An apparently random group of men is abducted by aliens.
They’re angry, afraid, confused.
If only they’d been BCTS readers! They’d have had a better chance of knowing what to expect.
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
“Where are the three men named James?” I demanded.
“Oh, yes — the ‘James Gang,’ as you call them. Isn’t that right?” Evander gave his half-smile of amusement. “They’re in trig.”
“In trig?” I repeated, not understanding.
“No, no,” corrected Rufus. “Not trig — ‘trig’ is short for trigonometry.”
“Ah!” Evander acknowledged. “Of course! Trigonometry is when a man has three wives.”
“I hope you’re joking,” Rufus replied, “because nothing could be further from the truth.”
While they traded jokes and misunderstandings, I tried to work out Evander’s real meaning. In trig? Intrigue? In— Then it hit me.
“The brig? Are they in the brig?”
“If ‘brig’ means confinement, then yes, they are in the brig.”
“Why!?” I was frustrated both by the language barrier and by his offhanded coolness.
“They tried to escape!” Evander exclaimed, as if it were obvious. “They tried to escape — from a spaceship, of all things!”
“Can you blame them?” I demanded. “We’ve been kidnapped — you’ve kidnapped the lot of us! It’s natural to try to strike back, to escape, to take control!”
“Escape?” Evander scoffed. “Where exactly would they go? We’re already near the limit of your solar system—”
“Too far to walk home,” Rufus quipped, “even if you knew the way.”
“And as to ‘taking control’ — In a day or two I’ll give you a tour of the bridge and the engine room — the entire ship, if you like! You and any of the others who care to come. Then you can judge for yourselves whether you’d be able to ‘take control.’ Trust me, our technology is far too far beyond you. You wouldn’t know where to begin.”
I gestured mutely, and managed to mumble, “But we have to try.”
Evander smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. “Yes, my dear Paul, you have to try. Believe me, we appreciate your trying. It shows your energy, your dedication, your spirit. We certainly appreciate spirit, don’t we Rufus?”
“Yes, sir, as you say.”
I huffed, deflated. “Can you at least tell us why we’ve been abducted? Whatever our fate, I think we deserve to know! Do you mean to put us in a zoo, or use us in experiments of some sort? Will we ever be allowed go home?”
Evander held up his finger, signalling me to wait. Then he conferred with Rufus for a moment. Clearly, he was puzzled by some of the words I used. Once Rufus explained what I’d said, Evander turned to me. In a kind, somewhat condescending, voice he assured me, “No, no. No zoo, no experiments: neither... none? of those things. Nothing like that. Nothing bad. Nothing disagreeable. Don’t worry. It’s something good, something new, something to be proud of. And I — all — will be — will have to have be — been?.” He frowned, frustrated, having lost his way in the grammar of his last phrase. He turned to Rufus and spoke briefly in their own language. Rufus translated for me: “Everything will be explained tomorrow.” Then he winked. Which irritated the hell out of me.
Evander smiled. “Now, please, Paul, rejoin the others, will you? Your James Gang will be free once they are calm. At the moment, however, we are quite busy. We need to get to—”
“Free space,” Rufus offered, and Evander nodded.
“Until we reach this... free space, our close attention is required, and in the meantime — until tomorrow — I will thank you for your cooperation and patience.”
“Well said,” Rufus complimented.
A guard walked me back to the common room, where the other abductees were waiting. The lock automatically clicked behind me as the door closed. I looked around at the expectant faces of my fellows.
Like all the others, I was dressed in steel-gray cotton drawstring pants and a matching short-sleeved shirt. They resembled hospital scrubs. We were all barefoot, which was mildly distressing. The floor resembled smooth slate. It was actually quite pleasant to walk on. Still, being barefoot was a sign of our captivity.
“Is the James Gang still alive?” Sam demanded.
“According to Evander, they’re in the brig. They tried to escape.”
“And how do we know that’s true? How do we know they’re still alive? Did you see them? No? Maybe they’ve the first guinea pigs.”
“He says the Jameses will be released as soon as they calm down.” There were a few disbelieving grunts from then men, and then — trying to pre-empt the next questions, I said, “He told me that everything will be explained tomorrow.”
“So we’ll know which death we’re going to die?”
“He said it’s nothing like that. His exact words were Nothing bad. Nothing disagreeable. Don’t worry. It’s something good, something new, something to be proud of.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrugged. “That’s all I know. Hopefully ‘tomorrow’ means right after breakfast.”
After I’d repeated my conversation with Evander several times and replied to every question the men could ask, when it was finally and indisputably clear that I had no further information, the others broke off and returned to their previous activities. A handful made their way back to the gym. The bridge foursome took their cards in hand. Another handful wandered to the cafeteria so they could watch the next meal automatically appear. The rest had books to read, people to converse with, or — like me, nothing at all to do but stare into space or wander listlessly.
I was exhausted from the tension, from the conversation with Evander and Rufus, with the grilling from my fellow captives, so I retreated to my cell. Each cell was small, containing only a bunk and a flat area we could use as a chair or bedside table. I sat on my bunk and stared at the floor. It wasn’t easy, this situation. The fact that Evander chose me as a spokesperson, as a go-between, helped somewhat. It gave me something to do. It gave me an outlet for my questions, even if Evander usually wasn’t forthcoming. At the same time, it made me the target of the other prisoners’ stress and uncertainty.
For all of us, though, tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. We needed answers. No matter how calm some of us seemed, we were climbing the walls, internally. If we didn’t get answers soon, someone was going to snap.
Already Allen, whose cell was two left of mine, spent most of his time curled in a ball on his bunk. He still got up for meals, but it seemed a tenuous connection to life.
Three men, who all happened to have the first name “James” had banded together to actively resist. We noticed they were gone this morning, and if Evander was to be believed, they’d somehow gotten out of our prison. Now they were in the brig. Out of one prison into another. Out of prison, into jail.
All of us as a group had already compared notes. In the first three hours after waking onboard the ship we talked, asked questions, looked for answers, hunted for commonalities. We knew everything we could possibly find out on our own. We were thirty men with nothing in common save being young, healthy, and single. The last thing each of us remembered was going to bed the previous night. None of us were known to each other. None of us lived in the same city. We were each from a different state in the United States. We had various political and religious affiliations. We had a variety of skin colors and ethnic backgrounds. None of us had performed any military service. None of us had a police record. None of us had any enemies to speak of. As far as we knew, none of us had any previous alien contact.
Another thing the thirty of us had in common is that we didn’t have anyone to miss us — not really. I mean, the majority of us had jobs, so there was someone who’d at least be angry when we didn’t show up. None of us had living parents or siblings.
None of us had girlfriends, wives, or children — for various reasons. Most of us gave terse explanations for our meager social lives. Everyone had difficulty discussing their intimate life. It made all of us uncomfortable, so we left it.
I don’t know why, but something about the way we abandoned the topic gave me the impression that all thirty of us were virgins, like me.
It seemed like it might be a significant fact, if it were true. And yet, what would it explain? I didn’t have a reason to pursue it.
In the end, there were only two big questions: the first was What do they want with us? Why did they take us? but the more intriguing question — at least for me — was How did they choose us? What criteria did they have? Was it hard for them to find us?
It made some sense that we came from all over — if the aliens were trying to avoid attention. If they’d abducted thirty men from one place, even a big city like New York or Los Angeles, it would make a splash; people would notice. But one man from Wichita, another from New Orleans, a third from Little Rock... no one would have any reason to connect our disappearances.
