Pair of Queens

Pair of Queens

Note to the Reader: This is my entry for Geek Pride; I couldn't decide on only one of my favorite concepts to geek out about, so this story has a dual focus on the theoretical physics of supermassive black holes and on a historically contemporary pair of ancient British queens: Elizabeth I of England, and Grainne Ni Mhaille, Pirate Queen of Ireland. I'm about to take some truly outrageous liberties with all of the above.

I stand with both feet firmly planted shoulder-width apart on the creaking deck of my ship, one hand ever on the helm, eyes never straying from the Event Horizon dead ahead. I'm proud of this ship, of its state-of-the-art technology so well-masked by a whimsical design borrowed from an ancient era.

"Hooooly shit," you breathe, your voice barely a whisper, though it has the power to make me shiver with delight. You have just arrived on deck beside me, and immediately you're as transfixed as I am at the spiraling lines of light refracted by the enormous gravitational pull of our destination; one most humans not aboard this ship still believe to be our doom.

Your face pales as we stand together confronting what is, for terrestrial creatures like us, the ultimate Void: the mouth of the supermassive black hole that is the true center of our Milky Way Galaxy, Sagittarius A (SagA for short), whose Event Horizon is even now in view. Beyond this dark gateway are secrets that have been almost entirely closed to humans until now.

After a long pause full of terrified wonder, you return to a much earlier conversation we left unfinished:

"Just reporting in before I clock out for the night, Captain. And not even that terrifying portal on our horizon will make me forget you still haven't kept your promise to tell me the story behind the... unique... design of this ship," you remind me, gently poking my ribs with your elbow.

I'm not surprised you're curious - anyone would be, to see this seeming anachronism from the Age of Pirates sailing incongruously through the velvet-black expanse of space. It's as if Queen Anne's Revenge herself had been plucked by the gods out of her rightful place on the terrestrial seas of centuries past to explore galaxies instead of oceans. We dodge asteroids rather than coral reefs, but the pioneering spirit of adventure remains the same.

"Oh, all right," I reply with a smile. "You want to know why I use the coveted Phantasm technology to disguise our revolutionary, top-of-the-line spacecraft as an ancient pirate galleon, of all ridiculous things. I don't blame you for wondering, but the answer may disappoint you, though it has deep meaning for me."

"Captain," you reply, and as always it thrills me when you call me that, "it wounds me that you think I would dare trample your fragile feelings. I won't tell you if it does disappoint me - I'll just mutter into my tankard of ale about it at Bones later." As always, your excoriating sarcasm tickles me; I let out an undignified snort.

"Hey, nobody makes you order it in a tankard. You do that because you secretly always wanted to be a pirate, and you love this design," I retort triumphantly.

"Quit stalling, or I'll call for a Mutiny," you threaten, the adorable dimple in your left cheek quivering with the effort to keep your face straight.

"Don't make me put you in your own Brig again, Quartermaster," I murmur beside your ear, acutely aware of mutual desire unfurling its exquisite petals inside us both. "But fine, here you go: Grainne Ni Mhaille, the Pirate Queen of Ireland in the second half of the 16th century, is my revered ancestress."

You do a double-take at that. "Grace O'Malley? The actual Pirate Queen?" you reply, letting out a low, awed whistle that appeals to my vanity. I'm a little surprised you've heard of her, actually; your heritage is quite different from mine, and our ancestors were unlikely to have stumbled across each other back in her day.

"Aye, that Grace O'Malley," I announce with a swashbuckling sneer.

"It explains the hair, as well as the ship." You take a tress of my blazing red mane in one hand and lift it to your face, breathing in what I hope is still a pleasant scent though I've been sweating more than a little in the past few hours, most of it as we muscled our way more or less unscathed through an asteroid belt.

"Funny how she's always mythologized as a redhead despite her nickname being the Old Irish version of 'Baldy,'" I retort. "It was Queen Elizabeth I of England who was the famous redhead queen of her time."

