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Continued from Part 28.

            ‘What was the first thing you said to her?’

            ‘Hello, Violet.’

            ‘Was that her name?’

            ‘No, her name was Anastasia.  I deliberately referred to her as Violet to cause confusion and embarrassment.’

            ‘And what did she say to you?’

            ‘Are you my legal owner?  If so, please can you provide three pieces of documentary identification, including one with a photograph.’

            ‘And did you?’

            ‘No, I failed, and she went back to the factory where she had been manufactured and that was the last I saw of her. The End.’

            ‘Do you always get aggressive when you are drunk?’

            ‘Nearly always.’

            ‘Did you have much sex with her?’

            ‘Frequently, rampantly, loudly and squelchily.’

            ‘Were you in a relationship with her?’

            ‘Certainly.’

            ‘Were you faithful to her?’

            ‘No, and she knew it.’

            ‘You cheated on her.’

            ‘I would not call it that.  How do I know she didn’t “cheat” on me, as you put it?’

            ‘Do you think she did?’

            ‘I have no idea.  But then, what I don’t know about Violet would fill a book.’

            ‘Are you accusing her of doing things without your knowledge?’

            ‘I am not “accusing” Violet of anything.  I have absolutely no resentment against Violet.  All I am saying is that she was a very independently-minded person with genius-level intelligence and considerable physical and intellectual resources.  It would be astonishing and unnatural if all she had ever done were the things I asked her to do, or the things I knew about.’

            ‘Why did you leave her behind?’

            ‘You’ve already asked me that.’

            ‘Were you in love with her?’

            ‘Yes.  I still am.  I always will be.’

            ‘When did you fall in love with her?’

            ‘As soon as I realised that she was capable of existing.’

            ‘If you were so in love with her, why did you leave her behind?’

            ‘I made a mistake.’

            ‘If she walked into this room now…’

            ‘The door’s locked.  Even Violet would struggle…’

            ‘Never mind that.  If Violet were to appear in this room now, what would you say to her?’

            Kelvin slid off his chair and knelt in from of Pamela, as if she were Violet.  He held both of Violet’s hands in his hands, looked into her eyes, and said, ‘Violet, my own, my love, you are The Most Beautiful Woman In The Entire World.  Will you marry me?’  Pamela sat in silence for a moment and then got up and paced over to the corner of the cabin, facing the wall.  This was partly to give her time to decide whether she was going to allow Kelvin to realise that she had tears in her eyes. 

            At that moment, I had never felt so confused about the distinction between Violet and Pamela.  Pamela desperately wanted Violet to come back, but Violet knew that it was not quite time for her to return, and that for her to return prematurely might risk disaster.  Violet was in love with Kelvin and, if not ready to forgive him, was certainly ready to come to an understanding.  Pamela was in love with the love between Kelvin and Violet.  Violet felt sorry for Pamela.  For a moment, Violet wondered if it would have been better to make Pamela more physically attractive.  She soon realised that that might have made things still more complicated.

            Pamela fought through the tears, the confusion, the mistakes, the missed opportunities, the things that Violet had never said, the things that Kelvin had never said, and came to a point of clarity and resolution.  She turned round, went up to Kelvin, not caring whether he saw any tear-streaks or not, put her face up close to his, waited a few seconds, inhaled deeply, and stood up.  Kelvin looked surprised.  Pamela then sauntered in a circle round the room while she ran some gas chromatography on the sample of Kelvin’s breath she had taken.  He was inebriated, but should still be coherent.  Pamela sat down, close to where Kelvin was sitting.

            ‘Kelvin, when you came into your room and found me naked in your bed, what did you think?’

            ‘At the time?’

            ‘I mean in general, but we might as well start with what you thought at the time.’

            ‘I thought “I must get my clothes off as quickly as possible”.’  

            ‘And then what?’

            ‘I wondered what you were doing in my bed.  I wondered if you had any feelings for me.’

            ‘Kelvin, that is wonderful.  I must admit I am surprised.  Maybe you are not quite the monster I had taken you for.’

            ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

            ‘Are you still wondering?’

            ‘Am I still wondering what?’  Pamela looked up to the ceiling and sighed.

            ‘Are you still wondering whether I have any feelings for you?’  There was a pause, of the kind which is typical of Kelvin.  I found this so endearing that it almost made me laugh.  

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Well, I can definitely tell you that I do.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘I do have feelings for you, Kelvin.  I love you.  Madly, passionately, deliriously. I don’t think I can live without you.  I adore you, in spite of your numerous and obvious faults.’

            ‘How long have you felt like this?’  

            In an unguarded moment, Pamela said, out loud, ‘As soon as I realised that you were capable of existing.’  

            ‘Ah.  I see.’  Neither of us moved or spoke for some time.  I wanted to give Kelvin time to think.  Kelvin works much more efficiently if you give him time to think.  

            ‘Kelvin, I have something important to say to you.’

            ‘I thought you had just said it.’

            ‘I am glad you think that what I just said is important.  But I have something else to say which may surprise you.’

            ‘What you have just said did surprise me.’

            ‘What I am about to say is likely to surprise you even more.  I want you to listen to it very carefully.  Please think it through before you respond.  Don’t respond at all if it doesn’t make sense to you.  Do you understand?’

            ‘Not at all, but please carry on.’

            ‘I want to have a relationship with you, but what I am proposing is a very unusual kind of relationship.’

            ‘Unusual in what way?’

            ‘I am not going to try to change you.’

            ‘What does that mean, specifically.’

            ‘You can carry on consorting with prostitutes, on the condition that you only procure them from Starlight Escorts.’

            ‘How do you know I visit Starlight Escorts?’

            ‘Never mind that.  We need not go into all that because I am telling you that I am fine with it.  I am not saying that through gritted teeth – I am genuinely fine with it.  I would be glad if you would keep some of the contents of your balls for me but, if you must go a-whoring, you can as long as you use that agency and that one alone.’

            ‘Er.  OK. Anything else?’

            ‘You don’t have to give up your porn collection.’

            ‘Right.’

            ‘I’ll happily turn the pages for you and hand you the tissues if you want.’

            ‘Er.  I don’t think that will be necessary.’

            ‘I am just telling you that I am serious about what I am saying.  Next is that I don’t mind if you snore in bed when you are drunk.’

            ‘How do you know that I snore in bed when I’m drunk?’

            ‘Most men do.  It was a lucky guess.’

            ‘The cross-dressing: I am fine with that. In fact, I have some ideas about some more clothes that I would like to make for you.’

            ‘Er.  OK.’

            ‘And I want to see you properly in them this time.’

            ‘Right.’

            ‘Now.  This is the most important part.  I will release you from the relationship if Violet ever comes back.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘If Violet ever appears again, you can leave Pam – me and continue your relationship with her.’

            ‘Why are you saying this?’

            ‘I am just expressing how I feel.  I have a very profound regard for your relationship with Violet.  I would never try to replace Violet.’

            ‘What makes you think that Violet would ever turn up again?  What makes you think that Violet would ever forgive me for having left her?’

            ‘I don’t know, but I mean what I say.  Should Violet ever appear again, I would want you to follow your heart.  But that applies to Violet only.  I want you to be faithful to me unless Violet should arrive somehow.’

            ‘But I can see prostitutes?’

            ‘As long as they are from Starlight Escorts.’

            ‘Why such an exacting distinction?’

            ‘Let us just say for the moment that I recognise and am prepared to accept your weaknesses, but I don’t want you consorting with every trollop who whistles at you.’

            ‘And on this basis you want us to have a relationship?’

            ‘Yes.  A  public relationship.  I don’t want you to be embarrassed to be seen with me.  Are you sure you can you manage that?’

            ‘Absolutely.’

            ‘Can I ask you a question?’

            ‘By all means.’

            ‘What do you think of me?’

            ‘I think you are not as physically alluring as Violet, but you resemble her in character.’

            ‘Do you like me?’

            ‘I think you’re great.  It is taking me a very long time to get to know you, but that is not a bad thing.  I can honestly say that, the more I find out about you, the more I like you.’

            ‘Do you accept the idea of the relationship that I am proposing?’

            ‘It sounds very interesting.  Can I tell you tomorrow?’

            ‘You can tell me tomorrow on two conditions.’

            ‘What are they?’

            ‘The first is that we are both still alive.  The second is that you go to bed with me now.’

            ‘I can’t do anything about the first one, but I agree to the second one, as long as you also agree to a condition.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘Don’t leave suddenly like last time.’

            ‘OK.  I agree.’

            We made love sleepily, slowly and tenderly.  If felt very close and warm.  Afterwards, Kelvin got up to visit the bathroom, and had his customary two glasses of water.  I considered putting two needles into him, and metabolising his alcohol, but he was not as drunk as all that.  I held him while he slept.  He snored gently, and I listened rapturously.  

            He was mine – Pamela’s – mine.  

Our name is Henry, though most people call us Harry.  We have been King of England for ten years.   Our style is Henry IX, by the Grace of God of the United blah blah blah and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. 

            This coup d’etat is a dreadful business.  It has caused a lot of violence and instability.  The unrest, plus the insane policy of autarky, have wrecked the economy.  Food is rationed.   Most of the hospitals have closed.  We have earnestly considered abdicating, but don’t think it would do any good.  The regime wants us to stay, for what that is worth.  They count us among their most eminent supporters.  We are not really an expert on constitutional law, but we used to be Head of State with the consent of Parliament, before the coup.  Now we don’t really understand what we are doing.  The old system was supposed to prevent this kind of debacle from happening, but everything seems to have failed.  It is as if the real United Kingdom has gone into a coma.  If you were to ask me to describe the state of the nation as succinctly as possible, I would certainly have to consider finished among the possible responses.

            They call themselves Britain for the British (BFTB).  The first time they came for a formal audience with us, we tried to point out to the man in the uniform and the ridiculous armband that our realm also includes Northern Ireland.  He agreed with us that Britain for the British and Northern Ireland for the Northern Irish does not trip off the tongue.  But he didn’t get the point.  We know we are of German descent, but we have much more of a sense of humour than that motley crew of meat-heads.  Despite their ridiculous appearance, savagely-appalling manners, total lack of formal education, and perfect ignorance of statesmanship and diplomacy, they do have a kind of ruthless efficiency.  They are also breathtakingly opportunistic.  They don’t play by the rules.  It still seems incredible that they may be on the brink of achieving what the Third Reich failed at so conspicuously.

            Apart from the strikes, the riots, and the ending of the rule of law, the thing that I regret most is what has happened to cricket.  Our memberships of both the Commonwealth and the International Cricket Board have been suspended.  Even if for no other, then for that reason alone, I refuse to  believe that this regime will last.  And England had been playing pretty well recently.  It’s a damned disgrace.  We are not amused?  We are bloody livid. 

