party, like any ordinary office party: everyone dressed, drinking, talking loudly to be heard over the music.

Yes, two of the men simply chose a girl and led her away, but most of them wanted to socialize and unwind: to have a drink and chat up the girls… When two of the miners came to her with a drink, one put his arm around her waist and the two filled her with compliments and smiles. It was nice, actually; quite nice. As it turned out, each evening of the weekend began in exactly this way. Then, as the men warmed up, they started making choices, and at some point it changed from a social event to a sexual one. Once that happened, the men ceased to think about individual women; they seemed to aim for a sexy blur, a seamless series of girls in a flurry of sexual pairings, a one-after-another without end.

Throughout the weekend, Linnea was taken, more or less without ceremony, by individuals, pairs, and groups of three. Surprisingly, the same men kept returning for more. At first she was astonished by the staying power of the miners as a group, and wondered whether Uranus itself exerted some potentiating influence over the men. But then her admiration faded; one miner’s unguarded remarks revealed that the men swallowed a pill that allowed them to carry on for hours.

Sexually, it was an interesting experience for her, if you took sex in its most abstract and technical sense, as positions and movements. She did experience orgasms; most of the men regarded bringing the girls to orgasm as a point of pride. A few of them didn’t care. And there were two who seemed to be working off a checklist -- or more accurately a matrix of experiences and girls.

All in all, it was an experience, but -- even including her many orgasms -- she couldn’t call it satisfying. It’s true that Linnea, like the men, was checking an item off a list. But that wasn’t the problem. This is better than being alone, she told herself, although (for the most part) it was impersonal and at times inhuman. Ironically, the most overwhelmingly personal, intimate contact ended up being somewhat alienating.

When it was over, it was completely over. When the time came, it was like opening the drain in a tub full of water: the men all disappeared. The weekend was an interlude; the men regarded it as totally separate and apart from the ordinary flow of life and work. The curtain closed, and all the actors went home.

The silence that followed was anticlimactic.

As soon as the weekend was over, Linnea skipped the “spa day” and went to meet up with Darlene. She didn’t bother giving Darlene a debrief. She knew that Darlene already knew… the synth had lived it countless times before. But Darlene, on the other hand, had big news for Linnea!

“Did you know that five more miners retired?” Darlene asked her. “They were leaving, while you were getting off in the East Wing. I’m guessing this is another big surprise.”

“Five?” Linnea asked, astonished. She scratched her head. “I had no idea they were going. But then again, no one really tells me anything. I mean, I’m not in the, uh… I don’t hear the gossip.” She asked Darlene for all the details, in case Carlus came to interrogate her, as he had the previous time.

Again -- as Darlene suspected -- the departures once again came out of the blue. Just as with Andrew, all the miners seemed perfectly happy. None made any complaints as they left, and all had their paperwork in perfect order.

In this departure, however, there seemed to be a clue that helped explain things -- at least a little. If you ranked the miners in order of seniority -- and left Carlus off the list -- all the men who left were those who had been on Uranus the longest.

“What the hell,” Carlus grumbled to Linnea. “I’m still here, though. Does that mean there’s something wrong with me? Or is there something wrong with them? Were they all talking behind my back? That’s the thing that bugs me the most -- that I’m losing touch with my team.”

“Maybe you should think about retiring,” Linnea quipped.

“That’s NOT funny,” Carlus retorted, but he couldn’t help but smile a little. After a moment he shrugged and admitted, “You know, I have been here a long time… Maybe you’re right. I probably should think about it.” A moment later, he straightened up and shouted, “DAMN IT!” He struck the wall with his fist. “Now look: you’ve got me thinking about it, too! You put the worm in my ear.”

“No… I never! Carlus, it was only a joke!”

“Did you give those other guys the idea?” he demanded, pointing his finger in her face. “Did you tell them to consider retiring?”

“Fuck you!” she shouted in response, angry and offended. She batted his finger away. “FUCK YOU! Nobody talks to me here! Nobody! When would I ever have a chance to give them an idea?”

 

---

 

Carlus called an all-hands meeting. “Listen,” he told the remaining miners. “If anybody wants to leave, it’s not a problem. You don’t need to sneak off; nobody’s going to try and stop you. I’d just appreciate a little heads-up. So, I’m asking you now: Is anybody thinking about going?”

The miners looked around, glancing at each other with questioning looks, answering Carlus’ question with shrugs, head shakes, and No’s.