Somebody might miss us, but only a small, local level. There might be an investigation, but absent any evidence of foul play, in the end they’d figure that each of us just wandered off without saying goodbye.
“Lunch is here!” Came the call from the cafeteria. We trooped in, some faster than others. The menus so far were focused on comfort food, so no one was surprised to find hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, and fries. There was, like every noon and evening so far, wine, beer, coffee, and tea to drink.
Interestingly, I noticed that none of us tended to overdo: although there was no apparent limit on the wine and beer, no one drank more than one or two glasses. And nobody loaded their plates with carbs. We were all slim, trim men — with what you might call a runner’s body. Maybe that meant something, too, to the aliens, although how or why they’d select on that basis was beyond me.
Among the normal fast-food selections, today there was an odd addition: next to the salad (which most of us avoided) there was another vegetable. It was leafy, like lettuce, satiny to the touch, green like limes, and came in the form of balls, a little larger than golf balls. Imagine if someone took a head of soft Boston lettuce, shrank it to golf-ball size, and colored it kelly green for St. Patrick’s Day. A few of us touched it, surprised by the velvety feel, but generally it was greeted with What the hell is that?
None of us ate it, not even a taste. Nobody even put it on their plate.
The hamburgers, though, got rave reviews:
“Best I ever tasted!”
“Juicy as hell!”
“You gotta hand it to these spacemen: they know their way around a grill!”
The hot dogs and veggie burgers got similar raves.
The afternoon went pretty quickly. Everyone’s mood was visibly improved. Even Allen — who usually curled up in a ball on his bunk — remained in the common room with the rest of us. He was quiet, sure, but at least he was standing up, walking, talking, and even smiling a little.
Harvey pulled me aside and in a confidential tone asked, “Do you think they dosed us with something? Maybe… maybe put something in the hamburgers?”
“It’s possible,” I said, “but if they did, I gotta say, I like it. I feel better than I have in a long time.”
“Yeah,” Harvey agreed. “Me too. And will you get a load of Allen — he’s come out of his shell.” He glanced around the room, his jaw working as if he were chewing tobacco. “I’ll admit: I feel pretty fucking fantastic. Not high — just healthy. But I don’t like people fucking with me.”
I promised to ask Evander if I got a chance to talk with him before the big explanation tomorrow. Harvey nodded, gave me a comradely punch in the arm, and walked away, nodding to himself.
That evening at dinner there was no sign of the strange green vegetable. The meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans all tasted pretty standard. They weren’t as remarkable as the burgers from lunch. If we’d been dosed at lunch, they didn’t repeat it at dinner.
Breakfast was pretty standard as well. It resembled the spread you’d find in most hotels: fruit juices, coffee, tea, various types of toasts and rolls, fruit salad, scrambled eggs, omelets, bacon, and sausage (both link and patty).
“No cereal and milk, though,” Allen observed. “I guess they draw the line there.”
“I don’t miss it,” Harvey said. “As long as there’s bacon, I can’t complain.”
The little conversation exchange between the two men gave me pause. It was uncharacteristic of both: introverted, curled-in-a-ball Allen and suspicious, I-don’t-like-people-fucking-wth-me Harvey. They were the last people I’d expect to relax, to act and talk as if everything was normal.
I was calm, too, maybe a little calmer than yesterday, but I tend to be calm. Evander told me that’s why I was chosen as the go-between: my tension and stress levels were consistently lowest of our group. It was metabolic, or genetic, or the way I was raised — who knows? So I was calm, but that was nothing new.
I expected the others to be agitated, grumbling, even growling. Today was the day we’d (hopefully!) get some answers. Rather than placid, even tempers, I figured we’d be riled up with anticipation. Generally speaking.
Once everyone finished eating, Evander and Rufus walked into the cafeteria.
“Greetings, everyone,” Evander began. He rubbed his hands and looked around the room. “Today, I’ll deliver the explanation you’ve been waiting for. As I say, first I will explain, and then try to answer any and all questions you might have.
“If you’d like to get some more food or drink, please help yourselves.” He gestured to the buffet. “I apologize for not having spoken with you sooner, but one of the vagaries of interstellar flight is that — for all its vast emptiness, some areas of space are quite difficult to negotiate. Sometimes the problem is political; other times astrophysical. In any case, until now, all of our attention was required. At last we are in free space and have quite a bit more latitude.”
He paused and squeezed his hands, one in the other.
“This topic is difficult for me to speak of, because it deals with personal loss, and not only my loss, but that of every member of the crew. Even so, I will do my best to put things plainly and directly. My planet — our planet — my people — we are in danger of extinction. Within a single generation. If nothing is done, the last of us will die within what you call our lifetimes. My lifetime, Rufus’ lifetime, and then no more.
“Our planet, our people, were attacked — overwhelmed — by a nonhuman race called the Dumbols — I realize how silly and foolish that name sounds to you, but believe me, they are nothing to laugh at. They are pitiless. They are literally cold-blooded, and there is no limit to their capacity for subterfuge, for cruelty, for sadistic…” (He waited for a word, but it didn’t come.) “The Dumbols are evil. Pure evil. They are unkind without reason, and violent without provocation. We did nothing to provoke or incite their assault on us. In fact, we knew nothing of their existence until they began killing our —” here he broke off, the words caught in his throat. He turned and managed to croak an single alien word to Rufus, who nodded, cleared his throat and picked up the explanation, “Their first victims were our people who happened to be offworld. Then the Dumbols attacked our ships. Their clear intent was to eliminate our capability for space flight.”
“Yes, exactly,” Evander cut in, picking up the thread again. “Once they believed they’d succeeded in eliminating our ability to traverse space, they released a toxin in our atmosphere that rendered us incapable of producing children.
“And for that reason, we have abducted you. We abducted you because we need your help. We want you to save our race, our world. We want to bring you home to breed.”
“To breed?” Harvey repeated. “For how long?”
“For the rest of your lives, hopefully. We want you to produce as many children as you can.”
Harvey and I spoke in the same moment. With a mixture of disbelief and pleasure, he smilingly said, “You took us so we can fuck all day long?” While I asked, “And you think thirty of us is enough?”
“To answer both questions in turn,” Evander said, “Yes, we want you to engage in sex all day long, if you’re physically able to do so. And yes, there are only thirty of you. This ship is only capable of carrying sixty people: thirty crew, thirty of you. We are working on rebuilding our fleet, but we must do so in secret.
“Thirty is a beginning. Thirty means we have hope. Just think: there is a legend on your own world that you all humans were born from a single, primal pair. In terms of actual fact, the population of Earth was once as low as three thousand people, yet now you are more than seven billion.
“Rebuilding takes time.”
I was overflowing with questions. “Will you be abducting more people from earth?”
“Yes,” Evander replied. “We believe we can abduct as many as half a million men without being noticed.”
A very animated discussion followed. I half-listened, but didn’t take part. Other questions were more important to me. Once the discussion flagged, I asked, “What makes you think we won’t succumb to the same sterilizing agent?”
Evander’s eyes lit up. “A very good question! An excellent question!
“To the naked eye, there is no physical difference between us — between you humans and us. We are surprisingly close, very close, in terms of biological type. To use your own taxonomy — is that the correct word, Rufus? — I hope taxonomy is not the study of taxes?”