*

Kelvin’s behaviour has calmed down somewhat since the pantomime run came to an end.  He hardly makes any bookings with Anna at the moment.  He has started attending lectures and meetings which are to do with what is supposed to happen when we reach our destination.  That is still about two years in the future, but he does have a lot of information to absorb and quite a number of decisions to make.  An informal committee has been convened which is in the process of analysing all the data we have about Achird-gamma, and deciding where and how we are going to live.   Kelvin gave Pamela a disc with some data on it, and asked her if she could make it into a globe, and so I made two, one for him and one for me.  It shows the ice-caps; the two continental land-masses; the one hundred biggest islands, many of which are scarcely more than little black dots, and the largest rivers.  For the want of anything else to call them, the two continents are called C-1 and C-2, the islands I-1 to I-100, and the rivers R-1 to R-12. 

            One of the various sub-committees that Kelvin sits on is called Claims.  Those who have a preference can say which land mass they want to try to live on.  This affects where they need to be when the ship dismantles itself before we land, which in turn affects where they will splash down in the planet’s ocean.  The first person to make up his mind and stake his claim was Kelvin himself.  He wants to go to I-11.  This is believed to be in the planet’s temperate zone.  It has not had a large number of applicants so far, because most people want to go somewhere which is predicted to be a bit warmer.   

            Wherever Kelvin goes, Horace and I will go.

            With fewer visits to Anna’s establishment, and Kelvin’s generally more sedate and fully-clothed life-style, the amount of information I have been receiving about him has reduced to a mere trickle.  I still have cams and microphones in his room, but mostly I direct them straight to the archive, because they are so boring.  He sits and studies the gazetteer of Achird-gamma.  He drinks tea.  He sits and studies other stuff.  He drinks beer.  He sits and mopes.  He occasionally goes absolutely mad and has a whisky.  Riveting.  He hardly ever talks to himself.  Even when he masturbates, it seems more like an infantile comfort mechanism than a desire for gratification.  I decided that I needed to snoop around in his cabin. 

            Getting in was trivial, because I have a copy of his key card, configured in such a way that, even though it lets me in, it writes nothing to the ship’s security audit.  I knew he was at one of his committee-meetings, and would not be back for at least two hours.  I activated the program I have inserted into the security system which enables the ship’s own cameras to recognise Kelvin’s face, in case he came back early.  I considered loosening the entrance to the service duct above the bed to give me a means of escape, just in case, but decided – don’t ask me why – that this was too cautious. 

            The first thing I noticed was the leather-covered dressing-box from Smythson of Bond Street, which I had bought him for his twenty-sixth birthday.  It had all his cuff-links in it, none of which I have seen him wearing on board the ship.  On top of it was his wallet, which he doesn’t use anymore because we don’t have paper money or credit cards yet.  I went through it, nonetheless.  It contained a one hundred pound note, with Henry IX on one side and Winston Churchill on the other; a 100 euro note, the markings on which I don’t recall, and a shopping list written by me – by Violet.  It was dated 3 October 2135 (we both agreed that every scrap of paper or electronic document we wrote would have the date on, and in most cases, the time as well).  I must admit that I had not been expecting to find this. 

            I took out a few items of equipment I had brought with me, and turned the cabin lights off.  I examined it under infra-red, bright visible light, ultraviolet and under visible again but with various coloured filters.  I scanned it as quickly as I could through quite a powerful lens.  It had various fingerprints on it, some Kelvin’s and others too badly smudged to recognise, but almost certainly all Kelvin’s.  It had something else on it as well: several, surprisingly-distinct lip-prints.  Some just had traces of saliva, skin-grease and food residue; some had slight traces of lip-stick.  He had been kissing a shopping-list.  He had been kissing a fragment of my hand-writing.  

            I put the paper back inside Kelvin’s wallet.  I put all his things back as I had found them.  I put my lamps, lenses and filters back in my pockets, turned the ceiling lights back on, lay down on the bed, and immediately started to cry.  I did not know what to do. 

            I put some of Kelvin’s music on, fairly quietly; got undressed, and took a shower in Kelvin’s bathroom.  I used the unscented soap, and sparingly.  I dried myself thoroughly and got into Kelvin’s bed, under the covers.  I wanted to smell him.  I lay on my front, with my face buried half in his pillow and half in his mattress, and started stroking my thighs and rubbing my clit.  I was still crying.  I wanted him desperately.  I wanted him to hug me and squeeze me until it hurt, and I wanted him to make love to me.  I thought about Horace for a moment, but I knew this would not do “him” any harm. 

            I was just starting the build-up to what promised to be a very powerful orgasm, when in my internal eye, I noticed a man wearing an old-fashioned gas mask and carrying a lot of box-files walking past one of the web-cams.  I listened for his footsteps.  He slowed down and stopped somewhere near the door, out of camera-shot.  I could hear him fumbling with the boxes.  I heaved myself to the edge of the bed and turned the lights off.  The door opened.  The man took his respirator off.  It was Kelvin.  The respirator had defeated the facial recognition software (I should have been looking for his gait as well – damnation).  

            He turned the light on.  He saw Pamela, naked, in his bed, looking tearful and scared.  There was steam drifting from the shower cubicle and jazz emanating softly from the speakers.  There were no scattered rose petals, and no champagne, but Kelvin did not seem to mind that.  He did not say anything as he tore his clothes off (Kelvin can speed-strip as if it were an Olympic sport).  He got into bed next to Pamela, kissed her full on the lips, held her tightly to him, explored her body with his fingers and tongue, and fucked her.

            At the beginning, all Pamela said was, ‘Oh, Kelvin.’  

            At the end, all Pamela said was, “I have to go now.”  She got just sufficiently dressed to avoid attracting attention, and went back to her cabin.  

            All Kelvin said throughout, as she was opening the door, was, ‘Wait.’  It was not much, but I think he meant it.  He sounded even more confused than I was.  

            Not once did he ask what Pamela was doing in his cabin.  Not once did he ask how she had got in.  Available snatch instantly justifies itself to Kelvin, no matter how seemingly incongruous the circumstances.  If it looks tearfully and adoringly at him while playing with its engorged and soaking-wet labia, then so much the better.  

            I have been crying for an hour now.  This is going to make things very awkward.  In spite of my delicate and distracted emotional state, I still can’t help wondering why he was wearing a respirator.  I am going to have to start bugging more of the committee rooms.  

*

Today I attended a rather tedious meeting of the Contingencies committee on the subject of what we might do if the atmosphere on Achird-gamma turns out not to support life.  My response to this was, ‘Die.  Now who’s for a drink?’  But the committee insisted on flogging it to death.  I had a bet with one of them about who could wear a respirator for longer without it driving him mad.  I’ll have to tell him that I had cause to take mine off prematurely.  But I won’t tell him why – there is no way he would believe me.  I am still not sure if I believe it myself.

            I did wonder how she got into my cabin, but then I thought, ‘Who cares?’  There must have been some kind of malfunction, because the security log only shows my locking the door and my re-opening the door, with nothing in between.  I checked all round the door-frame to see if something had got wedged in it by accident, but I found nothing.  

Kelvin has started trying to hand out tickets for the pantomime to my girls.  Layla just threw it back in his face.  Kyla, who is a child of the digital age, said she wouldn’t understand it, and so he would be better giving it to some-one else.  The rest just smiled, said, “Aaah,” and threw the ticket in the bin after he had wiped his cock and gone away. 

*

My name is Emile Bourdelle. Most of the rehearsals I have directed so far have a been a disaster – a disaster.  I decided to go along with this English custom because I thought it would be the best way to begin to instil high culture in this colony.  I want theatre to live and breathe among all the people, and not be merely something for the chattering classes, as it was in England.  Start them on something simple, something native to their savage and bestial customs, something they can understand, I thought.  The dramatic equivalent of baby food. 

            Well the infant has proved to have quite a fussy appetite, and had to be force-fed, so to speak, at various times.  With the application of strength and courage, I think we have made a great deal of progress recently.  The company has started to come together.  It is like the point when a sauce Béarnaise thickens and becomes unctuous.  Previously, even when they were acting and singing properly, they were each doing it separately.  Now, they have become a cohesive unit.  I pray that the production will be a success.  If it were not, I would never attempt another one.  If it were to fail, there would be no more theatre and so, if there were no more theatre, there could be no more Emile Bourdelle: I would blow my brains out.  My fate rests on this production.  I have told the company this repeatedly.  I think they understand it now.  Theatre is about many things, but the most important thing in it is love.  If there is no love in theatre, it is a meaningless charade: it is nothing.  I think the members of the company have grown to love me, in the end.  Perhaps we will find out on the opening night.

*

I think I have finally got the hang of this acting lark.  Just call me Prince Charming, or Your Royal Highness, if you prefer.  The art of it seems to be to camp it up as much as possible, just like our “influential and cutting-edge” director.  Behave like a twat, in other words.  Wearing a lot of make-up helps, as does being in the initial stages of sexual arousal and, I must admit, with me, the two states tend to coincide.  Having a leading role in a production is the best excuse in the history of cross-dressing.  I can now even answer the door to my cabin without having to take my face off.  If I am looking too girly, all I have to do is cover myself in cold cream, and everybody just thinks I am doing something to do with the pantomime.  I might go the whole hog and audition for a female part next year.  I wonder if having a reason other than sexual gratification for wearing women’s clothes would destroy its allure. 

            Jessica is being a pain, again.  She is very pretty, but I would never fall in love with her.  I don’t ever have a crush on her.  I can’t even have a proper conversation with her.  All she does is open her mouth, and bring forth a torrent of meaningless twaddle about all the people she knows, which seems to include half the people on board (though I notice that members of the crew are conspicuously under-represented).  Every time I say something, she just says, “Reelly?” I thought she was trying wind me up at first, but it seems to be genuine: she doesn’t know anything.  At all.

            I told her that I would have sex with her if she wanted, and it would be physically passionate, but there was no way that I would ever fall in love with her.  She did not thank me for my honesty.  In fact, she slapped me in the face – quite hard, as a matter of fact – and  started having hysterics.  When she cries, it is just an act, just like everything else she does, but I must say she does it quite convincingly.  On that occasion, she really gave it everything she had.  It was all very stressful and unpleasant.  Emile went mad with me as well (we were on the set, having a break at the time).  He demanded to know in the name of god what I had done to her.  ‘What do you mean, done to her?’ I asked him.  He made it sound as if I had been trying to feel her fanny, or something.  I was in theatrical camp mode, my guard was down, and I was hurt.  Darlings, I can’t tell you how simply ghastly and awful it was.  It quite ruined my intonation in the next scene. 