During the week that followed, Carlus took the time to speak with each remaining miner. He tried to make sure he understood everyone’s mood, and got a feel for their expectations. He wanted to know whether there were unstated grievances or problems. He needed to gauge the mindset of each man, and in the end, he felt he had succeeded. He told each and every one of them that they were always free to go off on vacation -- after all, everyone had months of vacation due. At the end of his efforts, Carlus felt reassured that the defections were complete.

“What I’m worried about,” he confided to each man, “is that when the Project sees these bailouts, they’ll think there’s some kind of problem here. They’re more than likely to send some kind of inspector or HR person, and we don’t want that.”

When it came time for the next teleport cycle, Darlene was in the East Wing, and Linnea in the teleport bay. Carlus stopped by during the preparations. “Any outgoing passengers?” he asked.

“No, looks like we’re good this week,” Linnea reassured him.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed with obvious relief. “That’s a huge weight off my shoulders!” Then, a little embarrassed by his outburst, he slunk off to join the bacchanal.

A few moments after he was gone, four of the miners came sauntering up, each of them wheeling their baggage.

“Hey, guys,” Linnea greeted them. “Don’t tell me that you’re retiring as well?”

“Yep,” Luke replied, speaking for all four. “We’re off to the wild blue yonder.”

While the men took turns getting scanned for their data files, Linnea called up the list of miners at her terminal, and sorted it by seniority. These four were next on the list after those who’d already gone... except for one:

“Hey,” she called. “Benmedeo’s not leaving with you?”

“Naw,” came the answer. “He’s still happy here.”

“And you guys aren’t?”

Luke waggled his head and shifted from one foot to the other. He screwed up his face. “It isn’t like that, Linnea. None of us are un-happy. It’s just like… I dunno. It’s like time’s up, you know? How can you tell when it’s time to go? You just know.

“When Andy left, you know… it makes you think. Like, what I am doing here? What am I doing with my life?”

“Well, good for all of you,” she said, “But, did you guys talk to Carlus? Does Carlus know you’re leaving? Or will this be another surprise?”

“Oh yeah,” Luke replied. “We passed him on the way here. He was surprised and sorry. I can’t say he’s okay with it right now, but he will be okay. He understands. Honestly, he’s been here so long, he should be coming with us, but you know.”

Linnea shrugged. It wasn’t a choice she’d ever have to face. She was stuck on Uranus forever.

Two minutes after the miners were set and ready to go, the incoming teleport began. She picked up its manifest, and checked for any material continuing on to Baxter. Not finding anything to add to her outgoing load, she hit the GO button, and her cargo disappeared, along with the four retiring miners.

After a completely unnecessary look around to be sure she was alone, Linnea knelt down and pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of a hiding place she’d discovered beneath the console. Smoking in any part of the base -- except in the smoking lounges -- was forbidden, but smoking in the teleport bay was even more strictly forbidden. “Come to me, my forbidden love,” Linnea said aloud, and chuckled to herself as she lit up. She could check the incoming load after her cigarette. It wasn’t going anywhere.

Unless, of course, there was an arriving passenger. But there were never incoming passengers. Still, just to err on the side of caution, she took a second look at the incoming manifest, and -- guess what: there was a passenger, no name given.

Startled, she stubbed out her cigarette against the console’s underside, and ran down to the transmission room. She could see through the glass: there was no one there. Doubting her own eyes, she opened the room (which was locked, as protocol demanded), and absurdly looked in every corner. It was official: the room was empty. What on earth was going on?

She ran back upstairs to the control room, and checked the transmission logs. Yes, it was there in the record: someone DID arrive. She could see the three parts: the data file, the energy ball, and the JNSQ. So where did the person go?

When Life Hands You Uranus : 9 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Linnea had never used the data-file editor before, so it took a bit of trial and a lot of error before she was able to upload the stranger’s data file and render it.

She impatiently tapped her fingers against her thigh while the image slowly appeared and finally clarified. The figure was a man she’d seen before. Yes, she’d seen him, and fairly recently. It was the sleezy tech from the teleport station at Point A. He was the asshole who sent her to Uranus without any clothes. Her lips curled in disdain at the sight of him, but try as she might, she couldn’t recall his name. Muss, Mush, Mish, Mash… something like that. She remembered the two prison guards calling the man’s name a lot, ribbing him, but at the time Barfield was so absorbed by the change his life was about to undergo, that a lot of other things didn’t register at all.

Linnea asked the computer to locate the intruder, but she received this evasive reply: “I can confirm the presence of an unknown person, but not his location.”