Rufus laughed. “It is NOT the study of taxes. You have the correct word. ‘Taxonomy’ is the science of classification.”
“Classification!” Evander repeated. “Exactly! Now, in your own terms, in the terms of an Earth biologist, we are all — everyone on this ship — in the same genus. We are all of the genus homo, which means ‘man’. However, we are a different species. You Earthmen are homo sapiens, the ‘wise man’ or maybe the man who understands. We, on the other hand — I don’t know what you would call us. We don’t have this hierarchy of biological types in our language. I suppose you might call us homo alienus or some such thing. Perhaps homo peregrinus?
“The point is, our scientists have determined that your species is immune to the sterilizing toxin. They have also determined that the toxin — having done its fatal work — is no longer present in our environment. Although it’s very potent, it has a quite abbreviated half-life.”
Allen raised his hand. “What if the dumbbells return?”
“The Dumbols,” Evander gently corrected. “At present, they have no reason to return. Their stratagem is generational. It’s likely they could return in thirty years or so. Perhaps even twenty years — who knows? — but it’s doubtful they’ll return earlier than that. They believe us to be trapped and unable to reproduce. Perhaps they will forget about us entirely. Perhaps they’ll pass by, decades from now, just to see if any of us remain.
“Whenever they return, we will be ready. At present, we are playing possum. Our population is not growing, and — even with your help — our population will shrink. No matter how quickly you produce offspring — you and potentially half a million others — it will be a long time before we return to normal population levels. For these reasons, If the Dumbols return, they will only see what they expect to see.
“Our ships are being constructed off-world. Also, we had the luck to discover a Dumbol scrapyard and managed to salvage three of their minimally damaged vessels. Our scientists and engineers are hard at work, reverse-engineering their technology, their weapons and defenses. Our techno-military-industrial complex is already at a high degree of fruitful activity.
“The first phase of our long-term plan is to appear harmless. The second phase is to prepare an effective defense, and only then, the third phase: to launch a devastating, irresistible, decisive attack.”
This was followed by a moment of silence. We were all impressed with the weight of his words.
Then Evander spoke again. “I hope you will understand the gravity of what we are trying to do, and the essential part that each of you will play. You thirty are critical to our future. You will take your place among our legendary heroes. You will rescue us from extinction, from a reproductive dead end. We, as a people, will be immensely grateful.”
The awed, respectful mood was broken by Anselm, a kind of bookish geek, who asked, “How did you choose us? Did you somehow analyze our DNA to determine our suitability?”
Evander conferred for a few moments with Rufus, as he always did in times of linguistic uncertainty. He repeated “DNA” to Rufus, who replied with one of their terms and a bit of explanation. The light of understanding broke on Evander’s face. He exclaimed, “Oh!” and gave a short laugh.
“Yes, your DNA. Your precious DNA. No, we did not analyze your DNA. You may keep your DNA for yourselves. It was not part of any consideration whatsoever. You were chosen for what we can call superficial characteristics: your physical build, your medical history, the fact that you have all your teeth and hair and inner organs. Such things as that.”
“But all of those things are determined by DNA, aren’t they?” Anselm demanded, unwilling to concede the point.
“I don’t know,” Evander replied. “Are they? In any case, you people, with this DNA, you are at the hammer phase. You know? When your only tool is a hammer, every question is a nail. Is that it?”
“Close enough,” Rufus said.
“One of the clear lessons of history is that when you attempt to engineer your offspring, you end up cultivating cruelty and creating monsters.”
Anselm, sulking, demanded, “Your history or ours?”
“Both,” Evander replied. Then, after a glance at the clock, he observed. “In a half hour it will be lunch time. I would like to stop here, since I have other duties that require my attention. If you like, we can resume tomorrow after breakfast. I’m sure other questions will occur to you.”
We all began to get up — mostly animated by the need to use the restroom — when Harvey was struck by a thought. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “One more question: did you put something into our lunch yesterday? Some kind of mood-altering drug?”
“Oh,” Evander said, as if he’d forgotten. He seemed torn. “That is an important question, one that needs answering, but I—” he turned to Rufus, who nodded and said, “I can answer it.”
Visibly relieved, Evander left the area.
“First, why don’t we take a little break,” Rufus proposed. “Just ten minutes, and then we’ll really get into it. This topic goes well beyond a simple yes or no.”
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
In spite of our curiosity, the ten-minute break stretched to twenty minutes. Our common bathroom was large, but not large enough to accommodate all of us at once.
In any case, after the break, we joined Rufus in the cafeteria. I was the first one back, so I quickly asked something I’d been wondering from the start: “Rufus, how is it that your English is so good? You sound like you’re from Earth, not — not some other planet.”
“I’m glad you think so!” he said with a grin. “I’ve been living on earth for the past fifteen years, in a role we call ‘deep study’. I’ve been an Earth boy since the first year of high school. It could have been a lot more fun that it was, but at home, I had to take extra courses about my own planet and culture.” He rolled his eyes. “As you might imagine, it really cut into my extracurricular activities. I never had a girlfriend, never went to dances — never took a girl to the prom. I never learned to drive!” He shrugged. “Oh well. I liked living on Earth, though. I liked it a lot. I learned a lot, even beyond the languages I was tasked with learning.”
I was about to ask some more questions — questions about the sterility toxin, when the rest of my cohort shuffled in.
Rufus sat on a table and looked around to make sure everyone was paying attention. “Okay, so: the question was — did we put something into your lunches yesterday? And the short answer is yes. Yes, we did. We felt it was necessary, and I’m going to explain why. I’m also here to reassure you that we will never do it again.”
“If you’re never going to do it again, you never should have done it in the first place!” Harvey declared. “I mean, you’re only stopping because we caught you, because we realized that you did it.”
“No, you’re wrong there,” Rufus countered. He opened a little box and took out one of the little kelly-green lettuce balls from it. He held it up so we all could see it. He sniffed at it, and placed the ball on top of the box. “It was never our intention to leave you men alone for so long. We hoped that on the very first day we would have been able to explain everything, including this strange little herb. That was the plan.
“Unfortunately, it was far more difficult to reach free space that we anticipated. We told you about The Dumbols, who, we believe, will eventually be our common enemy. We believe that they want to annihilate human life. We’re sure they want to monopolize space travel. They aim to prevent everyone — including the people of Earth — from having access to interplanetary and interstellar flight.
“We’ve already told you that one of their tactics is to destroy spaceships. They believe they’ve knocked out all of ours. Another of their tactics is to create conditions unfavorable to navigation for anyone but themselves. It’s difficult to explain how they’re doing this. In fact, it’s difficult for us to understand many of the things they’ve done. There is no Dumbol presence in your solar system, and yet, even here, even in this part of the universe, navigation, which ought to be mainly automatic, has become fraught with obstacles, and the first part of our journey away from Earth was more complicated than expected. We had to thread our way through what you could think of as a mine field, and at the same time not reveal our presence. Luckily, it was not an entirely manual process, but it was an intense, relentless effort.
“For that reason, you men found yourselves here, alone, abandoned to your own devices. The escape attempt by your James Gang made us realize that your circumstances were rapidly deteriorating. Clearly, you were on the threshold of a crisis. So we toasted some of this herb, ground it up, and added it to your hamburgers and veggie burgers. We also sprinkled some on the hot dogs — I don’t know how well that worked, but we gave it a try.