You wave this away with palpable contempt. "Nah, Grace cut her hair or shaved her head when she first went to sea with her dad, so it wouldn't get in her way or betray her as a woman. Imagine the inconvenience, back when most of society perceived gender as strictly a binary you were assigned at birth and expected to conform with for your entire lifetime! I get why it was important to procreate for survival of the species, but once we started overpopulating? Ugh, who could stand being trapped in a body that can't adapt and a society that won't mind its own business? What a nightmare! Anyway - it's just a synchronicity that Grace and Elizabeth were contemporaries."

I had finally turned my head away from the terrifying wonder ahead of us, somewhere about the midpoint of this soliloquy, to goggle at you.

"Now I know you always dreamed of being a pirate," I retort, laughing in disbelief. "No way you picked up those obscure tidbits of trivia by accident!" I'm also a little concerned you might be fighting a panic attack; who wouldn't be, in the face of SagA on the horizon? You normally don't indulge in speeches during work hours, though I am quite accustomed to them at other times.

"OK, guilty - some kids loved dinosaurs, some loved dolls, I loved pirates. What can I say?" You laugh with a shrug, making my heart swell with the joy you bring me just by existing. "Anyway, knowing you, I bet you feel more than a passing sympathy with your notorious ancestor; particularly with how she had to take her courage in both hands to visit her Nemesis in the faint hope of protecting everything she cherished," you add softly.

I feel the weight of your gaze come to rest on my face, and for just a moment I regret the very reason I feel so close to you; no one in this lifetime has seen me as fully as you do and still accepted me. I cherish that as the gift it is, but its intrinsic vulnerability makes me even more anxious in moments like these, so fraught with hope and dread in equal measure. I stiffen my spine, pressing my lips together so they won't tremble.

As usual, you're on target. There is a wide superstitious streak in me, as is traditionally the case with sailors, and I am not above invoking my ancestors if I think it might help my own ends - after all, why not? It may not be of real help, but it certainly does no harm.

I think again of Grainne, having to humble herself before her natural rival; England's 'Good Queen Bess' was an exceptional ruler by any standard, and although both she and Grace were women who led their nations, Elizabeth ruled an Empire; the Pirate Queen was ruler of her own domain, but could not hope to measure up to the Virgin Queen of England in a power struggle. That undeniable sense of inadequacy is yet another way in which I feel a profound kinship with my ancestress.

Yet circumstance forced Grace's hand, as in many ways it has mine; she had no choice but to visit her rival queen and plead her case, not only for her child's release from an English prison, but also for her own right to exist as a ruler in Ireland independent of English rule.

Daunting as that was for her, I reserve the right to self-pity - Elizabeth was human, no matter how powerful; my Nemesis is a supermassive black hole that sits like a dark seed in the center of our galaxy.

"I dream of Grainne, you know," I murmur, surprised to hear myself speaking aloud.

"I know you dream, and I know you sometimes snore, and I know your dreams can be violent - I still have the bruises to prove it," you retort, kindling a fire in my blood that heats my face like an oven. "But you've never told me what you dream."

"Oh, then I must - you'll definitely enjoy it," I tease, determined to embarrass you in equal measure. "One dream in particular I wrote down in my journal, it was so lifelike. But I can't tell you here - you'd be utterly useless. Even more so than usual."

"You have to wait for privacy? So it's a sexy dream about the Pirate Queen! Must be my birthday," you reply - and despite the usual sarcasm in your voice, I know by the sparkle in your deep eyes that your interest is genuine.

"It's not just for you this time - now that I see you know at least the basics of her story, I'd love your help tonight telling it to the crew. I'm thinking of acting out the confrontation between the two queens before the festivities heat up; it inspires me, so I'm hoping it will do the same for the rest of you too. What do you think?" No one else is currently at the helm with us, so I reach for your hand and pull you close.

"You want me to play a historical queen of Britain about whom I know barely anything beyond her name?" you laugh, snaking your arms around my waist and stepping closer so our pelvises press gently against each other, concentrating the unspooling heat at our centers and multiplying it exponentially. "Riiiiighht. Well, what the hell - you know I'm always up for a new challenge. Just fill me in on the important parts, and we can ad-lib the rest like we always do. Everyone loves our standup comedy routines," you reply with an exaggerated wink.