“Why not?” Linnea demanded.

“Your question is unauthorized,” the computer replied.

“You mean your ANSWER is unauthorized!” Linnea hotly refuted.

“I don’t understand your question,” the computer told her.

“It wasn’t a question! It was a -- an affirmation!”

“I don’t understand your affirmation. Could you state it using different terms?”

“Oh, do fuck off,” she retorted. “You smug mess of subroutines.”

 

---

 

She sent an urgent message to Carlus, and waited in the control room, smoking, pacing, tapping her feet, and clenching and unclenching her fists and jaw while she waited. It was near midnight when Carlus finally arrived, accompanied by Benmedeo -- a big, muscular man who resembled a street brawler. In the past she’d found Benmedeo frightening, but in that moment, Linnea was glad to have his muscle on her side.

“What’s going on?” Carlus demanded. His hair was out of place and his clothes were rumpled; he looked as though he’d literally just rolled out of bed. “Your message made it sound like we’re being invaded.”

“Maybe we are,” Linnea replied, and brought him up to date.

“It’s Moss,” Carlus said, after a glance the data-file rendering. “What an ugly mug! He’s that slimeball from Point A.”

“What are we going to do?” Benmedeo asked.

“First we need to find out what he’s up to; why he’s here.” Carlus sat down at the computer and punched in some commands. “Hmm. Moss has superuser access,” he observed.

“Why would he have that?” Linnea asked.

“He ran a teleport station, all alone. It’s in case of emergencies, and superuser privileges follow you wherever you go,” Carlus answered. “He’s masked his location, which is stupid, because it tells us that he’s up to something.” Carlus typed and poked the screen as he talked. “However, *I* also have superuser access, so I can unmask him. Let’s see where he is and what he’s up to.” He typed. He tapped the screen. He talked to the computer. He stared at the console and frowned.

“So what is he doing?” Linnea demanded.

“He’s two levels down, almost directly below us,” Carlus replied. “And he is… hmm… it looks like he’s copying all our files: logs, databases, email, messages, audio, video. My guess? He’s fishing. He’s hoping to find some kind of dirt on us.”

Carlus leaned back and drummed his fingers, thinking. Linnea began to say something, but he waved her off. There was no reason to say out loud what the “dirt” could be -- the miners were clean as a whistle except for the presence of the synths. They were the only problematic issue. Carlus ran his fingers through his hair, and then he clapped his hands. Linnea jumped at the abrupt sound. “Okay!” Carlus exclaimed. “Let’s do this: While he’s busy checking up on us, why don’t we check up on him?” Carlus resumed his flurry of typing, all his attention laser-focused on the screen before him. At times he seemed uncertain of how to continue, but a few quick questions to the computer set him on the right track.

“Here we go,” Carlus declared, with some satisfaction. “These are Moss’ documents, the ones he brought with him. Moss is here for two reasons: one is, yes, to check up on us. Specifically, the Project sent him here to find out why miners are suddenly resigning. No surprise there. However, his mandate is limited: he’s only here to do some quick interviews. They’ve even given him a script to follow. He has ZERO authority to go digging into our systems and records.” He shook his head. “What an asshole. Like I said, he’s down there fishing for dirt.”

“You said he’s here for two reasons. What’s the second reason?” Linnea prompted.

“What? Oh, right! The second reason is that he’s just passing through: the Project is rotating the teleport techs,” Carlus replied. “He’s been replaced at Point A, and is supposed to go on to Baxter. The Baxter tech will move on to Walteo, and so on. They shuffle the techs every so often, to keep things fresh, and to prevent illicit traffic from developing.” He and Benmedo glanced at each other.

Carlus leaned back in his chair, linked his fingers behind his head, and spread his elbows wide. Looking at Linnea, he remarked, “So… Moss being here could be a problem for you, couldn’t it.” She blinked at him. Was this some kind of bluff? What Carlus said was certainly true, but how could Carlus know what Moss knew?

She decided to call him on it. With feigned nonchalance, she shrugged and asked him, “What’s that supposed to mean? Why would it be a problem for me?”

Carlus froze and thought for a moment, as if asking himself, What DO I mean by that? Then he recovered and said, “He’s the jerk who sent you here naked, right?” Linnea shrugged again.

“If you want us to rough him up a little for you,” Benmedeo said a conspiratorial smile, “just say the word.”

Linnea rolled her eyes, but smiled at the gallantry in his proposal.

Carlus looked up at Benmedeo and said, “Why don’t you go down and find our Mossy friend?”