“Now that we’re in free space, now that we’re talking, we won’t need to do that again.”
“So what’s that herb do? Is it like weed?”
“Weed? You mean marijuana? No. It doesn’t have any properties that directly affect your mood or your, uh, your neurochemistry. It doesn’t alter your thoughts or your… um… anxieties. What it is, is a general rejuvenator. If you were older, like in your fifties or sixties, it would make you feel ten years younger. No — I mean, not feel. Well, of course, you’d feel it, but the effect would be real: it would give you the physiology of a person ten years younger. Or more. Since all of you are already young, it makes you feel like you just got back from a good vacation. Something like that.”
“So it affects your moods.”
“Yes and no. What I mean is, the effect is indirect. The herb improves your overall well-being. Not how you feel, but how you are. If you were sick, for instance, it would help you get better.”
“Do you guys eat it?”
“No, we don’t. It has no effect on homo alienus, if we’re going to call ourselves that. As far as we know, it specifically affects homo sapiens, and no other species. So there is that. We have other reasons for not consuming it as well. For you, the herb is pleasant and tasty. For us, it’s intensely bitter and kind of nauseating. In fact, just thinking about the taste makes me a little ill. Also, it’s difficult and costly to get. In English, it would be called Faraway. We call it that because — as far as we know — it only grows on one planet, and that planet is—” He spread his hands and smiled, waiting for one of us to supply the last word.
“Far away?” Allen ventured.
“Bingo,” Rufus said, and tapped his nose with his forefinger.
We were interrupted by the sound of two loud dings. Rufus looked up, displeased by the interruption. The two dings were repeated.
“That’s for me,” he told us, apologetically. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to cut this short. We can pick up again tomorrow.” He popped the little Faraway ball back in its box and tucked the box under his arm. He gave us all a smile and a wave. He looked at me and winked, and the he left the room.
If it was all stage-managed, it was all done to perfection. The moment Rufus picked up his sample box and turned toward the door, the cafeteria wall opened and our lunch buffet appeared. If it weren’t for that distraction, I would have run with Rufus to the door and slipped in another question or two, but with everyone on their feet and in the way, all I could do was watch the man walk away.
Today’s lunch was a variety of sandwiches. There were also pickles, hot peppers, potato salad, green salad, and single-serving bags of potato chips, pop corn, and corn chips. For the first time, there were sodas among the drinks. The layout and selection was greeted with loud, appreciative noises — which very effectively covered the sound of me, calling Rufus’ name.
AND… the little green balls of Faraway were there, next to the green salad. A single silver tray was heaped high with the soft alien vegetable. Harvey took one. Allen did as well. On a 1-2-3 they popped them into their mouths at the same time, and after chewing them up and swallowing, both men went back for more. Exactly three more.
“Why three?” I asked.
Harvey shrugged. “Seems like the right number. I’ve gotta tell you, man. This shit’s the bomb!” Allen nodded enthusiastically.
After that recommendation, the others went, by ones and twos and threes, to try first one, then three more Faraways. Still dubious, I went last, but after eating one, I couldn’t help but eat three more, and that did it. We’d all had four, and now the tray was empty. “I guess four Faraways is one serving,” Harvey observed.
There were no Faraways with dinner or breakfast, but none of us missed them. By lunch time the next day, though, there was a clear general hankering. “You think they’ll have those Faraways again?” Allen asked in a loud voice, to no one in particular. A chorus of “Hope so!” and “Better be!” and “Uh HUH!” came in response.
Once again, the silver tray of Faraways was there, and once again — in spite of the desire and anticipation — each man, myself included, took exactly four (and no more) of the leafy green balls.
After the Faraways were consumed, we ate our regular lunch. “Hey,” I called out over coffee, “Is anyone worried that we might get addicted to those Faraways?”
“No,” Harvey said. “I can take ‘me or leave ‘em. If you put out a plate of them right now, I wouldn’t touch it.”
Anselm pointed out that no one ate more than four. “Nobody’s asked for more than was given.”
“All things in moderation,” Allen pronounced, and after that platitude — which struck me as idiotic and irrelevant — I let the subject drop.
It wasn’t until that evening that I realized neither Evander nor Rufus had returned to talk with us. When I pointed this out to Harvey, he replied, “They both said they’d be back tomorrow.”
“Yes, but today is tomorrow.”
Harvey considered this for a moment, then said, “Yeah, you’re right.” He gave it a little more thought and quipped, “Well, it’ll be tomorrow then!” and laughing, he gave my shoulder a friendly slap.
The James Gang was back among us — the three men named James — and they were sitting around a table together. They had a conspiratorial look that seemed promising. If anyone had doubts about what was going on, it would have to be them. I saw the middle James gesture at me with his chin, and the other two nodded.
As I got closer, I saw that the leftmost James had a deck of playing cards in each hand. “Hey, Paul,” he said in a soft voice, “You ever play pinochle?”
“Pinochle?” I repeated, confused. I came expecting talk of escape, doubts about our captors’ motives, observations about the weird herb and its highly selective effects. Instead I got pinochle? “What — I — do you mean the card game? No. I’ve never played.” I shook my head. "I've barely even heard the game mentioned."
Their faces fell, clearly disappointed.
“Do you want to learn?” the card-bearing James asked.
“No, sorry,” I said. “I came over to see if you guys were still trying to get out of here.”
“Naw,” their spokesperson said. “There’s no point. Nowhere to go. It is a kind of jail, it’s true. Still, we get three hots and a cot, and the promise of cootch we can handle at the end of the rainbow. I was suspicious at first, but now I tend to believe it. I mean — imagine! These guys got neutered, right? So what do they do? They can't go ask the fella next door, so they come all the way, clear across the universe. They pick us up, and very politely ask us, please, will you fuck our women? All day long, if it wouldn’t be inconvenient. Now, I call that civilized. What about you?”
The other two Jameses snickered. I frowned.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It just doesn’t add up for me.”
“Hmmph,” the main James replied. “I’d hate to tell someone not to trust their own instincts, but it seems that as far as dilemmas go, yours isn’t quite there yet. It’s not fully formed. It's not even half-baked, yet.”
“I guess,” I replied, putting my hands in my hair. “I don’t— I just—”
“You know what might help? Learning something new. Turn your focus away from the problem, so that, when you come back to it, when you look at it again, you’ll find more clarity.” He riffled the cards and bounced his eyebrows suggestively.
“Okay,” I conceded, and sat down with a heavy sigh. “Exactly how complicated is this game?”
An entire week went by. An entire week without any sign of Evander or Rufus or any of the crew. Our meals continued to automatically appear. Each lunchtime would feature the little balls of Faraway. Each of us would eat four and only four.
I tried to resist. I tried to not take any. I tried to eat just one. I tried to eat just two. I tried to eat just three. But in the end, I found myself popping four in my mouth, one after the other, chewing them up, and swallowing. Then I’d resolve that tomorrow I wouldn’t eat a single Faraway. All I had to do was resist until the lunch buffet was closed. One hour. I could do it. Tomorrow I’d do it, as if somehow tomorrow would be easier.
I was clearly alone in my efforts. As far as I could tell, no one else resisted picking up the little green balls. No one else talked about dependency or our inability to resist the bizarre little treat.
Which made perfect sense: if no one else resisted, they wouldn’t feel the need, the dependency, the addiction.