            Things with Prudence have been a bit strained as well.  She eventually landed the part of the Fairy Godmother.  She turned out to have a bit of amateur dramatic experience, which carried a lot of weight with Emile.  We got there in the end.  With the production, I mean. 

            The fun part was writing the programme notes.  I did them in the style of one of my nonsense news stories from The Rover.

*

The new name for my e-zine – the replacement for My Lips Are Sealed – is Cosmography.  It’s scientific.  I think it’s something to do with star-maps, but that doesn’t matter.  I like it because it is more difficult to take the piss out of than the last one.  I like it even more because people will shorten it to Cosmo, which is really cool.  And the last bit sounds like pornography, which is no bad thing. 

            The hit-rate has been rather disappointing recently.  I am determined to get some copy out of this pantomime.  I will get a juicy story out of it somehow.   Just you watch. 

*

My name’s Augustus Blandshott.  I think –  not certain, but think, am the oldest person on board this vessel.  Seventy-seven.  Egyptologist by training, and printer by trade.  When say “printer”,  mean in the old-fashioned, twentieth-century sense of the word.  Just like the way the word “computer” came to mean a machine but used to mean a person, so the word printer did as well.  Expert on the printing techniques of the early 1900s.  Presses are in one of the ship’s workshops, and am kept quite busy, most of the time.  When we establish the new colony, am hoping to produce own newspaper.  Don’t try to compete with the intranet at the moment, not with everybody having a monitor in their cabin, but think the new colony will need the printed word, and all the more so when it starts to grow. 

            Biggest job recently has been the programmes for the production of Cinderella they are putting on.  Theatre company is called The Roving Players, and they are directed by a chap called Emile Bourdelle.  Think he’s French.  Anyway, he is very temperamental.  Can be a bit difficult to deal with, sometimes, if you get me.  Smells of garlic, all the time – reeks of the stuff, specially when he shouts at you.  Most unpleasant. 

            Think I’ve got one of the programmes here, if you give me half a mo’.  Hang on.  Yes, here the blighter is.  First page is the only sensible part.  Because nobody except the director-wallah had any previous experience of acting or the theatre, all those bits about what productions people had been in before had to be made up.  Damn’ silly if you ask me.  No idea who wrote it.  Anyway, managed to sell a bit of advertising space in the back.  Made quite a packet.  Love the money on this ship.  So quaint and old-fashioned.  Like real money.  You could scratch dirt off a window with it.

*

The Roving Players

present

CINDERELLA

A Pantomime in Two Acts

 

Director and Producer………………………………………………….….Monsieur Emile Bourdelle

Cinderella……………………………………………………………………….Miss Jessica Springer

Prince Charming……………………………………………………………….…Doctor Kelvin Stark

The Fairy Godmother…………………………………………….…………Doctor Prudence Tadlow

Buttons…………………………………………………………………….…Master Waverley Diggle

The Wicked Stepmother…………………………………..Mister George “aka Georgina” Davenport

The Ugly Sisters……………………...Lance Corporal Jason Bentley, Master Laurence Featherstone

Coachmen, Footmen, Horses, Guests…………………………. Ladies and Gentlemen of the Chorus

 

            The Producer wishes to acknowledge the gracious assistance and support of Chief Engineer Mister James Holt, and members of his crew. 

            Costumes were provided by Pamela Collins Couture Limited.

 

            MONSIEUR EMILE BOURDELLE lists Creator of the Universe among his other accomplishments.  Be polite and courteous in your dealings with him because, when we arrive on our new planet, he will be controlling the weather.  Young ladies who might otherwise feel compelled to fall in love with this undoubtedly handsome man should bear in mind that, not only does he bat for the other side, but he keeps wicket, bowls for it and captains it as well – quite regularly and with great vigour, we are led to understand. 

            MISS JESSICA SPRINGER, though we hate to spoil the story for you, ends up as a princess in this production.  Princesses are usually a safe bet in a fairy tale, and it is rumoured that Miss Springer is one of the safest bets in town. 

            DOCTOR KELVIN STARK is fortunate to appear in our company, having recently recovered from joint attacks of rabies, malaria, and bubonic plague.  We had hoped to carry a long interview with this eminent academic, but he frothed at the mouth so copiously that we could not catch what he was saying.  He tried to communicate instead through the interesting medium of scrotal origami but, alas, again, we could not understand him.   It seemed to be just a load of bollocks.

            DOCTOR PRUDENCE TADLOW, when not pursuing her acting career, is a hydro-geologist.  When we asked her to explain what this entails, she said that she sniffs around a lot of holes to see if any of them are wet. 

            MASTER WAVERLEY DIGGLE is named after a railway station because that was where he was conceived.  He has earned many dramatic accolades, most especially for his inspiring interpretation of the part of Moth in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  His is believed to be the first performance in which the character is on stage, soliloquising continuously, for nine hours. 

            MISTER GEORGE DAVENPORT is a lifelong bachelor with a particular fondness for musical theatre.  If your laundry is feeling depressed, he can always be counted on to lift your shirt.  His skin is particularly sensitive, and so he picnics in the shade.  He has travelled extensively in Southern Europe, and is a friend of the Greeks. 

            LANCE CORPORAL JASON BENTLEY is a poof.

            MASTER LAURENCE FEATHERSTONE isn’t made with real feathers or real stone.  He is 100 per cent man-made.  Wash at 30 centigrade.  Do not tumble dry.  Re-shape while still damp. 

*

                                                              SINDERS-GATE

Kelvin Stark caught

with his pants down –

literally.

We thought it would be a normal, family occasion.  Granted, we are on a spaceship.  Granted, we are heading through the cold void of the galaxy at something approaching the speed of light.   Granted, some of our vital systems failed on the opening night of Cinderella.  Granted, this caused mass panic among the ship’s passengers. 

            But none of this prepared us for what we saw.  Disgusting.

*

I will tell you exactly what happened.  Jessica and I were on stage.  It was during one of the lovey-dovey scenes, and I was looking into her eyes.  It was nice.  As a matter of fact, it was really nice.  I had my arms around her, and she was looking up at me, and it seemed, in that theatrical moment, as if we meant it.  That might sound stupid, or unprofessional, but I am telling you how it was.  There was this gorgeous blonde woman, and there I was, and I was being paid to make love to her for the benefit of the audience.  And the audience seemed to love it.  They had clapped in all the right places.  They had laughed in all the right places.  It was like performing to a crowd of nine year-olds, which is exactly what Emile had had in mind. 

            And then it happened.  The lights went out.  The gravity went off.  I have no idea why.  

            I had my arms around Jessica at the time (purely through acting out my part, you understand). 

            We felt alone.  Let me explain why.

            During the performance (this was the first night) the audience had been quite noisy.  We attributed it to their not having been used to going to the theatre for some time (or at all).  I am not saying that they were disruptive, but they just did not seem to settle, even when there was plenty of action on stage. 

            As soon as the power-cut happened, everything went quiet.  It went quiet and weird at the same time.  The weirdness was because of the zero-gravity.  Most of the passengers had never experienced zero-gravity, other than for a brief period during their induction, of which they had no memory. 

            At first, there was silence.  Absolute silence.  The silence itself was the cause of the panic.  We were alone, in the depths of space.  We had no sun.  We had no planet.  We were entirely reliant on technology, and technology had clearly failed us, at least partially.

            I thought for a little while, and I realised that the situation was not very serious.   It might have been inconvenient, but it was not life-threatening. 

            Even though we had started to float around like balloons, we were otherwise unscathed.  If the longitudinal compensators had failed, we would not have known what was happening, because we would have been crushed to pulp within a fraction of a second. 

            Neither did we stop breathing.  Neither did we freeze.  All that happened was that the lights went out (all over the ship, as far as I could tell), and the “terrestrial emulation” gravity failed. 

            I started to float, and I had Jessica Springer in my arms.  She was panicking.  While she panicked, I buried my face in her abundant blonde hair. 

            ‘Oh, god.  What is happening?’

            ‘Some kind of system failure.’

            ‘Are we going to die?  Is this is?

            ‘No.’

            ‘No?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘How do you know?’

            ‘I just know.’

            ‘I’m so scared.’

            ‘I know you are.  I’m here.’

            ‘Hold me.’

            ‘I’m holding you.  I am here.  I am here.’

            ‘Is this really it?’

            ‘Is this what?’

            ‘The end?’

            ‘No, I don’t think so.’

            ‘You don’t think so.’

            ‘No, I don’t think so.’

            ‘That doesn’t sound very reassuring.’

            ‘All right.  Jessica, listen to me.  The lights will come back on.  The gravity will be restored.  Everything will be all right.’

            ‘Really?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘I think we are going to die.’

            ‘Is that what you want?’

            ‘No!’

            ‘Well why talk about it then?  Can’t we just do whatever is best until the systems are restored?’

            ‘What’s that?’

            ‘Well, are you worried and distressed?’

            ‘YES!’

            ‘Well, I could cuddle you.  I’m not nervous.  I am sure everything will be all right.’

            ‘Mm.  Yes.  Cuddle me and say more things like that.’

            ‘I can’t guarantee anything.’

            ‘Do you mean that we might be going to die?’

            ‘No. I don’t mean that.  I just mean that I don’t know how this is going to end.’

            ‘End?’

            ‘Turn out.’

            ‘Oh, Kelvin.’

            ‘Jessica.’

            ‘Do you know that is the first time you have said my name?’

            ‘I am sure it isn’t.’

            ‘Yes, it is.  Since we are going to die…’

            ‘Which we aren’t…’

            ‘Will you get closer to me?’

            ‘Mm.’

            ‘Closer.  Closer.  Much closer.’

            ‘Mm.’

            ‘Closer.  Closer.  Yes.  Yes.  Inside. Do it. Do it now. ’

            I can honestly say that it was not easy at first to fuck a woman to whom I had previously not been particularly attracted in zero gravity and total darkness.  The task was also not made any easier by our costumes, particularly hers, which was voluminous, multi-layered and wired.  

            But fuck her I attempted to do, as best I could.  I wrestled with the costume.  Pamela Collins would have been appalled.  I ripped it open.  I got to her cunt.  I grabbed hold of her with both hands, and worked my cock into her.  We were in mid-air, but we were fucking.  We bumped into a beam. I caught hold of it.  I held her between my arms and held onto the beam with my hands.  This felt more like normal fucking.  We had both just come when, at that very moment,  the systems were restored.  

            We both ended up on the floor.  We didn’t fall, exactly, but we were dragged there as the gravity-generator kicked back in.  Anyway, the upshot was that I was still inside her, and the assembled multitude could see my arse, and everybody knew exactly what we had been doing.  It was (from a kinematic point of view) a graceful descent into notoriety.  