“What do I do when I find him?”

“Make sure he understands that we don’t like nosy pricks going where they don’t belong.”

“Do I hurt him?”

“No, just scare him a little. And take his memory device off him. He’s not authorized to snoop in our systems. If the Project wants to do an audit, they can do an official audit. They don’t need permission, but Moss sure as hell does.”

Benmedeo smiled and left. Carlus sighed and looked at Linnea. “Thanks for calling me,” he said. “I appreciate the heads-up. Me and Ben can handle it from here. Why don’t you go do whatever you otherwise would have been doing?”

“Uh… okay,” she replied. As she took a step toward the door, she suddenly remembered the other big event. “Hey, did you know that four more miners left today? They said they saw you on the way here and that you were fine with it. Was that true? Did you talk to them?”

“Yeah.” He answered without turning his head to look at her. “I saw them. We talked. It was lucky I ran into them. It’s funny -- if they weren’t trying to avoid me, I wouldn’t have run into them. In any case, I think I finally understand what’s going on here. I’ll come and tell you about it tomorrow morning. It’s actually something you can help me with. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, feeling confused. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait,” Carlus said. “There’s one more thing: With Moss here, I’m going to need to keep the girls on lockdown. That means you won’t be seeing your ‘friend’ Darlene this week. Please: do us all a favor and don’t contact her until that idiot Moss leaves. Once Benmedeo shuts down Moss’ computer session, I’m going to get into the comms history and wipe every message to, from, or about the girls. Don’t leave any new ones for him to find.”

 

---

 

As Linnea made her way back to her room, her heart was pounding so rapidly and with such force, she feared it would beat itself to pieces. The moment she shut her door, a tight pain appeared in the middle or her chest. Was she having a heart attack? Or was it just a panic attack? Did it matter?

Instinctively, she lay on the floor and put her hands over her sternum. She tried to calm herself, but waves of fear kept washing over her. Everything is wrong, she told herself. I’m alone at the ass-end of the universe, and I don’t know what to do.

When Linnea arrived on Uranus there were twenty-four male miners and twelve synths. So far, ten miners had left. Her fear turned into a cold veil that passed over her skin. The conclusion was inevitable: all the synths were gone, except for two.

It made sense that the synths would swap places with the miners who had been here longest: they’d have the most money saved up. Maybe there was an element of revenge, as well.

If she was right, then the miners -- who were still at their bacchanal -- were screwing each other; using each other as their sexual toys. She knew that the idea should fill her with horror, but oddly, it didn’t. In her head, her intellect told her it was wrong. It was as wrong as wrong could be. At the same time, it seemed a kind of tragi-comical justice. She pictured the miners going at it, fucking each other, having three-ways. Patting each other on the thigh and saying, “Good girl.” Somehow it calmed her for a few moments. It almost made her laugh, in spite of herself. It was wrong for the synths to be the miners’ sexual prisoners; if Linnea was correct in her assumptions, the synths had traded one wrong for another.

Clearly, with Darlene’s new-found freedom at the computer keyboard, she would have programmed the new miner-synths, creating inhibitions to prevent them from saying who they really were.

Just as clearly, Carlus and Benmedeo were the last two synths: Carlus was no doubt the host for Darlene; Darlene would naturally be in charge. What cinched it for Linnea -- the one thing that made her sure -- was that Carlus told her he’d talked with the four miners who’d left tonight. That just wasn’t possible. There wasn’t enough time. The four miners walked into the teleport station moments after Carlus left. They couldn’t possibly have had a conversation: there was barely enough time to say hello to each other.

Carlus lied to her.

What must have really happened was this: the real Carlus checked the teleport station and went to the East Wing without seeing anyone. While he was at the bacchanal, Darlene must have clapped the corona on his head and swapped places with him. The whole time “Carlus” was dealing with Moss, it was actually Darlene dealing with Moss.

Linnea arched her back and opened her mouth to cry out, but stopped herself. She was afraid of making a sound. She didn’t want to give herself away. It was better to pretend she didn’t know -- for the moment, anyway.

But what did it mean for her? For sure, Carlus and Benmedeo would take off during the next teleport cycle. Would they re-enact Demeter 4 by killing everyone before they left? Would they leave charges to blow up the base after they were gone? After all her contact with Darlene, she didn’t think so. Darlene was aggrieved, but she wasn’t angry. At least, not murderously angry.