Admittedly, it was a singular addiction: it only played its siren song once a day, and it took very little to quiet the desire.
A new week started. Eight, nine, ten days of eating Faraway. Soon, it was the fourteenth day. By now, we’d each consumed 56 balls. Then came the fifteenth day, bringing us to a total of 60 Faraways each.
The day after, the sixteenth day, was different. I don’t know how to describe it except to say that when I woke up, I felt truly AWAKE. I was fresh, alert, lively. Sure, I’d been feeling pretty darn good since we started consuming Faraway, but today it was as if I’d been asleep my whole life, and only now opened my eyes.
All the others felt the same, as though scales had fallen from their eyes, or a fog had cleared away. We all shared a new mental and physical clarity that we didn’t have before.
I’ll give you one weird detail as an example: I’d been struggling to learn the rules and strategy of pinochle. The game seemed to have several unrelated sets of rules. I struggled to keep them straight. None of them were more important than the others, but none of them mattered all the time. At least, that was my impression. It was frustrating. The James Gang was very patient, but I was keenly aware that my playing slowed down their game and kept breaking their momentum.
Suddenly now, with my new-found clarity, in a single moment, the whole thing became crystal clear to me, in a startling gestalt : I saw the light, I got it, I grokked the game of pinochle. Now, with no effort whatsoever, I could visualize the entire double deck of cards in my head. Not only that! I was now able to remember all the games we’d played, and see what I could and should have done and why. I’d never been even remotely capable of such a mental feat before.
I was just about to call the Jameses for a game, when Evander and Rufus entered the common room. Rufus passed out name tags and asked us to put them on.
While Rufus did that, Evander made an announcement: “Today we’re entering a new phase in preparing you to live among us. Each of you will be assigned a crew member who will work closely with you to acquaint you with our ways. Hopefully you’ll also learn about our culture, our history, and our language, but you must learn what’s expected of you in social — AND, as you may have imagined — in intimate settings as well.”
This was greeted by appreciative ribald noises, along the lines of Oh-ho-ho!, You know it, boy!, and ooh-la-la! Evander smiled and let the noise take its course. When the men fell quiet again, he continued. “Most of our crew don’t know your language at all. None of us speak it as well as Rufus, but by the same token I should point out that none of you have the smallest acquaintance with our language! However, you are all men of the world — or can we say ‘men of the universe,’ so I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that when a man and woman are naked together, words are often—” he said a foreign word to Rufus, who supplied the English word, “superfluous.”
“Yes, words are superfluous in the heat and passion of those moments. Am I right? In that moment, there is only the act itself.”
There was a general chorus of grunts of assent and coarse laughter among us. But once again I had the uneasy feeling that something wasn’t right. They weren’t exactly lying, but there was something they weren’t telling us. One and one weren’t making two. They were adding up to something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on.
Evander smiled, and took a moment to look into each of our faces, to be sure we were all paying attention. “This afternoon, between lunch and dinner, the members of our crew will come here in groups of five or six, and walk among you. Please keep your name tags on and plainly visible. Each one of you will be partnered with a member of the crew, and this is the first step toward giving you success in your new roles on our planet.”
He nodded to Rufus, who took the floor and said, “Okay, it’s just a few minutes before lunch. I want to teach you all a phrase in our language. This is your first lesson, so I’ll go easy on you! — It’s just one phrase, four syllables, but it’s perfect for what’s about to happen. This way, when one of our crew speaks to you, you’ll have an appropriate reply. Okay? We’ll have more formal, organized lessons later on, but for now, let’s hear you say this short, little phrase: recar em bo. Do you have it? Let’s hear it a few times. Good! You can practice during lunch. Remember, it’s a useful phrase; a reply when a crew member speaks to you. Okay?”
“What does it mean?” I asked.
At that exact moment, we heard the sound of the lunch buffet sliding into view. The rest of my cohort stood noisily to their feet, and Rufus and Evander were gone.
“Hey, recar em bo, shithead!” Harvey called to me, laughing. “Recar em bo, your grandmother.”
“Go recar em bo yourself, and be quick about it,” Allen joked.
I sighed.
No one seemed to notice that there were no Faraway today. When I mentioned it, I received only shrugs in reply.
“Yeah, I don’t miss it,” Harvey said.
Anselm added, “I lost my taste for it. Honestly, if it were here, I wouldn’t touch it.”
Others expressed similar sentiments. I felt the same way myself.
While we were eating, five crew members, all wearing uniforms similar to the one Rufus wore, entered the room. They wandered around, looking at us, watching us eat. They made comments to each other.
One of them approached Harvey, and pointing to his name tag, said, “Har-WEU. HAH-ruev?”
“Harvey,” he corrected. The crew member nodded and said something else. Harvey smiled and responded, “Recar em bo, cowboy!” The crew member laughed, clapped Harvey on the back, and left.
“I like that guy,” Harvey said. “I hope he’s my tutor or whatever you call it. Seems like a straight shooter.”
I blinked in surprise. From my point of view, Harvey was reading an awful lot of character analysis into a very brief exchange, but I shrugged and didn’t say anything.
Another crew member approached Anselm, and pointing to his name tag, ventured, “Antz lem? Han slim?” Anselm scratched his nose, and blushing, gave the correct pronunciation. As with Harvey, the crew member said some phrase in his own language, to which Anselm replied, “Recar em bo, I’m sure.” The crew member nodded as if this were the correct answer, and he too left. Anselm continued blushing, red as a beet, for a long time afterward, but no one said a word about his reaction.
The process continued throughout the afternoon, following the same pattern in each case.
Since the crew members arrived in groups of five and six, it was easy to tell how far along the assignments were progressing. As we got closer to dinner time, virtually everyone had been paired with an alien. I asked around, and as it turned out, only Allen and I remained to be assigned.
Finally, just fifteen minutes before dinner, Evander arrived. It sounds silly to admit it, but I’d been feeling left out, like the last kid chosen for a team in gym class. I didn’t realize how much tension and stress I was laboring under until Evander entered our space. In that moment, seeing him, especially when he smiled and nodded at me, I relaxed — and wow! The tension drained from my shoulders and neck.
My relief was short-lived. Evander walked directly to me, but it was only to ask where he could find Allen, who, as it happens, was sitting in the cafeteria. They had a brief conversation, ending in Allen’s recar em bo. With that, Evander left. Disappointed, I went to my cell and lay down on my cot. I felt disappointed and neglected, and to make matters worse, I felt stupid and inadequate for feeling disappointed and neglected.
Had I lost all sense of proportion? Here I was, abducted by aliens, knowing I’d never return home, sailing to a more-or-less unknown fate, and my one concern was not having been chosen by a tutor? What kind of idiot was I? Was I always this weak and silly, or did my time in confinement change me? I let out a deep sigh of disappointment.
Six or seven minutes passed, but it seemed far longer. I lay on my back with my hand over my eyes. Part of me felt sorry for myself. Another part was angry at my self-pity. A third part was disgusted with my weakness. What had become of me? What would become of me?
A gentle knocking brought me out of my funk. It was Rufus, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. I moved to get up, but he quickly said, “Don’t get up, it’s fine. Stay there.” He came to my bedside and asked, “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Of course,” I stammered, and shifted over a little to make room. He perched on the edge of my bed and looked down at me, smiling a warm smile.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, but Evander and I had some urgent duties.” He said. His eyes flitted to my name tag, and he said my name: “Paul.” I wondered in that moment whether I’d ever heard him say the word before. I blinked and looked up at him. After a slight pause, he looked in my eyes and said a phrase in his own language. Then he waited for me to respond.