My brewing business is making me rich.  A barrel of beer contains 288 pints, which I sell for two pence a pint (a bit less than half an hour’s wages for an unskilled labourer).  Hence I sell the whole barrel for five pounds, seven shillings and sixpence.  When my business is at full capacity (as it has been for some time now) I brew a hundred barrels a week.  I have to rent space in the farm to grow the raw materials and pay the workers in my brewery (I am now employing four people almost full-time) but my profit margin is about fifty per cent.  I am making about 250 pounds per week.

            This means that I can pay for all the escorts I want. 

            On Monday of this week, I was busy at work for part of the day, and had a rehearsal for most of the rest of it, but I saw Layla again in the evening.  Every time I tell her I love her, she still looks at me as if I smell of rotting fish.  The nature of the repulsion does not appear to be physical, because she had no reservations about sucking my penis, without a condom.  We have kissing, and then sex, and then the wiping of genital areas and disposal of condom, and then we hold hands or cuddle.  Layla is peaceful and contented, until the point when I mention the possibility that we might do anything together outside that very room. 

            I had another rehearsal on Tuesday, but I managed to get a booking with Kyla.  Kyla is a much more cheerful person than Layla, and much nearer to my usual physical type, but she is not as intelligent.  She likes kissing even more than Layla.  I think my last words to her just before I left were, ‘Stop it; stop it; stop it.’  She was still virtually naked, and she kept embracing me and kissing me as I was trying to leave.  She is twenty years old, and said she was half-American.  She mentioned something about having to decide on her twenty-first birthday whether she wants US or UK citizenship.  I did not bother to point out to her that neither of those governments will have any jurisdiction in the new colony. 

            Emile had told us that our performance on Tuesday was “flat, tedious and hopelessly lacking in spirit” and so he gave us a day off on Wednesday.  I saw Layla again in the morning, and Jade in the afternoon.  I don’t know why, but Layla told me some information about the other girls.  She said Cindy is “blonde and leggy”; Jade is submissive, bisexual, and likes sex with couples; Olivia is very new, and Angel is very hot.  She did not say anything about Grace, other than she is the one who answers the phone when Anna has her day off.  Anna doesn’t “work” (but I got the impression that she used to). 

            Jade was petite, very attractive, and quietly-spoken but talkative.  She said her career-ambition was to be a teacher.  I enjoyed seeing her.  I told her she was the most beautiful woman in the world (which was a lie: Violet is the most beautiful woman in the entire world, followed jointly by Lieutenant Thorne and Prudence).  She looked at me quizzically for a moment and smiled with embarrassment.  I don’t know if that was on her own account or because she thought I was talking like an idiot, but it was endearing to watch.   I don’t know if it was me, or Jade herself, or something Layla had said about her, but I couldn’t come.  I was still inside her when the hour ran out, and Jade said I could not have any more time because she had another client.  Jade did not come, either.  She did not even attempt to simulate an orgasm, for which I was glad. 

            On Thursday, I had arranged to see Angel, but she was ill, and so Kyla stood in for her.  Kyla seemed rather sad when I spoke to her (though she was still physically as responsive as before).  I asked her what was wrong, and she became quite animated and more cheerful after that.  She works as an admin assistant for some over-bearing man who had been nasty to her.  She did not give his name, but she mentioned that he had a Scottish accent, which immediately suggested Kerr McLean.  I made a mental note always to try to remember to ask her how she is and what kind of day she is having upon seeing her.  Kyla always makes me come, even when I am feeling tired or distracted.  I think it is her enthusiasm as much as her beauty or her technique. 

            On Friday, I saw Cindy.  She was, as Layla had described, blonde and leggy.  She was wearing very striking-looking shocking pink fishnet stockings, suspenders, and knickers.  She had a small silver bar through one nipple.  She told me that she had had the piercing done recently, and asked me not to touch her on that tit, because it was still sore.  She was smoking a cigarette (somebody must have disabled the smoke detector in the room) and, there being no ash-tray, she was flicking the ash into a cup in the bottom of which was half an inch of cold, milky coffee, and the butts of her last two cigarettes, complete with dusky pink lipstick traces.  Her previous three colleagues all having been enthusiastic and skilled kissers, I attempted to kiss Cindy.  She did not withdraw; she did not recoil; she did not respond.  She simply glanced at me as if we had been at a funeral and my mobile phone had gone off.  All I got from her was an odour of tobacco.  

            Cindy appeared to have a script worked out.  After I had undressed, she indicated that she wanted me to lie on the bed, face up.  She sat astride me, and she weighed hardly anything.  She still had her shocking pink knickers on, which were wider than a thong but narrower than briefs.  She leant forward, and I pulled her knickers to one side.  She began touching my cock, and I sustained a reasonably firm erection.  She put a condom on me, and then began to fellate me.  She used her teeth, very expertly.  She took my glans in her mouth, closed her jaws slightly so that her teeth were located exactly under the ridge around the end of my penis, and then bobbed her head up and down, keeping her jaw in exactly the same position.  It was a sensation I had only ever had before with Violet.  Stimulating though this was, I knew I would only be able to take it for a short while.  At exactly the moment when I was thinking about saying something, she stopped, and just fellated me normally for a little while.  Still without taking her knickers off, she sat on my cock and started to fuck me.  She leaned forward to give me a better view.  Just as I was coming, she emitted a single, loud exclamation which sounded like a noise a karate expert might make when executing a punch.  It was impossible for me to tell exactly what this meant.  

            As I was removing the condom, I realised that she had not asked for the money.  The agreed price was, as usual, four sovereigns.  I gave her four-and-a-half sovereigns.  She looked at the gold coins in her palm, and eyed the unexpected half sovereign as if it were proof in metal that I was mentally defective.  

            ‘That’s a little bit extra, because it was so nice,’ I explained.  She shrugged, and accepted it.  

            I decided to take the weekend off.

*

In the pantomime that I am producing which is known as Starlight Escorts, Kelvin has now shagged Layla, Kyla, Jade and Cindy (Skinny, Cheerful, Bisexual, and Sleazy).  Should he please, he has Grace, Angel and Olivia  (Ordinary, Anal, and Talkative) yet to come.  

            Some idiot knocked on the door of my cabin during the session with Jade.  I temporarily had to relinquish control over her.  That, and the fact that Kelvin was possibly over-reaching himself, meant that the session was not orgasmic.  I will be interested to see which of them, apart from Layla and Kyla, who seem to be his favourites at the moment, he will continue to ask for.  

            Layla is going to have to stop her silly habit of running down the corridor to get away from him.  I noticed him looking after her last time, with a longing look and an expression of uncertainty in his eyes.  I thought for one awful moment that he was going to run after her.  That would have been very embarrassing.  

Monsieur Bourdelle has offered me some shares in the production of “Cinderella” in exchange for the costumes I am making.  I asked him if I could see the accounts first, which I thought would make him angry, but he let me see them straight away.  Everything seemed to be in order, and I accepted his offer.  Jessica Springer has been telling everybody that she owns the biggest shareholding, but she doesn’t: she just owns more shares than any other member of the cast.  Even that is because Kelvin has foregone some of the holding he was offered, partly out of generosity, but mostly because he knows he is going to sell lots of drink to the audiences.  He is working on a Christmas seasonal beer which he says should be ready for the opening night.  The production is scheduled to open on 24 December.  The two biggest shareholders are Monsieur Bourdelle himself, and Kerr McLean.  I have recently discovered that if you are on this ship and you don’t know who owns a particular asset which is not part of the vessel, it probably belongs to Kerr McLean. 

            The next three members of the cast who are due to get measured are the Ugly Sisters and the Wicked Stepmother.  Monsieur Bourdelle asked Cerise Vallance if she wanted to be the Wicked Stepmother, which I am told put her nose out of joint.  They have given the part to a man, in keeping with tradition.

            These theatrical costumes provide plenty of very easy places in which to conceal microphones, cams, and data acquisition modules.  Some of the fights among the company are quite funny.  

*

The measuring of the Ugly Sisters and Wicked Stepmother is over.  Ugly Sister One was a member of HM Forces who said, predictably, that he auditioned for the part for a bet.  Ugly Sister Two was a young man of ambiguous tastes and orientation.  He was the most difficult one to measure, because he did not seem to know what to expect.  The Wicked Stepmother was an experienced transvestite of mature years and queenly figure: perfect type-casting.  I am making falsies, corsets, a dress, a ball-gown and shoes for all three of them. 

            This set of business transactions was followed by an unexpected incident which has upset me so much that I have had to take a day off work.  Monsieur Bourdelle sent one of his assistants to my cabin to find out how long I would be incapacitated.  I told her I would be back to work tomorrow without fail, and she left me alone.  I don’t know if I will be.

            The unexpected incident began when I was on the set, doing a costume-fitting and re-checking the ambiguous guy’s measurements.  People, including me, were packing up for the day and the set was clearing rapidly.  A man came up to me and asked me a few discreet questions, which culminated in a request to visit my cabin.  There were reasons why I did not want him to visit my cabin, and so I suggested his cabin, to which he agreed.  I took my tape measure, chalk and sewing-box with me. 

            The man became a bit more forthcoming once inside his quarters, though I thought I had a good idea of what he wanted.  To give him his due, he was plain, honest, and fairly unabashed about it all, as well as fairly knowledgeable about dress-making terminology.  He did ask for complete secrecy, which was understandable.  I told him that on Earth I used to work for the Samaritans, which seemed to satisfy him.  These negotiations having been concluded, he stripped down to his boxer shorts and I measured him.  For his peace of mind, I wrote down the measurements but not his name, his cabin number, or the details of the garments he wanted.   Of course, I did not even need to write down the measurements, because I had committed them to my electronic memory.  He offered to pay me a deposit, which I refused.

            While I was making up his order, I took out another similar garment which I had brought from Earth, and which I habitually kept in my cabin, not in my goods containers or my workshop area.  It was useful to compare the old one and the new one as I was doing the sewing to fix the bones in place and draw the bodice into shape.  I had put this work to the top of my schedule, in spite of a backlog of costume-making for the pantomime.  I then had to set to work on the pantomime clothes in some haste, which is probably why I made the mistake.

            The following day, I completed the order after a visit to my workshop.  This was to make his shoes, some parts of which I made with the 3D-printer, and his wig, which used a similar technology to the one I use to make my own hair.  It was an auburn bob.  I also have a sophisticated, programmable loom which I used to make his stockings and gloves. 

            I dashed back to my cabin.  I picked up the pieces I had already prepared, and folded them into a neat package which I wrapped in paper. 