I roll my eyes, but can't help smiling broadly. Your flexibility is one of many things I adore about you. "You still have a little time to bone up on your history," I assure you, caressing your full bottom lip with my thumb while my other hand fondles your buttocks. "I'll stay here for probably another hour, rechecking the charts against our current coordinates and heading."

"You do realize you have a whole Navigator whose job it is to do exactly that," you chide, taking my face between your hands, always worried that I'll drive myself to exhaustion again. I arch one stern eyebrow, and you smile into my eyes while you back up with both hands raised. The inerrant ability you have to go right up to the line without ever publicly crossing it is almost uncanny.

"Any way I can persuade you to let me help you finish up here?" you ask, still backing away.

"There's nothing to help with," I protest. "It's just a recheck for my own peace of mind. Go on ahead, read up on the visit Grace paid Elizabeth, make sure we're set up for the orgy, and I'll meet you at Bones when I'm done." I wink and blow you a kiss. 'Bones' is the affectionate nickname we've given our Mess Hall, which naturally transformed early in our voyage into an anachronism all its own: unless the whole space is in use for some formal occasion, which is quite rare, there's always at least one game of dice (made of actual knuckle bones, in at least a few cases) going at a rough-hewn table in a corner.

"Aye aye, Cap. Have you decided yet if we'll be taking part in the orgiastic frenzy this time?"

I can feel myself blush, which annoys me - I haven't been an ingenue for at least a decade. "Not yet; I need to get a feel for the vibes in the room first. It's a crucial moment, and everyone's on edge. They might need to preserve a little distance from you and me to feel comfortable taking the Plunge; on the other hand, they might need the comfort of getting to know us on a whole new level. I can't be sure which it is until we're in the room all together."

"And that's why you're the best Captain in the fleet," you say, nodding in agreement. "Don't take too long here - it's the biggest night of all our lives, no matter which way it goes!"

I wave you off with a grunt, already bringing up charts and schematics on holographic screens at the helm. Keeping my mind busy with the everyday details of shipboard life helps keep the sense of unreality at bay when I glance up and see the universe spread out in every direction, the true hull of our ship completely invisible from inside or out. Every somatic sensation is kept as true to the illusion as the most innovative technology of our time can make it.

I've had time to grow accustomed to the seeming miracle of this voyage, to nebulae swirling around us like indigo mists and stars scattered in every direction like precious gems suspended in zero-gravity against vast swathes of black, violet, and midnight-blue velvet.

Yet none of that was enough to really prepare me for the visceral terror that seized my brain stem when I was at last confronted with the yawning abyss I fully intend to sail us straight into. The reptilian brain still lurking in the basement of every human skull woke screaming in mine the second I was confronted with SagA's infinite void, watching light itself bend and break and swallowed whole by its swirling maw.

I think of Grainne again, of the Pirate Queen forced by circumstance to seek out her natural rival rather than running from an enemy vastly more powerful than herself. She was used to facing the terrors of her day from her earliest childhood, when maps were incomplete and often warned 'Here Be Monsters' in the spaces beyond all known landmarks. My father kept an antique Spanish map under glass in his library; it dated from the late 1500s, the time of Grace and Elizabeth, beautifully illustrated beyond the known borders of the time with legendary monsters like the dreaded Sea Serpent and the ferocious Kraken. I had spent countless hours as a small child dreaming up and reenacting imaginary confrontations between the legends and nightmares of those ancient times, which still inspire me now.

We in our far less innocent time have been driven to our likely Doom by the same sort of desperate, brazen courage life demanded of my distant ancestress. Yet the Nemesis we've feared so long (needlessly, we all hope) is not the monstrous Kraken, threatening to crush our ship to splinters in its deadly embrace and drag us all to Davy Jones' Locker, but rather the phenomenon of Black Holes - equally invisible, equally impossible to elude once caught, and believed by most to be equally lethal.