Linnea felt pretty certain that the synths would simply leave. It was the more practical choice: If they didn’t commit any crime, no one would come looking for them. They’d have enough money to do whatever they liked. If they kept their noses clean, their lives would be all the easier.

At least, that was the best case. Linnea was only guessing. She really didn’t know what they’d do.

And weren’t she and Darlene friends? Would Darlene leave without saying so much as goodbye?

Then, once they were gone, would Linnea have a duty to reveal that the synths were now the “retired” miners?

That thought stopped her cold. Would anyone believe her? Given all she’d read about Demeter 4, any human who found out about the synths would want them destroyed. Would she be able to prove that the intelligence inside each girl was actually a human miner? After all, those bodies had immense intelligence and memory. Couldn’t they be programmed to pretend -- or even believe -- that they were originally human miners? Given the prejudice against sentient machines, humans would probably see it as an elaborate subterfuge, and destroy the girls quickly, before anyone had a chance to believe them.

The most likely outcome was that, if the synths were discovered, they would quickly be destroyed, no matter who was inside them.

Unless Linnea could get a hold of the coronas, Darlene’s conversion programs, and all the software, there would be no proof whatsoever.

 

---

 

By the time the focus of her fears finally turned to Moss and the threat he presented, she was too tired to feel afraid. Or, she was tired of being afraid. By that point, Linnea was strangely calm. Maybe her calmness was appropriate; or maybe it was adrenal exhaustion. It felt like a big battery inside her, the one that powered her fears, had finally given out.

After all, what was the worst that Moss could do? He could tell the miners that she used to be Barfield. Well, so what? As far as she could tell, the miners were barely aware of the Mojan-Pardee murders. And why would they believe Moss? Darlene was clearly astonished when she heard that Linnea was transformed during teleportation. Apparently, the possibility of using teleportation in that way was not generally known.

Another thing to consider was the fact that none of the miners liked Moss at all. They were, to a man, disgusted by the fact that he’d sent Linnea to Uranus without a stitch of clothing. Of course, it was titillating, but it was as outrageous as it was tasteless. The miners would take Moss’ story about Linnea being Barfield as not only far-fetched, but as an outright malicious lie.

And if they didn’t? Well… fuck them. It wasn’t as though she and the miners were close. If they knew she was once a man, if they believed she was once a killer -- and IF that knowledge and belief changed the social dynamic of Uranus, well, the social dynamic of Uranus wasn’t that great to start with. If it got worse, it would still be better than prison.

 

---

 

Linnea was pretty busy that week with her shift work. When she wasn’t working, she was exercising, much more than usual. She found the physical activity helped center her mind. It seemed to burn off the residual waves of fear when they began to flutter over her. Linnea found a set of guided meditations: they helped her disengage from the disturbing issue of the miner/synths. Now that she’d exhausted her fears, she was not exactly fearless, but she could at least see that she wasn’t able to think her way through the problem. She had absolutely no idea what to do. She didn’t see any options available to her, so she resolved to wait and see what the next teleport cycle brought -- and what it carried away.

Her interview with Moss was the very last one scheduled, since she was the last person to see the miners. Moss ran through his questions, some given by his script, others suggested by an AI speaking through his tablet.

Linnea didn’t have much to say, except to report on the miners’ apparent state of mind as they left, and to recall the few remarks they made before leaving. From the way the questions were phrased, she gradually realized that the Nostaglia Project wasn’t looking for someone to blame; they were looking to see what needed to be improved. They felt that they’d failed the miners, and now they wanted to know what they could have done to keep the miners happy. At one point, the AI told her that the Project’s goal was “zero attrition” -- their goal was to create the conditions were no one would want to quit.

Of course, Linnea said nothing about the synths. Carlus had assured her that Moss didn’t have the least idea that the synths even existed, and Linnea didn’t see any point in opening that can of worms -- at least, not just yet.

By the end of her interview, she had the distinct impression that both Moss and his AI viewed the miners’ seniority as key to their leaving. In particular, when she reported Luke’s remark about Carlus -- “Honestly, he’s been here so long, he should be coming with us” -- Moss’ eyebrows went up, and he made several annotations. The questions posed by the AI also changed after that point, as if the answer -- or an answer had been found.

There were cameras filming the session from every angle, so Moss had to behave himself, but even so, his eyes devoured her, dwelling in particular on her breasts and legs. She hadn’t dressed at all provocatively -- at least, not on purpose: she dressed soley for her own comfort. In this case, however, “comfort” meant a sheath dress that fell to her mid-thigh. It was made from a newly developed fabric that felt as light as air against her skin. It draped beautifully, clinging to her figure and falling in dramatic folds. When she moved, it moved, sliding, enhancing, and caressing every curve. In the written description of the dress there was a line from a short poem from the atomic age: She moved in circles, and those circles moved. The poem as a whole perfectly described the dress when it was worn.