I lay there, looking up at him, wondering what on Earth was going on.
Looking a little disappointed, and maybe a bit bemused, he asked in a gentle voice, “Did you forget your first language lesson, Paul?” and he repeated the foreign phrase.
“Um, recar em bo, I guess.” I responded, and he grinned. I found myself blushing for no reason.
“Exactly!” he softly exclaimed. “Well done!”
“So... what did we just say to each other?” I asked.
“Mmm,” he replied nodding. “It’s a formal uh — you could say a ritual exchange. We’ll start with organized language lessons tomorrow, and you’ll see — the more you learn, the more you’ll understand.”
Clearly, he wasn’t going to tell me — at least not today. So I asked a different question. “Rufus, what’s happening to me — to us?”
“Do you mean us you and me, or us you guys from Earth.”
I shook my head. “Either. Both.” As he opened his mouth to answer, I preempted: “And don’t tell me that you’ll explain everything tomorrow. Just tell me now.”
He laughed, gently and lightly. Then I heard Allen call from the cafeteria that dinner had arrived. Rufus glanced at me. “Do you want to go, or—”
“No, I want an answer,” I said. “The food can wait. Or I can skip it. I want to understand.”
“Okay,” Rufus agreed. “There are two things you need to know: one is about the Faraway herb, and the other is a misunderstanding. I’m not sure which one to explain first.” He thought for a moment, then spoke.
“Faraway is a very potent herb. As you know, it has no effect on my species. In fact, as far as we know, it only affects *your* species, the homo sapiens. It introduces strong changes in a person’s physiology. For example, if one of you was suffering from a devastating disease, say the worst form of cancer, with extensive metastasis, organ failure — the worst possible picture — Faraway would restore that person to perfect health and take years off their life as well. It’s powerful and dramatic.”
“Faraway is a cure-all then?”
“Yes and no. We’ve studied the effects of Faraway on homo sapiens pretty extensively — for generations, actually. One of its most interesting characteristics is that you can only take it once in your life. So, if it cured you of one serious illness, and you contracted a second, you’d be out of luck.”
“No, that’s not true!” I objected. “I took it — we all took it — over and over again, for fifteen days!”
“Right,” Rufus agreed. “That was your one time. If you left any person from Earth alone with an unlimited amount of Faraway, they would only ever eat four balls a day for fifteen successive days. If they don’t get the full dose for some reason, they don’t get the full effect, but after that initial fifteen-day window closes, they’ll never touch the stuff again. If they’re forced to, they just throw up. They can’t keep it down.”
“Weird,” I commented. “But why did you give it to us? Why didn’t you save it, in case we got desperately ill?”
“Well… that’s the interesting part. When a healthy person takes Faraway, it has a quite different effect, and the particular effect depends on your gender. If a healthy woman or girl were to take Faraway, it would bring her to peak condition, to the highest state of health and well being.”
“And for a man? It must be a similar effect.”
“Well, yes and no,” Rufus replied, his eyes twinkling. “Hey, are you sure you don’t want to join your friends for dinner? We can pick this up again tomorrow.”
“No,” I insisted. “No ‘tomorrow’. I want to understand now.”
“Okay,” he agreed, nodding. “You’d eventually find out on your own anyway.
“I mentioned there was a misunderstanding. It’s important for me to state that we didn’t intentionally deceive you. That wasn’t our initial plan. However, we didn’t do anything to prevent you from deceiving yourselves. You see, we told you that we needed you to breed, and you all assumed — quite naturally, I suppose — that we needed you to impregnate our women. You assumed that we *men* had become sterile, impotent. The truth was the exact opposite: the Dumbols made our women infertile, and that was a decisive blow. If we men were the problem, it would have been possible to use our sperm banks or cloning. We could have impregnated our women artificially, and hopefully our next generation would be potent again.”
I struggled to understand. “But — if — no — I — I don’t understand. It makes no sense. We’re not women. We can’t bear children, unless you have some freaky way to make that happen!” Frustrated, confused, I moved to get up, but Rufus put his hand on my chest and made a shhh sound, with his finger to his lips.
The dots began to connect in my mind. “So… the Faraway herb… you can’t be serious. Do you believe the herb turns healthy men into women? That’s ridiculous! It’s impossible! This mission of yours is a failure! You’re wasting your time! Do you understand?”
“No,” he said. “The change has already begun. It’s evident to us, and soon it will be evident to you. We’ve studied this herb extensively, and we’re well aware of what it can do.”
“But it isn’t physically possible!” I shouted.
“Please keep your voice down,” he said in a quiet tone. “Think about it this way: I know that I’m right. You believe that I’m wrong. If you’re correct, and I’m mistaken, what will happen?”
“Nothing,” I replied.
“Okay,” he said. “If you’re convinced about that, you have nothing to worry about. On the other hand, if I’m correct, after about thirty days, you’ll be a fully functioning female. It won’t be a matter of belief. It will be a physical fact.”
“This is insane!” I protested. “If you needed women, why didn’t you just abduct women? They’re already what you need!”
“This was a topic of great discussion,” Rufus replied. “Basically, there were two considerations. On Earth, you have an excess of males. I don’t remember the exact numbers, but out of around 7.6 billion people, there are almost 66 million more men than women. The excess men amount to less than one percent of your total population.”
My mouth fell open in horror. “Are you going to abduct them all?”
“No,” Rufus said. He appeared taken aback by the question. “We need to stay under the radar, on your world, on my world, and in the eyes of the Dumbols. Eventually we expect to take about a half million men from Earth.”
“And turn them all into women?”
“Exactly.”
I swore in outraged disbelief.
Rufus continued. “I said there were two considerations. The first I’ve just explained: if we take only a small portion of the excess, it will go unnoticed.
“The second consideration is that Faraway has a second effect on healthy Earthmen. It not only turns you into women, it turns you into highly fertile women, women who can safely sustain multiple births, AND women with the biological need to reproduce.”
“The biological need?” I repeated
“Yes,” he said. “Need. You will *want* to have a baby. It will be a strong physical desire.”
“No, never.”
“Believe me. I don’t want to frighten you, but in a month’s time, you’ll begin wishing you had a baby inside you.”
I scoffed and shook my head. “None of this makes sense. How does this herb know which thing it’s supposed to do? What if it gets it wrong? Why doesn’t it turn women into men? Is being a man supposed to be an illness?”
“Obviously not,” he replied. “But it’s not as though the herb knows anything. It can’t decide anything. It’s just an herb. It reacts to each person’s physiology.”
“And every man — every Earthman — turns into a baby-making sex slave?”
“No, not at all! None of you will be slaves. You’ll each be independent individuals, just as you are now. Your mind, your will — they’ll still be intact. You’ll make your own decisions. At the same time, you’ll find you have inclinations and needs, just like you do now. Some will be the same, and others will be new. The fact that you have to eat three times a day — that doesn’t make you a slave, does it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Honestly, this business about a magical herb… it’s crazy. It makes zero sense. It sounds like you’ve made it all up. And you know what else? It’s all too convenient.”
“Convenient?”
“Yes! It’s as if this herb was tailor-made for the survival of your species. You have a problem, and boom! You have the solution.”
