Reed

Conditioning.

Thank God for conditioning, for duty, for the regulations … I ignore a voice in my head that screams 'Fuck the regulations!', because that's what got me into this (I nearly said 'hole' but that would be too apposite) situation in the first place.

I ignore it but the memories are torture, every moment on the Bridge a torment beyond endurance.

Fortunately my external self functions extremely well on auto-pilot. I'm proud of the way I monitor the scanners and carry out regular routine maintenance of the targeting systems. I report any findings to the captain or his SiC with the same impersonal efficiency as ever. The tactical officer to die for, that's me.

My team in the Armoury seem to notice nothing amiss. I did struggle a bit to beat Crewman Fletcher at chess the other evening, but that was because Hoshi walked past us in the Mess and instead of moving my queen to take the rook that Fletcher fondly believed he was moving up unnoticed on my flank, I moved it blindly to stand between king and knight. The king's face is impassive; it shows nothing. The knight's stallion, by contrast, is full of expression, its mouth open in a silent scream of exhilaration.

Fletcher was definitely puzzled by that little faux pas. He spent a good two minutes trying to spot the trap, sure there was one. So there was, and I'd fallen into it. It took me all of my skill to rescue the situation, and in the end it was a damn close call. The game had attracted some attention by the time it ended, and there were a few sighs as the master finally brought matters to a proper conclusion. Fletcher beamed regardless, knowing he'd run me hard, and the spectators who agreed with him clapped him warmly on the shoulder. Trip was watching too, and his hand on my shoulder rested there for just an instant too long – though not long enough for anyone else to notice. To me, it felt like an eternity.

Normally I don't say anything when I win, but just gently touch the base of the winning piece to the defeated king. I certainly don't use enough force to tip it over – an action that's vulgar and overrated. Tonight, however, Hoshi was at a table a short distance away. I know how acute her hearing is, how good she is at picking up even the faintest emphasis. I didn't even have to raise my voice when I murmured 'Check – and mate.'

I had to leave, after that, before I lost my fragmenting control; before I crossed the Mess Hall, ripped down the zip of Hoshi's uniform, and tore off everything that stood between me and her beautiful body. I know Trip would have been a heartbeat behind me.

That scene would definitely have made a memorable entry in the Captain's Log. I wonder if there are classification markers? That one would certainly merit 'For Adult Viewing Only'.

I know Trip was trying to catch my eye as I left. I didn't dare comply. His eyes are as blue as periwinkle flowers.

In the Jeffries tube a day or so later he smelled of sandalwood, as he always does. As he'd been working hard in hot, cramped conditions, it was overlaid with sweat. I'm sure he had no idea how much self-control it took for me to lie alongside him and focus my attention on the wiring relays. Now and again, much as I tried to avoid it, our bodies brushed accidentally. It was like touching a live wire, but as well as the physical sensation, all the images I'd tried to so hard to bury in the back of my mind came rushing back over it like a tsunami. His body sliding against mine, his mouth … God, his mouth, his tongue, flickering like flame over all the most sensitive areas of my body. His voice, raw with passion, breaking down the last barriers of my resistance. His hands, that are so skilled on any engineering project, constructing desire in me like a multiple-headed atomic missile whose every detonation he personally supervised.

Needless to say, I made my excuses and left as quickly as I could.

Unfortunately, I had to return to duty on the Bridge; it's just as well that nothing occurred that required me to stand up for the remainder of my watch, because the other half of my undoing was almost directly opposite me. Hoshi, with her hair tightly tied back as per regulations, neat and professional and untouchable – Hoshi, who had been naked beside me and under me and over me, who had spread her private parts for my delectation and then taken full and active part in everything that our sinful imaginations could conjure up. I could still smell her, I could still taste her, and my groin tingled and pulsed with the memory of the welcoming heat of her body. It was little more than luck that I got through the watch without disgracing myself, though there were moments when I feared a mad dash for the toilet might be a necessity. That night, the punch-bag in the gym almost split with the efforts I made to wear myself out before I finally crawled into bed, but even then there was no respite. Even after I'd spent my desperation alone in the shower, my body still ached with longing: not just for the primitive ecstasy of sex, but for the whole vast experience of … I can only call it 'intimacy'. Alone in the dark, I had no refuge. I remembered everything. Just as I'm remembering tonight.