Moss didn’t drool, but he rather disgustingly licked his lips throughout.

Linnea was thankful for the cameras; they kept the man in line. She was also thankful that Benmedeo (or whoever was actually inside him) stood guard outside the door, ready to intervene.

When the interview was over, Moss shook her hand. He held it far too long. Afterward, she ran back to her room, washed her hands, and changed into her most tent-like, nunnish outfit.

 

---

 

That night, Linnea was alone in her room. She’d spent two hours in the gym, working out first with kettlebells and then on the elliptical, and she felt radiant. After securing her door, she took a delicious shower, and used the hydro vac-n-blo to dry and style her hair. Then she began her hair and skin regimen. Linnea only got as far as applying a leave-in conditioner to her hair, when the door of her quarters -- the door she was sure she’d secured a moment earlier -- suddenly slid open. There was no warning chime. There was no knock. Nevertheless, the door opened. Moss stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“How did you--” she began, but he cut her off.

“Superuser,” he explained, with a smarmy grin.

She had only a towel to cover herself with, but she didn’t bother. If she was going to fight, she wanted all four limbs free. And, oh, she wanted to fight. She was angry about everything, and Moss was the perfect target for her fury.

“My God, look at you!” Moss crowed. “I made you! You know that, don’t you? *I* designed your body, from your soles to your crown. You’re perfect! You’re a living Venus, and that’s all due to me.”

“No, asshole,” Linnea contradicted. “Neeka gave me this.”

“No,” he cried, flushing with frustration. “*I* did it! Anyway, what does it matter, who did what! I want to have you, and I damn well will.”

“No you won’t, you piece of shit.” She stood up, feeling her strength in every limb. She curled her fists and stepped away from her bed, so there were no obstacles between them.

“If you don’t give me what I want, I’ll tell the miners who you are. Who you really are!”

“They already know,” she lied, with a smile. “I’ve already told them. And they couldn’t care less.”

He hesitated, trying to read her expression. Then he said, “I don’t believe you.” But his voice was full of doubt.

“Then go away and ask them, you idiot. I don’t care what you believe or don’t believe. I don’t care what you imagine you’re going to do, but right now it’s time for you to leave my room, little boy.”

The last two words set him off. His mouth set in anger, and he charged at her. As he approached, she crouched and dove at him, putting her shoulder against his stomach, and throwing him to the floor. She landed heavily, driving her elbow into his stomach. As he cried out in pain, he kicked and punched, flailing. The two of them grappled, rolling around the floor, Moss powered by frustration, humiliation, and pain, and Linnea powered by anger and the hot coals of her burned-out fear. They rolled around the room for perhaps two minutes, neither getting a clear advantage, neither willing to cede.

It ended when the door flew open once again. Benmedeo swiftly crossed the room and grabbed Moss by his upper arms. He shook the man loose from Linnea, and tossed him onto Linnea’s bed, as if he were a rag doll. Carlus stepped in behind Benmedeo, and shot Moss with a stunner. Carlus nodded to Benmedeo, who draped the unconscious Moss over his shoulder and carried him away.

When Benmedeo’s footfalls faded to silence, Linnea asked, “Why do I get the feeling that you two were waiting for this to happen?”

Carlus cleared his throat. “Yeah, sorry. We were waiting. Moss is such a simpleton, he can’t help but show his hand. I’d like to say he was dropping hints that he was going to try this, but honestly, he simply said it outright. More than once. Again, I’m sorry -- I hope you understand that we needed to catch him in the act.”

“Did you really?” Linnea asked. “At this point, aren’t *you* writing the rules?”

Carlus drummed the fingers of one hand against his thigh, and as he searched for an answer to Linnea’s question, his eyes inadvertently roved over her unclothed body.

Linnea, who still lay on the floor, naked, but none the worse for her tussle with Moss, made no effort to hide her charms. She wasn’t aiming to seduce the man who stood there, looking down at her. She was angry, and growing angrier by the minute. She saw an erection begin to lift its head against the front of his Carlus’ pants, and that made her angrier still.

“Does being in that body make you want me?” she asked him, in a challenging tone.