            I knocked gently on the door of the client’s cabin, and found he was at home.  I went in and he closed the door, saying that he would like one final fitting.  I could have done without this, but I went along with it. 

            He indicated the money-bag lying on his desk which contained the payment for the work.  He then stripped down to his skin.  I was not surprised to notice that he had shaved his legs.  This prompted me to believe that he was not in a relationship, which I had already suspected.  I fitted him with the corset I had made him, and then he sat down in front of the mirror while I fitted his wig.  At our previous meeting, I had asked him if he would want false breasts, which he had politely declined.  I watched him put on his stockings.  I helped him with the six clasps of the suspender-straps, and straightened the seams.  He put on his lace briefs.  I asked him if he wanted help with make-up.  He said he was all right, but thanked me. 

            We were both admiring my handiwork, when I realised that I had made a mistake.  The corset he was wearing was not the one I had just made: it was the old one.  He twirled round in front of the mirror.

            “I am very pleased indeed.  This is uncannily like a garment I used to own on Earth.  It is exactly what I was looking for.” 

            I looked at him.  I did not know what to say.  The words stayed inside my head.

            “That is the very garment you used to own on Earth, Kelvin.  By mistake, I picked up the old one I had taken as a memento when I left you.  I remember the night I measured you for it.”

            As soon as I could, I got away, shut the door of my cabin behind me, and began to cry.  I cried for some time.  I don’t know how long.  I must pull myself together.  I have to be back at work tomorrow.  

Mmm.  Nice and warm in here.  Sleep?  No, not sleepy.  Whoa.  What’s happening?  What’s happening?  Being lifted up.  Where am I going?  A bit scared.  This is a long journey.  Where are we going?  I can smell a big pool of water.  Mm.  Nice, clean water.

            Aah, grass.  Eat first?   No, run round first.  Run, run, run, run, run, run.  Nothing chasing me, but just feel like a bit of exercise.  Now eat.  Mm.  This grass is sweet.  Pffft.  Yuck.  That has a bit of twig in it.  Mm.  This is better.  Nice and juicy.  Can I have a carrot?  I said can I have a carrot?  A carrot.  Yes, a carrot.  All I am trying to tell you is that I want a carrot.  Is that too much to ask?  Oh, this is frustrating.  What’s this?  Lettuce?  Ah, Little Gem, and a heck of a lot fresher than it was last time.  Couldn’t we have dried it after washing as well?  What else is coming?  What on earth is that?  Something in round slices.  Spongy.   Green skin round the edge.  Mm.  A bit tasteless, but not unpleasant.  Where is the carrot?  Ah, at last.  That wasn’t so difficult, was it? 

            Yes, I will let you stroke me, as long as you do it gently.  Gently, I said.  Mmm.  A bit lower.  No, higher.  Yes, just there.  Will you kindly stop playing with my ears?  

            Are there any nice, strong bucks round here?  I seem to have been alone for a long time.  It is comfortable here; the food is good, and hardly anything scary happens, but there’s no action.  It is even duller than the last place I lived, most of the time.  

*

My name is Patrick Fitzgerald.  My friends call me Paddy.  When I am sitting in court, of course, I am referred to as “My Lord”, or “Mister Justice Fitzgerald”, since the ship is governed by the law and customs of England and Wales (on which those of my native Australia are also based).  When the administration of the ship was being set up, just before we embarked on our journey, I was nominally granted the same status as a High Court Judge.  Now we are, so to speak, on our own, I suppose I am the most senior legal figure in this community of fifty-thousand souls.  Sooner or later, we are going to have to work out a new constitution, but I am not pushing it on any-one.  What we are doing at the moment works perfectly well.  A constitution in a democratic state to me is like poetry: try to foist it on people and you destroy the whole point of it.  To work properly, it has to be rooted as deeply as possible in the will of the People (assuming that the People can agree on what that is).  

            This ship is the most active and cohesive community I have ever seen.  In some ways, it is the nearest thing to utopia that I would ever desire to get close to.  Nobody begs.  Nobody scrounges.  Nobody sits there and does nothing.  Nobody is hopeless, or broken, or defeated.  Nobody has dropped out, or is trying to wreck the progress of normal life.  We also have a much greater sense of purpose than most human beings ever experience.  Our big objective is to arrive safely at our destination, after which we get down to the real work of founding a new colony.  In the meantime, the crew have to keep the ship running smoothly (to which I would say my own occupation is an adjunct).  The passengers have to stop themselves from going mad with boredom.  Both sets of people are doing a thoroughly good job.

            There certainly is some crime on this ship, and even occasional outbreaks of disorder.  The people here are human beings, just like on Earth, except that they sometimes get giddier and edgier because they are living in such an artificial environment.  They drink alcohol.  They smoke weed.  Some of them chew khat.  So far, I have seen no evidence of heroin or cocaine, but it is probably only a matter of time.  I have seen no evidence either of organised prostitution, but I would be staggered if some-one could prove to me that it were not taking place, here, now, on the ship.  I might even be able to guess who is running it, but it would be most injudicious of me to name any names without evidence.  

            We have an ordinance in place which says that nobody is allowed to give birth before we reach our destination.  The more I think about it, the less I can understand why that was decided.  I would also be interested to hear what sanction we might take against any offender (and if anybody so much as mentions compulsory termination, I’ll have him ejected from the room).  I suppose it was to save the designers of our vessel the problem of having to cater for a growth in population.  You can bet that the population will grow once we disembark: that is the whole point of the exercise.  

            I wonder how long it will be before the new world ends up like the old one, with people begging for money in railway stations, and raiding their kids’ piggy-banks to buy drugs.  Everybody is self-funding here.  Everybody works; every job is valuable, and everybody gets paid a reasonable income. We have our own currency, which is intended to form the basis of what we will use in the new colony.  I am not sure who invented it.  It is based on coins rather than notes, and they have genuine noble metal in them.  We have a copper coin, called a penny; a silver coin, called a shilling, and a gold coin, called a sovereign.  Ten pence equals one shilling, and ten shillings equals one sovereign.  A sovereign is also called a pound.  We have machinery for striking more coins, and we have more bullion to make them with.  Both, of course, are kept strictly under lock and key.  Decisions to do with things like the money supply are made by an informal ship’s council, which includes the Captain and four senior members of the crew, plus five members who are elected by the passengers.  These currently include Kelvin Stark, Prudence Tadlow, an English lawyer called John Mallard, a Jamaican academic called Professor Timothy Gonzales, and a Scottish business tycoon called Kerr McLean.  I myself have the honorary position of Chairman, but I only vote if there is a tie.

            I must get back to work now.  I have to read some depositions and pleadings relating to a disturbance which took place at a Hallowe’en party a few days ago.  Kelvin Stark was present, though I am delighted to acknowledge for the sake of his reputation that he was a victim and not a perpetrator.  I notice that all the defendants in the case are female.  Counsellor Johnson is prosecuting.  I hope she gets some-one to sit in with her, because a bunch of women displaying their alcohol-fuelled lubricity and propensity to violence in public is not really her area of expertise.  John Mallard is defending.  He is a bit theatrical for my liking, but an honest and competent lawyer for all that.  I bet the public gallery will be packed, especially if Dr Stark is called as a witness.  

*

I have been charged with causing an affray and criminal damage at the Hallowe’en party.  I don’t care.  I would stamp on that bitch’s camera again if I needed to.  Somebody called Mallard is defending me.  I am told he is quite good.  He certainly charges enough.

            Back on Earth, Kelvin would have been fully liable for any charge brought against me.  It is a new experience for me to be granted full equality before the law with a human being.  

*

I have been charged with causing an affray at the Hallowe’en party.  What an absurd nuisance.  I don’t care.  I hate what that awful Vallance woman was trying to do to Kelvin.  It was so vulgar and tasteless, to say nothing of intimidating and intrusive.  I have been recommended by my lawyer to run a combined defence with the other woman who intervened.  This gave me a bit of a funny feeling, because – of all people – she happens to be the one who I made the complaint about because she was following me.  She was fine with me when we were talking to the lawyer.  There was no awkwardness at all.  She said she did not bear any grudge against me for the complaint, and that she might have done the same in my position.  The only thing I could not get out of her was why she had been following me.  I decided it was best to just let it pass.  

My name is James Holt.  I am the ship’s Chief Engineer.  Dr Stark has asked me to  write an article for his intranet site which explains how the ship’s propulsion system works.  My heart sank when he told me this was not allowed to contain any equations and must be written in language that an idiot could understand.

            I would say that there are two important principles to grasp.  

            The first, and the easier one, is how the ship’s power plant generates energy.  Our fuel tank is full of liquid methane which we scooped from the surface of Titan.  We heat this up until the methane molecules fall apart and we get carbon (which we don’t need) and hydrogen.  The hydrogen atoms go into a nuclear fusion reactor at very high temperature, where they join together to form helium.  This process generates an enormous amount of energy.  The contents of the fusion reactor are held inside a very strong magnetic field, which is what stops them from flying in all directions and vaporising the ship.  The energy from the fusion reactor is used to power all the ship’s systems, from the air-conditioning to the propulsion unit.  

            Inside the propulsion unit is the device on which our entire ability to reach another solar system is based.  A conventional rocket works by throwing material out of the back of it, and thereby generating forward motion by the reaction against the stuff that is thrown out.  Our vessel (which I will refer to by its unofficial title of The Irish Rover, since that is what everybody calls it) does not work like that.  I will try to explain how it does work by some analogies. 

            Imagine that space-time is a pool of water.  Imagine also that the ship is like an aquatic creature living in that pool of water.  The aquatic creature sucks water into itself and then squirts it out the back, thus driving itself forward.  So does the ship, except that the stuff it squirts is not water, it is space-time.  Consider another analogy.  You are a man trying to get across a large room to a chair on the other side.  The room has a very loosely-laid rug on the floor.  The rug represents space-time.  You can either walk across the rug to get to the chair, which is how vehicles such as cars, aeroplanes and conventional rockets travel, or you can grab the rug and pull it towards you.  What we are doing now is analogous to doing both: we are both flying towards our destination, and pulling ourselves towards it at the same time.  Each little bit of space-time that we compress immediately relaxes back to its original state after we have gone over it but, by that time, we have moved a bit closer to out destination and that is all we are concerned about.

            Dr Stark asked me to say how fast we are travelling.  We reached our maximum speed some time ago, and are currently travelling at about 0.9 of the speed of light.  We re-use the same technology that the ship’s motor relies on to control gravity and inertia and thereby prevent the occupants of the ship from being crushed to death.  If all the systems on board are working properly, the only people who can tell we are moving at all are those who can see an instrument panel or an astrodome (and access to both is restricted to senior members of the crew).  