“We’ve known about the Faraway herb for quite some time,” he told me. “Long before the Dumbols appeared. And believe me, gathering the herb is far from convenient.”
“Still — it’s perfect for this crisis. Doesn’t that make you suspicious?”
He frowned. “Suspicious of what?”
“It sounds too good to be true — I mean, from your point of view! When something’s too good to be true, it usually isn’t — true.”
The two of us fell into silence for a few moments. Then Rufus glanced at the clock and reminded me that dinner was still available.
“No, thanks,” I replied. “I think I’ve lost my appetite. Maybe for good.”
“Okay,” he acknowledged, sounding a bit disappointed.
“What’s next?” I asked. “We wait for a month while I gradually turn into a cow?”
“A cow?” he repeated. His lips twitched as he suppressed a smile. “I can’t picture you as a cow! No way! I expect you to turn into a little bunny! Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t that be cute? Wouldn’t that be fun?”
I tried to be angry, to find some heated retort to throw back at him, but I found myself laughing in spite of myself. At the same time, I was surprised to find stray tears on my cheeks.
“It will be fine,” he said. “You’ll see.” Then he said a phrase in his language. I took a deep breath and responded “Recar em bo, Rufus. Whatever that means.”
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
When I woke the next morning, I took a shower. I checked my male equipment: the bat and balls were still intact. Of course, I didn’t expect them to fall off or disappear during the night, but it was nice to have physical proof that I was still a man. As a test, I played with myself and quickly grew a respectable erection, so I ticked that checkbox as well.
On the other side of the ledger, my skin and hair felt softer, and I was more aware of the scent of the soap, the shampoo, and the environment in general. None of which proved anything, since it was a purely subjective measure. Also, if my hair was changing, I reasoned, it would change in the follicle. New hair growth would be different, not the whole shaft that had already pushed its way out of my head. And yet, it seemed to have changed.
When I joined the others in the common room, waiting for breakfast, Harvey greeted me with a nod, and observed, “Everybody’s pretty quiet today.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I agreed. As Harvey had noted, things were quieter. The atmosphere had changed. While we got our breakfast, took our seats, and ate, it was impossible to miss the difference. It wasn’t that anyone was down or depressed or sad. In fact, everyone was happy, smiling, sunny. There were conversations, but they were “indoor voices,” not the exclamations, shouts, and jibes that usually characterize a group of men. The general vibe was gentler, softer. When I tried to describe the difference to myself, two old jobs of mine came to mind: the first was a very male-dominated office, where most of the crew had played college football or some other muscular, competitive sport (like hockey). There was a lot of jostling, sharp elbows, playful punches, and aggressive ribbing.
The second was an all-female office, where I was the odd man out. Although there were occasional outbursts of emotion, for the most part it was a softer, kinder environment — at least on the surface. It took several weeks before I began to understand some of the darker undercurrents — and that understanding only came because one of the women explained them to me.
In any case… it appeared we’d switched from being powered by testosterone to being guided by estrogen — to put it broadly.
In spite of what I could feel and see, I didn’t want to accept it. I’d already decided to keep Rufus’ information to myself — at least for the time being. There was no point in causing a controversy over something I could still manage to not believe.
From then on, every day, crew members came in groups of five or six to conduct one-on-one language lessons. Rufus came with the first group, and he started off by telling me, “You and I have a handicap that we need to work against, and that is the fact that I speak English. During these lessons, and as much as possible outside the lessons, we should only speak Rassena, our language.”
He had a book with him — I’d seen similar language-learning books on Earth, where there are unambiguous pictures accompanied by appropriate foreign words. It was immersion learning; learning the language the way that children do. The script was strange; the letters looked like they’d been printed backward, but rather than start with the alphabet, or even words, the book began with phrases.
The very first day, we were all able to say such things as Do you have any pencils? and Let’s go together! After lunch, we watched a twenty-minute video program in which people acted out various social situations to teach us where and when to use typical phrases, like “excuse me” or “I’m sitting here” or (one that gave me a fit of coughing) “He is my son; she is my daughter.”
After dinner, we were shown a Rassenian movie, which was our first introduction to life on their planet. We unconsciously absorbed words, phrases, and pronunciation while we were distracted by — well, by everything! The clothes, the buildings, the implements, the things they did…
… and we had no way of asking questions except by learning more of their language. Evander and Rufus refused to speak English (except for a quiet word here and there).
We all made surprisingly rapid progress.
From the second week, we had twice-daily writing lessons, as well as lessons in what I guess you could call deportment. Apparently, Rassenian culture is a bit more formal than ours — at least, on the surface.
We also left Earth food behind and shared the same diet as the crew. It wasn’t bad — but it was certainly different. There were unfamiliar tastes, and spices that took some getting used to. Still, it seemed healthy, satisfying, and nutritious.
We were allowed to roam freely in every part of the ship, and were given light duties.
In other words, we were kept busy — and we wanted to be kept busy. Being busy made it easier to remain in denial about our physical and psychological changes.
I’m not sure when exactly we began the transit from male to female. There must have been some initial steps while we were still eating the Faraway herb, but it wasn’t until the day after the recar em bo ceremonials that we began to notice differences. Differences like softer skin and hair, loss of body hair, lighter and higher voices, narrowing waists and widening butts.
Even so, those changes were relatively easy to ignore, if your mind was determined to not accept them. I remember seeing my father, in his last years, growing fatter and fatter, and claiming, as he tried to squeeze in behind the steering wheel, that someone had moved the seat too far forward. In his mind, he was still as slim as he was at 35.
The only mirrors we had access to were in the bathroom, so it was there and in the showers that we checked ourselves. A handful of men continued to shave their faces until the end of the month — though there was no need.
Our changes were never discussed openly. It was only in ones and twos that we spoke to each other, furtively asking whether our faces seemed narrower, and our legs more shapely. I have the feeling that each crew member had some guidance on how to help their “pupil” see and understand what was happening to them.
Still, it wasn’t until the end of the second week, when my genitals began to shrink, that I shared with the others the things that Rufus had told me.
I expected angry responses. I feared there would be emotional collapses. There were neither. Everyone I spoke to accepted my explanation. They nodded, taking what I said less as news and more as confirmation. They seemed prepared to hear it, and my saying it aloud simply turned it into a public matter shared by all. The men seemed already resigned to their fate.
Harvey put it this way, “I’ve been seeing myself turning into a woman for a few weeks. Now that you tell me this… well, honestly, I’m relieved. I thought I was losing my mind.”
As I said, my genitals shrank. Again, my impressions are entirely subjective; I didn’t have a ruler or photographs, but once I noticed my equipment had gotten smaller, the loss accelerated. I seemed to lose 50% of my manhood each day. At one point I asked Rufus for a hand mirror, because I could feel things getting pretty complicated down there. He obliged me by producing one on his next visit, and handed it to me with a huge grin. “I could take a look down there, if you like,” he offered. I blushed so deeply that he waved his hand, dismissing his offer. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll just leave you to it.”
By the end of the third week, all the anatomical infrastructure was in place down below, although it was rather flat and didn’t seem ready for use. My breasts, on the other hand, were two good handfuls.
“I think I need to start wearing womens’ clothes,” I informed Rufus.
“Your wish is my command,” he replied (in English), and the next day produced three pairs of underwear, three dresses, and a pair of shoes. I was surprised to see they had two-inch heels.