In my heart I believe I'm heterosexual. I love women's bodies. It was the Section that uncovered my 'Dark Side', the desires I was conditioned to find abnormal and disgusting. My conditioning in that particular respect helped me to submerge any fragment of pity or remorse in loathing for my partner; the pleasure (for I soon learned there was pleasure) was payment for my shame and degradation.

So, where now, Malcolm Reed? Where now, when one of the bodies in the bed with you is that of a man you like and respect, and you can't despise him or loathe what he does to you or hopes you'll do in return (for in this, as in all things, there are preferences and limits yet to be established…) Where now, when you find his kisses deeply arousing, when his touch sends thrills through you and you watch him making love to a beautiful woman and can't decide which of the two naked bodies excites you more?

Hoshi… I cared, and I still do care, but now what was clear and simple has become complicated, muddied with too many uncertainties and tinged with a lingering sense of fear and shame. My father was quick to judge, in this as in so many other things, and I can still remember his scathing words on the subject of a neighbour's son who made no secret of his homosexuality. We're supposed to have outgrown our prejudices on this particular subject long ago, but beneath the surface of things, the old hatred lingers. And I, like the rest of humanity, cannot wholly escape the past that made me what I am.

But still, she was utterly beautiful. When I look across the Bridge I know how beautiful she is when all she is wearing is the glow of arousal. Not many women, I suspect, could enter into such a situation for the first time without some sign of hesitation or false modesty, but once committed she was as openly and unselfconsciously sexual as one of the carved goddesses on a Khajuraho temple frieze. She submerged herself in every moment, in a way few women I've known could ever have done. Even afterwards, there was no subtle change in her behaviour towards me, no indication that she regretted it or wished to forget. Quite the contrary, in fact. At risk of sounding unduly conceited, I think she enjoyed our illicit little escapade every bit as much as we did – and wouldn't be at all averse to a repeat of it. A realisation that fills me with as much anxiety as excitement.

I was as nervous as I can ever remember being when I touched Trip in front of her. One hint of judgement, of repulsion – dear God, I don't know what I would have done. Certainly not what I did afterwards, nor could I have even stayed in the bed with them. Now my defences were down so utterly, I was terrified by the degree of exposure I felt. Not physically – men will be men, and there was always going to be an element of competition, but Trip and I were pretty evenly matched in that department – but in my closely-guarded soul.

But there was no judgement. There was only acceptance, and between the intoxication of that and the near-desperation of crossing the line the Section had drawn in me, I was lost. I don't know if my abandon scared him – I know it scared me. I wanted to act and found I was acting as myself. So I ask myself again, where does that leave me? Where does it leave us?

What will happen when the next chance comes? Trip's always been eager for adventure, for setting foot on new worlds. It seems he's encountered one that enchants him. Is he aware of the danger, I wonder? I know I am. Lieutenant Paranoid strikes again, thinking and feeling too much. What if my history strikes again? What if I consent to continue this (because the chance will come, I know) and once again the curse comes home, and two more ex-friends are left to loathe the monster behind the mask?

I don't know. All I know is that they accepted me and I accepted them. Acceptance has not been in such ample supply in my life that I dare squander it when it comes. Maybe in that hot scented night I was a little drunk with it. Now, however, I'm sober. I see the risks. For them, as well as for me.

But don't they deserve to make their own judgements, take their own risks? Having trusted me, do they deserve to have that trust flung back in their faces?

Where does lust end and love begin? Is this just a monumental piece of idiocy, or the chance of a lifetime?

My judgement is fatally compromised. It went up in flames in a single night, a night of unbelievable and unguessed-at passion. Now I lie on my bunk, tormented in body and soul, the ice of my discipline at war with the fire of my desire.

Maybe elsewhere in the ship Trip and Hoshi are locked in the dance of love. Against the blackness of my eyelids I see their bodies, beautiful and naked. They desire me, as I desire them. But that way, as the old saying has it, lies madness.

I will not go.

I dare not.

Yet…

The End?

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