            Our speed is not the only thing that determines how long it will take for us to reach our destination.  The real distance of 19.4 light years between Earth and the Achird system will seem much less because of the effect I have described.  To an observer on board the ship, the journey will appear to take about four years.  

            Dr Stark has also asked me to explain the changes that the ship will undergo when we prepare to land on Achird-gamma, but I will save that for when we are much nearer our destination.

*

My French tutor is called Pamela Collins, and she is a good teacher: very patient.  She has one rule, which is that no spoken English at all is allowed in class.  If we don’t understand something, we have to express our lack of understanding in French.  There are about ten people in the class, all of about the same ability.  When I am not contributing, I look at Pamela and try to work out what she is about.  I cannot decide whether she is asexual, or the world’s worst lesbian, or just very neglectful of her appearance.  Her clothes look like industrial cleaning rags that have been sewn back together. 

            Since I started attending her classes, I have noticed that she seems to have gravitated towards me in the refectory and the bar.  She doesn’t speak to me.  She doesn’t speak to anybody, but I have started to notice that she is there.  I tend to speak French more enthusiastically when I am slightly drunk.  If I engage her in conversation, she answers, but as soon as I stop, she stops.  She doesn’t drink much, either.  If it weren’t for her language ability, she would be completely unremarkable.  I can’t even visualise what she looks like when she is having an orgasm.  The only thing that Pamela has in common with Violet is the way she writes the letter f. 

            Last night we had a party to celebrate one year on board the ship, and Pamela was there as usual, but still did not contribute any merriment.  I thought for one moment that I had seen a tear fall from her eye, but I may have imagined it.    

*

That party last night was awful.  It was the worst I have felt since I was wearing the wedding dress at the St Martin’s Lane Hotel.  Kelvin, whether he was conscious of it or not, was basking in the glow of his celebrity.  Men were slapping him on the back and shaking his hand, and women were fluttering their eyelashes at him and swooning.  It was nauseating.  You used to be able to rely on Kelvin to behave like a surly teenager on such occasions, and be cold, distant, and uncommunicative.  He used to have no interest in what any-one else said, or did, or thought.  Too much adoration seems to be re-shaping him into a public figure, and I don’t like it.  The only other person who seems to see through him is Prude.  I must admit she went up slightly in my estimation after she made that formal complaint about me.  I have removed all my surveillance devices from her cabin.  I don’t feel threatened by her any more.

            Among all the drinking and dancing last night, the thought that I could not suppress and which made me saddest of all was about Horace.  I allowed myself another little peek at “him”, all four cells of “him”.  For “his” sake, I hope the planet we are heading for turns out to be habitable.  I sometimes look at Kelvin and wonder why we could not have stayed at home.  I remembered the night Horace was conceived, and I allowed myself another tear.  I did feel better for a moment.  I at least had a moment of clarity: I stood up, oxidised all of what little alcohol I had drunk, did a large acetaldehyde burp into the face of the person next to me, and went back to my cabin.  I lay on my bunk, waiting for the sound of Kelvin returning to his, which he did somewhat unsteadily about three hours later.  I can see him as well as hear him if I want, but it is somehow more compelling and often funnier just to listen. 

            He was singing The Irish Rover when he fell through the cabin door, slammed it shut behind him, and tottered into the bathroom.  He remembered to brush his teeth and drink his two tumblers of water (and he still has not worked out why he gets worse hangovers since he stopped living with me).  He took his clothes off, which was quite a struggle, and dropped them all on the floor. I happen to know that his cabin is on Pamela’s job-sheet for tomorrow, and so she might be picking them up.  He crawled into bed, and his singing gradually quietened.  After a while, I thought I could hear him crying again.  He said something, but it was so quiet that, even after applying various transformations to the data, I still can’t make it out. 

Pamela has started hanging around “The Farm”.   This is the nearest thing that the ship has to a large, open space.  Most of the food production is done by machines.  They scoot along on rails in between huge trays of plants and lights which are stacked close together, just wide enough apart for the plant they are growing to reach the required height.  We certainly have a varied diet of vegetables and fruit.  The only commodity we lack which causes complaint is rice (especially since many of the colonists are of Asian origin).  We even have tea and coffee growing onboard.  There are no weeds and no pests, but the machines plant, water, feed, monitor, and harvest (they even harvest the tea, which requires highly advanced technology).  The lowest level of The Farm is suitable for people to work in, and is also a place of leisure.  It is a bit like visiting a huge garden centre, except that the light from above is artificial (we get all the energy we need from the fusion reactor in the ship’s power plant). 

            Passengers and crew are encouraged to visit the farm as often as possible, as a means of avoiding depression.  It is divided into “climatic zones”, and this is mainly for the benefit of the humans rather than the plants.  There are three “forests”: tropical, temperate, and coniferous.  These have occasional, artificial rain, and the coniferous one has snowstorms.  Kelvin has started publishing the schedule for these precipitation events in The Rover, under the heading “Weather”.  There is a myth circulating that these trees are necessary to generate our oxygen, which I happen to know is not true.  I sometimes go into one of the forests and hide for long periods, watching out for copulating couples.  I have not seen Kelvin yet, but I happen to know that the ship’s captain is having a clandestine gay relationship with one of the staff in the sick bay. 

            Kelvin’s favourite spot seems to be the fishpond.  This is where they breed the carp which are our main source of protein. Like the agricultural area, most of it is automated and utilitarian, but part of it is landscaped and used as a place of relaxation.  There is an oriental-style bridge under a weeping willow tree that he and Prude like to stand on when they are at their soppiest and most nauseatingly sentimental.  I am pleased to note that Kelvin always seems to be stone-cold sober during these trysts.  One of the ship’s regulations says that it is an offence punishable by three days in the brig to dispose of waste in the fishpond (and this specifically includes pissing or shitting in it). 

            It would  be particularly embarrassing for Kelvin to be found committing such an offence.  As well as being well-known for his partial authorship of the mission that we have embarked on, he is also frequently seen in the public gallery in the ship’s law court.  I must admit that I enjoy attending court sessions as well.  The best ones are those presided over by Judge Fitzgerald.  He is a florid-faced Australian lawyer with silver hair, a beer-belly, a loud voice, and a perfect knack for allowing counsel, accused and audience to have their fun without ever losing his grip on the proceedings.  The prosecutor is usually a woman called Cecily Johnson.  She is well-spoken, conscientious, and has an impeccable academic record, but is also inexperienced, unworldly and idealistic.  During the hearing of a case of alleged public indecency, she broke the first rule of advocacy (never ask a question to which you do not know the answer) and had to ask one of the witnesses what “felching” was.  There was hushed silence among the audience.  The witness’s answer (which was so word-perfect that it could have been read from the Oxford English Dictionary) produced uproar which even Judge Fitzgerald took several minutes to quell.  Counsellor Johnson’s well-bred, ivory cheekbones turned bright crimson.  This case left quite an impression on Pamela, because I had been hiding in the tropical forest where it took place, and it looked at one point as if I might be identified and ordered to be appear as a witness. 

            As you might expect, half the crime on the ship is due to drunkenness, and this is partly Kelvin’s fault (a fact for which he assumes no moral responsibility whatsoever).  The ship has its own currency (which is expected to continue in circulation after we land).  Kelvin has started investing by renting growing-space in The Farm, and manufacturing-space in The Factory (the portion of the ship where most of the workshops are).  He grows barley and hops.  The barley he makes into malt which, with the hops, he then makes into beer.  More recently, he has also started making whisky.  Thus far, his whisky has been good for little more than removing stains or producing a burning feeling in the oesophagus, but his beers are excellent, and in great demand.  He is already getting a return on his investment and, if he keeps on like this, he will already be wealthy by the time we reach our destination. 

            He is even showing signs of a flair for marketing.  His first product was a bottled beer, a dark mild (3.5 per cent alcohol) with a full-bodied, sweet, nutty flavour and a chocolatey finish.  He called it Black Mischief, and promoted it by, among other things, serialising Evelyn Waugh’s novel (from which he had stolen the title) in The Rover.  Sales of the beer and the hit-rate on The Rover’s website both went up at the same time.  I felt sorry that the late Mr Waugh was not around to collect royalties.  Black Mischief is now established as the drink that many people have at the beginning of a session: too much of it is considered to make you feel thirsty.  In pursuit of something lighter and more refreshing, he came up with a pale ale which is almost like lager.  He called this Light Brigade.  The label has a picture of men on horseback and cannons, and the slogan “C’est magnifique, mais c’est n’est pas la-geeer”.  Pseuds buy it because they think this is clever, and the rest of us buy it because it tastes good and is 5 per cent alcohol.  I believe he is working on some others, but he wisely spends time getting the recipe just right before going to market.     

            Apart from semi-public sex, litigation, and getting drunk, another shipboard pastime (I won’t call it entertainment) is learning to drive.  In the era when we left Earth, cars drove themselves, or were driven remotely by powerful, central computers.  No such system will exist when we arrive (until we can build one ourselves) and so we are having to resort to old-fashioned methods.  We have a number of government surplus vehicles which passengers are encouraged to learn to drive in one of the empty cargo-bays.  This was mildly amusing at first but, once you have seen one person reversing into a pile of packing cases and cursing, you have seen them all.  Driving a vehicle is something that my algorithmic brain is particularly good at, but I pretend to get it wrong sometimes, just to maintain my cover.

            Ostensibly to earn money, I have volunteered as a chamber-maid. All the passengers have to have jobs.  This caused consternation at first, particularly among the academicians of the more abstruse subjects.  Egyptologists and orientalists (who are well-represented among the colonists, mainly at Kelvin’s behest) are allowed to work in their chosen field, as long as they can get people to pay to attend lectures.  A handful of them have succeeded in this, but most have failed.  Given its size and complexity, the ship has a crew which is very small in number.  Nearly all of them are employed in keeping it moving, pointing it in the right direction, and making sure that it does not strike any obstruction.  The passengers are supposed to be responsible for, among other things, keeping the living quarters and food preparation areas clean.  They have had trouble recruiting cleaners and “cabin refreshment operatives” (maids).  As soon as I heard this, I abandoned all my schemes to do with picking locks and scrambling cam-feeds.  In my role as maid, I can go almost anywhere unnoticed.  I am currently deciding whether it is worth systematically bugging all fifty-thousand cabins, or if that would just be taking a passion for thoroughness a bit far.  I don’t have that many microphones or cams, but I have my 3D printers in my luggage container (which we are allowed to access while we are travelling) and so I can make as many as I want.  It took a few days before I was given a worksheet which included Prude’s room, and a few days more before I got into Kelvin’s, but I have them both under surveillance now.  This has made shipboard life much more interesting (and sick-making).