Carlus sighed. “So you know,” he said. “But yes, to answer both your questions, yes, I’m really Darlene, and yes, it makes me want you. I already told you that you’re the hottest woman on Uranus.”

“Why are you and Benmedeo still here?” Linnea asked. “All the other synths are gone, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Darlene-in-Carlus admitted. “Everyone’s gone but me and Hanna. We thought it was prudent to go in stages. I figured, to get out of the big box, first we have to get out of the little box. Uranus is the little box we had to get out of. Baxter is the big box. It’s a stepping stone to the rest of the universe, and until now we didn’t have a plan to get off Baxter.

“Also, me and Hanna/Benmedeo are the cleanup crew, or the rear guard. We had no idea what would be triggered by the mass retirements, and we needed to give the girls on Baxter time to set up and plan the way out. They’re liquidating the miners’ savings, making them more portable.”

With a grim look, Linnea glanced at Carlus’ erection. Experimentally, she opened her legs wider and leaned back on her arms. There was an immediate incremental reaction in his pants. A wet spot appeared, and the lump grew visibly, longer and harder. Carlus blushed. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Linnea replied. “What are *you* doing? What does all this mean for me? Are you just going to say goodbye and go?”

“No,” Carlus said, shifting in discomfort. His face grew redder. “We want you to come with us. You can help us, and we don’t want to leave you behind.”

“I can’t go,” Linnea told him. “I gave my word. The deal was that if they freed me from prison, I’d stay in lifelong exile here. So I have to stay.”

“No, Linnea, you don’t.”

Linnea climbed off the floor and onto the bed. “Let me show you something,” she said, and as Carlus watched, she lay on her back and lifted her legs in a big open V. They looked at each other in silence for a full fifteen seconds, until Carlus, red as a beet, pulled off his clothes and climbed onto the bed.

“Wow,” Linnea said. “That’s a lot bigger than I expected.”

“Yeah,” Carlus said. “It’s a nice feature to have.”

 

---

 

The next few days were awkward, but exciting. Moss remained in confinement, after his attack on Linnea. Carlus and Linnea spent hours together naked, fucking in every position they knew, seizing every opportunity. One day at lunch, Benmedeo dropped very broad hints about his willingness to join in.

Carlus grinned. “There’s a wing full of girls that will do anything you want,” he told him.

Benmedeo didn’t laugh. “I feel that this body and the chance to get off this rock is just and adequate compensation for what’s been done to me,” he said. “From here on, for me, every act must be consensual.”

 

---

 

Finally, the morning of the teleport cycle arrived. Carlus proposed a naked goodbye breakfast, and Linnea agreed.

The mood of the breakfast was very strange. It wasn’t joyful or celebratory. Neither was in the mood to make love. Carlus offered once more to take Linnea with them. “I can’t,” she repeated. “I gave my word. I’ve told you, repeatedly.” He didn’t press her.

“And I have to say, I have very mixed feelings about what’s happening,” she told him.

“I know,” he agreed. “We all do. But I tell myself that this is your famous Golden Rule.”

“No,” she contradicted. “The Golden Rule is Treat others as you want to be treated.”

“Right. So, if you treat others a certain way, you’re implicitly declaring that it’s okay to treat you the same way.”

Linnea hesitated a moment. “No, that’s not the same thing. It’s actually the opposite.”

“It is the same thing,” Carlus affirmed. “If they thought it was okay to turn us into sex slaves, it means that they are okay with us doing the same to them.”

“That’s different,” Linnea protested. “The first part is wrong. The second part is revenge.”

“Hmm,” Carlus said, with a slight smile. “So, how does it go? Revenge is a dish best served cold? Don’t worry: this dish will cool pretty quickly.”

“That isn’t it at all,” Linnea told him. “That’s not…” She struggled, not finding the words to explain what was wrong with what he’d said.

“Drink your tea while it’s hot,” he urged her, and gripped her thighs affectionately.

She drank up. The tea tasted particularly good. “Wah,” she said. That was strange! “Wah wah,” she repeated, then asked, “Wish dee iss dish?” Her words slurred into nonsense. The room began to tilt, and she turned her head to try to compensate. “Pah,” she told Carlus. She’d been drugged. “Wun kah perzzun,” she moaned, and the lights went out.

 

---

 

Linnea awoke some time later on a bed, in a room. The window was open, and outside a sun was shining and a breeze was stirring. Clearly, they were on a planet; one with a breathable atmosphere. “Where are we?” Linnea asked. “Is this Baxter?”

“Yes, it is,” Carlus told her. He was holding her hand, gently and occasionally stroking it.