“This is something we learned from your people!” he informed me with a laugh. “We also have three-inchers, If you feel so inclined. No pun intended.”
“Can’t I wear flats?” I protested.
“Oh, no!” he cried. “If you could see the effect on your ass and legs, you wouldn’t ask such a question!”
“Do the women on your world wear heels?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Heels are reserved for special women, like yourself.” Then he moved in close to me, put his hand on my ass, and tried to kiss me. I turned my head away, and he didn’t press it, though his hand remained on my butt. I think it was a test. His chest was touching my arm. I could feel his breath caress my neck and shoulder. And his hand was there, warm, waiting to see what I’d do.
By the start of the last week of the transformation, I found that I was all woman. I needed to sit to pee. I needed a bra to keep my breasts from bouncing all over. My hips and butt seemed exaggeratedly large, although Rufus pointed out that my hips were no wider than my shoulders. “And your butt,” he declared in English, with obvious satisfaction, “Your butt is a national treasure.”
The final week solidified all the changes. My labia grew full and plump. My breasts were firm and high. My legs were shapely and slender. My hair was soft and fine.
Rufus came to see me after lunch. “This is the last day of the transformation,” he told me. “I’m supposed to wait until after dinner to see you and give you a gift, but neither of us like to stand on ceremony, so… will you come with me now?”
He took me by the hand and led me through the ship, until we finally arrived at his cabin. “It’s lucky that a ship this size provides each of us with a room of his own,” he said. We entered. He closed the door. He had me sit on his bed, while he took the chair from his desk and sat facing me.
“Here it is,” he said. “Your gift.” He took from his desk a beautiful crystal glass, shaped like a small snifter, and he placed it in my hand. Then he opened a drawer and took out a small stoppered bottle that held about four ounces of a clear liquid. With a smile, he opened the bottle and emptied it into my glass. “Drink up,” he said. “Cheers!”
“What is it?” I asked, suspiciously.
“Yes, what is it? That’s a great question. This is another ritual element. The man gives it to the woman, the woman drinks it. On Earth, you’d call it Love Potion No. 9.” He laughed at that, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“Is it an aphrodisiac?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Not at all. It’s a love potion. Supposedly, if you drink that cup, you’ll fall deeply in love with the next person who kisses you.”
“And does it work?”
“The women on my planet say it doesn’t. In fact, among my kind it’s regarded as highly traditional, but kind of corny. On the other hand, I’ve spoken to our exo-biologists, the ones who studied the Faraway. Anecdotal evidence suggests that female homo sapiens are likely to be susceptible. And now that you’re a female homo sapiens, we could generate some anecdotal evidence of our own. What do you say?”
What do I say? To myself, I say that I’ve come this far. I was handpicked from the multitudes on Earth to be turned into a babymaker, and further selected by the handsomest, nicest of my kidnappers. I hadn’t resisted anything they’d done to me so far — not that I had much choice. Still, I had to admit, I hadn’t resisted anything.
Although they never asked my consent before making me part of their adventure, I felt that they’d done right by me. They hadn’t abused me or humiliated or harmed me in any way. Now they needed me to save their species, their planet, their culture and achievements, their entire way of life.
What do I say? I looked Rufus in the eye. I smiled and said, “Bottoms up!” and drank the elixir in a quick series of gulps. I’m glad I was quick — there was something disagreeable in there, something that made me shudder as I handed back the glass.
Rufus’ face was full of concern. He watched me closely as I shook all over. “Woo!” I exclaimed, shaking my head, the way you do when you throw down a shot of whiskey. I straightened up and shouted, “Whoa! Oh my God!”
“Are you okay?” Rufus cautiously inquired.
I looked him in the eye, licked my lips, and told him in a low growl, “Plant one on me, big boy!”
He didn’t need me to ask twice. He stood in a crouch, knocking over the chair in the process, and placed his lips on mine, pressing gently on my shoulders so I reclined on the bed. He kissed me long. He kissed me hot and sloppy. Our mouths and tongues went at it like we were in a taffy-eating contest.
I don’t think I had such an all-absorbing makeout session since I was a teenager. My mind went absolutely blank. All there was in the universe was our kiss, and his hands all over me.
When at last we broke off, we were both gasping for air. He looked into my eyes, and I nodded. I was there for whatever he wanted to give me.
Rufus put one hand under my shoulders and another at the base of my spine, and shifted me up the bed, so my whole body, head to heels, was lying on it. I kicked off my shoes, and together we feverishly fumbled with my clothes until they were undone, open, off me, and lying on the floor.
Then, after his hands roved all over me, stroking me, feeling me, exploring me, exciting me, he yanked his clothes off in a matter of seconds. His erection cantilevered out from his body, bobbing like a long, thick prod.
“Are you ready for this?” he asked, his chest heaving, his muscles twitching.
“I don’t care if I’m ready,” I told him, “I just want it in me!”
In one smooth movement, he set one knee between my knees, then glided his body down so that as he lay on top of me, his cock slid smoothly and decisively inside me. DEEP inside me.
“OH!” I shouted in the loudest voice I ever mustered. My eyes opened wide, and I couldn’t blink for several minutes. He rode me, that’s all I can say: he rode me, pumping his long hardness so deep inside me, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d felt it in my throat.
“I love the way your breasts are jiggling,” he said, and he kissed me softly, then nibbled my earlobe.
Then he whispered, “Let’s try this now: wrap your legs around me. Put your arms around my neck and hang on.” Once I was ready, he got to his feet, his hands cupped under my butt, my arms over his shoulders.
He took a wide stance and started bouncing me up and down, like a pile driver, a sheath for his penis. “GOOD GOD!” I shouted, and actually screamed. I couldn’t help it.
“Can anyone hear us?” I whispered.
“Are you afraid they’ll be jealous?” he quipped.
I won’t describe the blow-by-blow, but I will say it was my first experience of multiple orgasms (and happily, not my last). After my third, I was lying on my stomach, trying to catch my breath.
“Have you cum?” I asked him. “I’m sorry, I was so overwhelmed, I couldn’t tell.”
“No, I haven’t,” he said. “Let’s take care of that now.” With that, he lay on top of me, his hips pressing into my soft derriere. With his hand, he guided his still-rocklike cock back inside me. Then he began thrusting. At first slowly, then faster and faster and faster. I began weeping, I was so overcome with emotion and sexual excitement. Rufus groaned and growled. He lifted my hips and brought me up on all fours and maneuvered me to the edge of the bed, so he could stand as he pounded into me. His hips and thighs bounced off my hindquarters as he drove into me, as if his cock was a battering ram and he were bursting through a door.
At last, I felt him swell inside me, pressing and stretching all my intimate anatomy. I squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth, and tensed every muscle in my body as his cock seemed to swell to twice its size. Then it pulsed, a series of throbbing strokes — maybe a dozen — that gradually slowed and finally stopped. At that, he collapsed on top of me. I felt the weight of him over me. It was glorious.
Then he rolled off, the movement gently sliding his member out of me.
“Wow!” I said. “I’m convinced.”
“You’re convinced, are you?” We both laughed. He kissed me and asked, “You think you might want to do that again some time?”
I trailed my fingertips lightly over his chest and abs for a moment. Then I looked him in the eyes, smiled, and said, ”Recar em bo.”
His eyes popped open in surprise and delight.