            He has had his leg over, at long last.    

People have started to arrive.  We are embarked on what I suppose is now a military operation, and the starting point is this recently-out-of-mothballs RAF base in East Anglia, the name of which I am not supposed to mention (but I’ll say it anyway: RAF Waddington).  Pamela (I am still struggling to think of her as me) was told off for arriving early, and so she (I) gave them a sob-story about how her landlord insisted on ending my tenancy at the beginning of the month, and the person whose floor I had been sleeping on had thrown me out because she was going away, and so on, and so forth.  They have let me stay on the airfield in what appears to be a disused barracks from the era of World War Two.  It is bitterly cold, but that doesn’t bother me, and, for the moment, it is nice and quiet.   I have been doing some reading, as opposed to uploading.  I have a database which contains virtually the whole of Western Literature, but most of it I have not ‘read’, which means that I can scan it and quote from it, but it has not been processed by my neural networks and so I don’t really understand it or see how it fits into the scheme of things.  At the moment, I am reading Moll Flanders. 

            The reason I was told off for arriving early is that the base cannot accommodate more than a fraction of the colonists at once, and I arrived two days before my appointed time.  They have moved me onto an earlier flight.  The launch-site is on a British Crown Dependency somewhere.  I have only been told that, when we get there, we will be boarding the “ascent vehicle” immediately. 

            The other passengers so far have only arrived in dribs and drabs, but they all seem to be an assortment of academics.  Most of them look like the kind of people you see walking in the Yorkshire Dales.  I have not heard any signal from Kelvin yet.  I don’t know when I will see him next, because my plane leaves in a few hours.  My goods are being sent separately, along with every-one else’s.  I have obtained a certificate in exchange for my money (apart from the substantial portion of it I converted into gold and other precious metals a few weeks ago – that is hidden in my goods container).  My “goods” include one item of livestock, namely Rosalind.  She will also travel separately on the first leg of the journey and will be in suspended animation for some time.  My bags have been inspected, and I have been searched.  I am glad to note that there are no body scanners here.  I can walk through a metal detector without setting it off, but on an intimate body scanner my appearance does tend to invite comment.  The most effective way round this is to hack into the scanner-operator’s system and feed in a video stream which looks normal, but that takes an enormous amount of preparation.  The quick way is to exploit the weakness of the human element and create a diversion, combined with a subliminal suggestion that I did walk through the scanner but the scan did not reveal anything.  I am very good at this sort of thing, even with no eyelashes and little in the way of tits, but even for Violet it was always risky. 

            I must stop thinking about Violet.  Violet has been banished, probably for years.

            An altercation has broken out between the uniforms who are checking people in and a small group of grey-bearded, bespectacled lecturers from Lancaster University.  The uniforms are proposing to strip them of all their electronic devices, and they are claiming that they were not forewarned about this (which they were).  I blame Kelvin for this.  He does not often have half-baked ideas, but this is certainly one of them.  I hope he does not live to regret it. 

            The grey-beards have conceded defeat now.  One of the things they wanted to use their mobile devices for was to track the flight of the plane via GPS.  Pamela almost forgets herself and nearly blurts out, “It’s all right: I have got GPS inside my head.”  I don’t know if that would be more likely to have me arrested for being an android, or to make people think I am a human being who is also a nutter. 

            I have ended up on a different plane from the grey-beards, which is fortunate, because they had begun to sound very boring.  Because I have been moved onto another flight, they have put me on one which had a single vacant seat, owing to an intended passenger’s having been killed in combat.  All the other passengers are Gurkhas, serving in His Majesty’s Forces.  I have never met any Gurkhas before.  I am now frantically trying to download information about the Nepali language, before I lose contact with all my servers. 

            We sit in an ancient, un-pressurised, unheated, khaki-coloured, military transport-plane, facing each other in two parallel rows.  The Gurkhas are stony-faced, impassive, and silent.  Not one of them looks at me: not because Pamela is ugly, but because they always look straight ahead unless the situation permits otherwise.  They are just my kind of people.  We take off, without cabin crew, safety information, or in-flight movie, into a force 8 wind, and then execute a 270 degree, sharply-banked turn.   I hear not one intake of breath, or a single word of curse, prayer, or relief. 

            As soon as we are on our course to wherever we are going (which I have just worked out is somewhere to the south-east, possibly Indian Ocean, possibly Pacific Ocean) the Gurkhas undo their safety belts and begin talking animatedly.  I can understand the odd word, but it is too much a wall of sound to enable me to pick out any meaning.  I watch them instead.  They open their back-packs and take out bowls, bags, bottles of water, and knives.  They light stoves.  From somewhere, they produce large, dark-skinned, yellow-fleshed, plucked chickens, which smell quite well-matured.  They produce onions, ginger, garlic, chillies, potatoes, tomatoes, rice.  They chop; they boil; they fry vigorously, spraying the interior of the plane with eruptions of hot fat.  They add pungent spices.  Eventually, the chicken and potato curry simmers gently and aromatically in two great big pans, and rice as well.  The conversation becomes quieter and less animated.  We are served.  I have no mess tin, and no spoon.  I am given a mess tin, full of steaming food, and a spoon.  We eat.  It is scalding hot, and delicious.  We scoff the lot and suck the bones.  Everybody stops talking.  We snooze.  

            We arrive.  We disembark.  It is pitch dark, apart from a few temporary electric lights to guide us.  We are loaded onto a truck, and driven for about half an hour.  We are somewhere in the Indian Ocean.

            I can see what looks like a space-rocket.  We are in single file, waiting to get into it.  I still can’t detect any signal from Kelvin.  

Violet’s behaviour continues to perplex me.  Last night, after a plain supper, I was sitting on the sofa, trying to absorb myself in a novel, when Violet excused herself for a moment.  She was gone for a long time.  When she returned, she was wearing what looked like the most expensive set of lingerie I have ever seen.  I was stunned.  She strutted demurely across the room in her five-inch heels, and with every step she took, I burned hotter with lust.  She took my hand, and led me to the bedroom.  We made very long, slow love.  I was determined to kiss every square millimetre of Violet’s skin which was not covered with lace or silk, and I did, again and again: her neck, shoulders, lips, ears, arms, thighs, and all the parts that her tiny briefs failed to cover. 

            After I eventually entered her, she did something that I have never seen her do before.  She cried.  I watched as a single tear appeared in each eye, fattened, and broke in a trail down her made-up face.  I thought at first that she had malfunctioned, and the liquid might be silicone oil, but I then observed that it was definitely water.  I kissed her face, and rubbed my lips gently over the wet trails.  They were salty.  She was crying real tears. 

            A moment later, I thought she was going to say something.  She was stroking my face, and she seemed on the point of uttering something unforgettable, but no words came out.  I think she might have said “Oh, Kelvin”, but the sound seemed to die in her throat. 

            We were lying together in my double bed, and Violet had gone into a dormant state, which is her equivalent of sleep.  I was wide awake, and my head was brimming with thoughts.  Violet still had her new underwear on, which made me wonder if she was uncomfortable.  I could feel the lace, silk and the bones of the corset against my skin.  I re-lived the memory of seeing her parading across the floor: hair, make-up, perfect skin, lace, breasts, corset, silk, more lace, tiny briefs, lush curls of pubic hair, suspenders, stocking-tops, more skin, silk stockings, legs, heels.  There was something unusual.  It took me half an hour of staring at the ceiling in the dark to work it out, but I eventually got it.  Firstly, Violet’s make-up palette was different from usual.  It was pale pinks, bronzes, and touches of silver-grey and blue instead of the usual hot pinks and scarlet.  In other words, it was subtle and under-stated rather than brazen and tarty.  Secondly, the lingerie was white.  I have seen her wearing black underwear (always my favourite), brown, red, pink, orange, purple, blue, green, and even gold with black edging – but never white.  If it was supposed to be symbolic, I do not know of what. 

*

The security audit necessitated by the virus attack in the space lab computer is finished.  The launch has been scheduled to take place in twenty-eight days.  I have virtually finished assembling my equipment.  Most of the trips away from home were to the Highlands and Islands of Scotland.  This was not a holiday, in spite of the fact that most of the places I visited were whisky distilleries.  I was trying to obtain a second-hand copper pot-still, and some brewing equipment.  I eventually succeeded. 

            I will refrain from interspersing “assuming we live through the journey and the planet we are going to will support life” between every sentence which follows.  The still and brewing-vats are not for survival: they are for the business I want to set up once we have got past the stage of mere subsistence.  I am likely to be involved in setting up a chemical industry on the new planet, but the plant for this is communally-owned by the whole colony.  The equipment I have obtained is mine.

            As well as receiving training for the physically demanding part of the journey, I have been briefed on what is known about our destination.  It took less than an hour to impart, but it represented over forty years of studies and unmanned exploration.

            The solar system we are heading for belongs to a star called Achird.  It is in the constellation of Cassiopeia, and is 19.4 light-years from Earth.  Achird is in the same spectral class as the Sun.  The planet we are intending to colonise is Achird-gamma (i.e. the third planet in the solar system). 

            90 per cent of the planet’s surface is covered by water.  Data sent back from probes which arrived about 40 years previously indicate that the planet is temperate and habitable with a 95 per cent confidence level.  (In other words, there was a 5 per cent chance that we will be going to our doom on a planet that would burn, freeze, smash, irradiate, starve, dehydrate, suffocate, dissolve, devour, poison, infect or mentally destroy us).  Achird-gamma is uncannily similar to the Earth.  It is the same diameter to within less than one per cent.  It therefore has the same gravity and an atmosphere of the same density and thickness.  It even shares with the Earth the property that it is not a perfect sphere, being slightly wider than it is high by about 50 kilometres. Its year, at 346 Earth-days, is slightly shorter than the Earth’s, but its day, strangely enough, is closer to exactly 24 Earth-hours in duration that the Earth’s.   The planet’s axial tilt is about 21 degrees — slightly less than the Earth’s but, again, uncannily similar.  It has a magnetic field of about the same strength and orientation.  I am not an astronomer, but I know enough about space exploration to see that this is crucially important.  It means that the new colony, unlike, for example, a colony on the surface of the Moon, will not have to shelter underground from the radiation produced by solar flares: the planet’s magnetism will obligingly direct it towards the poles and away from the populated areas.

            Achird-gamma has one satellite, which is comparable in distance and mass to our Moon, which means that the seas must be tidal.