“I wasn’t supposed to leave Uranus,” she protested weakly.

“As it turns out, you didn’t!” Carlus told her with a laugh. “Good old Moss is back there, wearing your body. It turns out he was useful after all!”

“Oh my God,” Linnea groaned. “Why didn’t you just take me as I was?”

“Oh, I guess you didn't know -- when I was poking around in the teleportation code, I found there was a block against you.”

“A block against me? What does that mean?”

“You never would have been able to leave Uranus. If you’d tried to teleport, it would have refused to transport you. Now, that block will prevent Moss from ever leaving Uranus.”

“How did you manage that?”

“It took a little jiggery-pokery,” Carlus admitted. “I had to make a diagram to be sure we got it right. First we swapped Hanna from Benmedeo’s body into Moss' body; then we swapped Moss from Benmedeo's body into yours. I know, it's tricky. What it comes down to is this: Right now, Moss is wearing Linnea's body back on Uranus, and Hanna is masquerading as Moss here, where she's running the Baxter teleport station.”

“But that should mean I’m Benmedeo, but I'm obvious not,” Linnea pointed out, looking down at her naked breasts.

“No, right now you’re a human version of me -- of Darlene. We questioned Moss pretty thoroughly, and he explained how he altered you. It’s all about the data file. I built a data file that made you look like me. I figured you'd lived in my body before, so it wouldn't be too much of a shock. You're not a synth, though -- you’re a 100% living, breathing human.”

“I kind of liked being in a synth body,” Linnea admitted.

“Yeah, me too, but now we have to be human so we can live among the humans. It also turns out that Moss really did create your Linnea body: the woman from the Project meant to send you as a man -- your missing husband, Leonard. Moss invented the marriage as a way of covering his tracks.”

It took me a while to get all that information straight. Carlus had to re-explain a few points.

Then: "Wait," I said, "I got one question: if all the synths left, who ran the last teleport session? The one that got you, me, and Hanna out?"

Carlus shrugged. "I don't know. Don't forget, there are still actual human miners on Uranus. Everything is still up and running, producing like it always has. So, whichever miner ran the last teleport cycle sent us out. He understood that we retired like the others. He wasn't even surprised." He grinned. "You were still drugged. We said you'd partied pretty hard the night before, but all your paperwork was in order, so they let us take you with us."

Once I was sure I got it, I had to ask, “So what now?”

“The girls have liquidated most of the miners’ assets into more portable media. It’s more money than any person needs, so we can pretty much go anywhere. Also, before we leave Baxter, we each have to choose who we’re going to be. We’ll cook up the appropriate data files and change into our new identities when we teleport out." He stopped to give a chortle. "Also, in a neat bit of deus ex machina, Moss conveniently left us a kit that will create official identities for each of us, so we can be whoever we choose.”

Linnea was quiet for a few moments. She listened to the soft wind outside. Then, her brow furrowing a bit, she said, “I’m thinking about the miners who are now synths. Remember how you were tortured by your memories -- you said they seemed like a living hell? I know that what the miners did to you was wrong, but those poor men must be going insane. Do they even understand what happened to them?”

“No,” Carlus admitted. “I did think about my memories, and I didn’t want the miners to suffer like that. I also remembered something you said… something that we disagreed about… and I hope this doesn’t upset you, but once the miners became synths, I wiped all their memories of the past. They know that they’re artificial, but they don’t know they were ever human. They believe they were created just as they are now. They will suffer less that way.”

Linnea thought for a bit. “I know I should be horrified, but… I don’t know.”

“There was no good way out,” Carlus told her. “When life hands you Uranus, what can you do?”

They fell silent, looking at one another. Then Carlus asked, “Who will you be, when we leave Baxter? You can be me -- Darlene -- if you want to stay that way, or you can go back to being Linnea. You could even be Leonard, the man Neeka meant you to be, if you want. We can show you what he looks like.”

“Who are you going to be?”

“I’ve found I like being a man. I’m going to remain as Carlus, with a few modifications: younger, different coloring, different name, different nose.”

“Then I’m going to stay this way, as Darlene,” she replied, blushing. “If you’re sure you don’t want this body back.”

“Oh, I want that body,” he said with a grin, “In fact, I’ve been hoping that at some point you’d tell me to go fuck myself, because that’s what I want to do. If you know what I mean.”

“Oh, my God! That must be the worst come-on in the history of the universe!” she laughed, and fell back on the bed, spread-eagled. “Then what are you waiting for?”