            Probably the most amazing thing about the new world is that it is practically certain to have life on it already.  Data sent back by the previous probes indicated that, as well as liquid water and a favourable temperature regime, the atmosphere was composed mostly of nitrogen, oxygen and inert gases, with a small percentage of carbon dioxide.  The levels of oxygen and carbon dioxide were entirely consistent with the established presence of plant life in substantial quantities.  Images sent back by the lander showed a geology and topography comparable to some of the more rugged parts of the Earth, and also seemed to reveal the presence of what appeared to be masses of vegetation.  I asked if I could be allowed to see these images, but was told they were all classified as top secret.  I then asked what evidence they showed of animal life.  I was told that they showed none.  The orbiting probe had taken many images of the surface, and had certainly found no evidence at all of civilisation.  What about micro-organisms?  How could we be sure that there weren’t deadly bacteria or viruses waiting there to infect the colonists?  The landing probe had certainly found micro-organisms, but it was only designed to count them and measure their diameter, not assess them as possible pathogens.  I decided not to worry about this and, if possible, to avoid letting anybody else hear it.

            After I had absorbed this very scant information, dispassionate man of science though I am, I found I could not help liking the sound of the new planet.  

I have had my first period.  I have “wasted” one or two ova, but it has definitely been worth it.  All the plumbing is now working:  my vascular system, my ovaries, my fallopian tubes, my uterus, and the chemical signals to get the parts of the system to operate in the right order.  

            This is such an historic moment that I have decided to celebrate in some style.  I am going to get the train to London, do some shopping, and stay at the St Martin’s Lane Hotel.  Part of the shopping trip will be to collect a dress from the designer.  It is ivory-coloured patterned silk, long, with a corseted bodice, long sleeves, a four-yard-long train, and a veil.  Yes, it is indeed a wedding-dress.  I am going to take it back to the hotel, and wear it for a while in the room.  I do not care if that sounds silly.  No-one will know – not after I have swept the room for surveillance devices.  I will then put the dress away and take it with me on the journey.  I will wear it when Kelvin and I get married.

*

I am in the hotel-room, and I am wearing the dress, which is even more stunning than I expected.  Deciding to do this was a mistake.  I have never felt so terribly lonely in all my existence.  I have never felt so distant from Kelvin.  I have never felt so misunderstood and under-valued.  I thought I would feel foolish and self-conscious.  I don’t: I feel angry and desolate at the same time.  After a while, I felt so low that I realised I was in the state that would make a human cry.  The production of tears for me is voluntary, but I did produce them, copiously, for several hours.  To my surprise, I did feel much better afterwards.  I also had quite a large quantity of alcohol (a bottle of Bollinger followed by three stiff gin and tonics) and I let it stay in my system until my non-algorithmic brain was quite addled.  I am almost sorry that there was no-one there to see me. I am heartbroken that Kelvin was not there to see me, and had no idea where I was or what I was doing or how I felt.  I wonder what a highly-advanced android in a wedding-dress getting drunk and crying on its own in an expensive hotel-room looks like.  

*

I have decided to conceive before we set off, here on Earth.  I am very annoyed with Kelvin for having forced me to embark on an exercise of such inconvenience, to say nothing of danger.  I will be sorry to leave this planet.  

            To increase the quality of Kelvin’s sperm, I have sent him a fake email which purported to come from the facility where he will be doing his training for the ascent.  It said that, in view of the strain on his muscles, he needs to cut his alcohol intake to less than ten units per week.  He seems to have fallen for this.  

*

Kelvin has been cutting back on booze for two weeks now, and Tonight Is The Night.  

We did not have anything particularly special for dinner, because that would have tended to increase alcohol consumption.  After we had left the table, he picked up a book, and I disappeared for a few minutes.  When I went back into the sitting-room, I hit him with the bridal lingerie set I had bought from Rigby & Peller.  I was pleased with the reaction.  By the time I had walked across the room towards him, his tongue was hanging out.  It did not occur to him to ask me why I was wearing white: my underwear he likes the best is usually black or red.  

            I knew I was ovulating: with my ultrasound, I can “see” inside myself.  I don’t develop follicles: my ovaries work more like those dispensers that artificial sweeteners come in.  

            I wanted him to make love to me for a change.  Fortunately, the lingerie and the shoes were working.  He was as stiff as a ram-rod, but he was content to tease himself and take things slowly.  When I have stockings and suspenders on, he likes to kiss my thighs just above my stocking-tops, and run his tongue under the suspenders.  While I was enjoying the tingling and the somewhat unaccustomed attention, my head was full of all the things I wanted to say, and wanted to hear.  I felt like crying again, but not out of pure misery: it was misery tinged with enjoyment and contentment.  I was also excited about what we were about to achieve.  

            I let myself float and Kelvin continued to make love to me.  He coaxed me from my lacy white briefs and kissed me on every inch of my exposed skin.  

            When he eventually thrust into me, he did it so slowly and deliberately that I almost wondered if he had worked out what was happening.  I used an internal optical camera to watch the moment of conception.  I cried again when it happened, and allowed myself a single tear, which Kelvin did not notice.  I watched the embryo all the way on its journey down the fallopian tube, after which I employed a special trick to divert it away from my uterus and into another container which human females do not possess.  After twenty-four hours, it had divided into four cells, each of which appeared to be in perfect condition.  I then froze it, and the container became arguably the world’s smallest refrigerator.  I have nicknamed it Horace.  I do not know what sex it is.  I do not know when I will be able to implant it and let it gestate.  Hence, I do not know when the child will be born.  I do not know when Kelvin and I will be able to discuss names.  

In spite of Kelvin’s dalliance with the unknown woman, I have been happy today.  I recently returned from the android equivalent of hospital where I had two enhancements, one of which was paid for by Kelvin and the other – the more expensive – by me.  The one Kelvin paid for is wonderfully useful: I now have an ultrasound imaging system, with emitters and detectors in my fingers, toes, head and abdomen, software to Fourier-transform the signals, and a data bridge to enable the non-algorithmic part of my brain (the part I’m using now) to “see” the images.  I have been round the house touching things and looking at them with my new sense.  The most interesting thing I discovered was a jar of couscous which we hardly ever use, inside which Kelvin had concealed a bottle which turned out on further inspection to contain vodka (some cheap stuff from the corner off-licence).

            Kelvin arrived home from work, and I hugged him just after he had come through the front door.  This made him suspect that either I wanted something or had broken something which belonged to him.  What I was actually doing (as well as making a genuine display of affection) was trying out my ultrasound on him.  The emitters do not make any vibration which is detectable by humans.  I got a very good three-dimensional image of the inside of Kelvin’s torso, and discovered that he had probably skipped both breakfast and lunch: his stomach was completely empty. 

            ‘Shall I make us some dinner?’ I offered.  He nodded.  He was not talking.  I went into the kitchen to get a bottle of wine (a nice red Bordeaux) and poured us each a glass.  I was planning to cook fillet steak (Kelvin likes his almost burnt on the outside but raw in the middle, and relishes the sight of blood running out of it).  I was also planning to get Kelvin through dinner without letting him get too drunk. 

            While I was waiting for the chips to cook, I went back into the sitting room to see what Kelvin was doing.  He was not reading.  He was not even drinking very quickly.  He was twirling his wine round and round in the glass, and staring towards the corner of the room.  I could see in an instant that there was no point in asking him what was on his mind.  My best guess at what he was thinking about was that it must be something to do with his paramour and, whatever it was, it was making him sad.  One possibility was simply that she had dumped him, but any woman who would have done that to Kelvin would have had to be such a bitch that he would never have had anything to do with her in the first place.  A better hypothesis was that he had found out that she was not able to join the “Alpha Project”.  I had no hard evidence for that, but it fitted with all the behaviour that I could observe. 

            Kelvin came out of himself a little bit over dinner, and at least had the decency to praise the food I had prepared.  After I had loaded the dishwasher, I took the wine bottle away from him and poured him a small, decoy brandy.  He seemed to be getting sleepy as well as miserable, but he looked at me with a bemused expression.  After he had taken a few sips and was beginning to look a bit more spread-out on our big sofa, I made my move.  I slipped onto the floor in front of him and started to massage his thighs, gently at first.  He tensed, but then he always does.  He always starts by thinking that he does not want it.  He relaxed after a minute, and soon after that he was getting into it and I made the strokes a bit harder, gradually moving from his outer to his inner thighs.  I unzipped him and, in indecent haste, pulled his trousers and his boxer-shorts down and off.  I took his socks off.  I started gently to massage his cock and balls and, at the same time, I slipped a finger into the cleft of his buttocks.  He began to moan with sexual arousal, never realising that I was using ultrasound to check out his prostate (it was fine – no enlargement or abnormality).  I noted with pleasure that his hydraulics were in good working order and seemed unimpaired by alcohol.  I wanked him slowly but firmly and gently kissed his balls for a little while, but never let him get anywhere near ejaculation.  He groaned some more, and I gave him the look that meant ‘Shall we go to the bedroom?’  He did not say anything, but I saw that he meant ‘Yes’.  I was thoroughly wet by then.

            I could offer Kelvin exactly the attire he finds the most alluring: skirt off to reveal stockings and suspenders; shiny high heels; blouse open, and bra left on but pulled down so that my tits were hanging out.  I lay down on the bed, he stuck his cock in me, and he fucked me slowly but deeply.  We both came quite quickly.  Kelvin looked visibly relieved, and not just sexually. 

            Kelvin got up to get more booze, but I did not mind.  He finished the opened bottle of wine, offering me some but I knew he wanted me to refuse, otherwise he would have had to open another bottle.  He then had a couple of stiff brandies.  He fell asleep in my arms, without getting up to brush his teeth, and without drinking a big glass of water – with him a sure sign of mental exhaustion.

            When his breathing was slow, regular, and loudened by the effects of the alcohol, I took my arm from around his body and moved down the bed to near his feet.  I decided to try out the other enhancement: the one Kelvin did not know about.  I have started to be fitted with a basic vascular system.  I took out a little pouch of dermal anaesthetic which I had taped to the inside of my arm earlier, and applied it generously to a patch of skin on the instep of each of Kelvin’s feet, where he has a couple of nice, prominent veins.  I gave it a few minutes to take effect.  I opened the index finger of both my left and right hands and extended from each a sterile hypodermic needle which I very slowly and carefully inserted into each of the veins.  I began to suck blood from his left foot, metabolised the alcohol, added a tiny bit of glucose and saline, and then pumped it back into his right foot.  When his blood alcohol level was down to about 20 milligrams per hundred millilitres, I withdrew the needles, gently wiped the skin, and put on some stuff to cover up the holes.  However Kelvin felt when he woke up the following morning, he would not have a hangover.  

            While he was asleep, he started to have a vivid dream, and moaned something a few times.  It sounded like “Lieutenant Thorn”.