Once not so very long ago, most humans believed that a Black Hole actually behaved somewhat like the mythical Kraken; that it could exert its insanely powerful gravitational pull like a tractor beam, pulling clouds of gases, dust, stars, planets - anything it saw that it wanted - into its insatiable maw. Now, however, we know that in fact the mouth of a Black Hole is very small relative to its overall size, and only objects that fall directly into it are doomed to be swallowed. And yes, "fall" is the correct verb, rather than "pull" or - even less accurate, although a hundred percent sexier - "suck".

My mind wanders back as I'm soothed by the familiar routine of double- and triple-checking the flow of numbers and formulae. I'm remembering the example Dr Nieves gave us during a training lecture before we embarked on this fateful voyage: if Earth herself collapsed into a black hole, her Event Horizon would be roughly two centimeters across. That gives an idea of the relative size, although it hardly needs to be pointed out that a supermassive black hole is, in fact, supermassive.

Yet our SagA is very dainty compared with other supermassives; Messier 87 is an outstanding example of one on the opposite end of the scale, with an Event Horizon the equivalent of millions of miles across. It takes weeks or even months for observed objects to fall into that Gargantua once its gravity begins to exert its inescapable pull; contrast that with the few minutes it will take our ship to fall into SagA, and you have an idea of the relative sizes.

The Law of Conservation of Matter & Energy had not yet been formulated during the reigns of Elizabeth and Grace; it states, put in simplistic terms, that nothing - neither matter nor energy - is ever truly created or destroyed, but merely transformed. A liter of H2O remains a liter of H2O, whether in the form of ice, water, or steam.

I still get chills to recall the lecture that changed my perspective on the world forever, how matter-of-fact my high school physics teacher was in pointing out the most stunning aspects of our reality: "Sensory input does not give us truly accurate information," they had said, "which is why it's always dangerous to put too much trust in our own eyes, ears, etc - experiential data is what by nature, class?"

"Subjective," most of us chanted back in cadence. I could never understand how anyone could sound bored in this class; I was on the edge of my seat, waiting for more, and the teacher, whose name I've forgotten, did not disappoint:

"Exactly, subjective. The closest thing to objectivity early science could achieve was intersubjective verifiability: hence the importance of frequently repeating experiments before giving any definitive results. It's a rough form of triangulating data to arrive at the closest we could get back then to a precise answer."

I walked out of that class with my mind whirling, seeing my normal surroundings with the eyes of a tourist. Science proves that not only are things not always as they seem, but in fact they are never as they seem to our limited senses.

Some students couldn't accept such abstract concepts; my own first adolescent crush was among them, and I recall how passionately I argued with them, knowing I would never be able to respect someone who chose deliberate blindness over an uncomfortable truth. But I had been young and clumsy.

"Basic grade school science proves it's true!" I had shouted, then made myself calm down to express my thought before I lost track of it: "Remember how we used to draw atomic structure in crayon on our science tests? Green protons and yellow neutrons clustered together as little red electrons spin in orbit around them, like a microscopic galaxy?"

My ex rolled their eyes at me, already obstinate. "Of course, and I know those diagrams - and others - are not literal. I'm not stupid," they snapped.

"I know you're not, or I wouldn't bother talking to you," I retorted. "Listen, please - it's not just fucking amazing, it's important to any field of study! Part of the point of those non-literal diagrams is to show how even the densest Element -"

"Osmium, according to the Periodic Table, or under certain conditions, Iridium," my ex had interrupted, presumably to prove that in fact they were not remotely stupid.

"Exactly! Oh, shit, I forgot what the conditions are - but that doesn't matter now," I agreed enthusiastically. "Anyway, even Osmium is actually composed of mostly empty space; can you imagine? Even the most immovable mountain is in continuous shivering motion on a subatomic level!" I was delirious with the thrill of this complete change in my understanding of reality; my ex, not so much.

"You really love hearing your own mouth," they sneered. "TL/DR: our own science teaches us our 'reality' is ultimately an illusion. How the fuck is that helpful, though? You're not solving anything."

This decades-old memory still has power to sting, I notice ruefully; it had not been long after that we broke up, and though I had been miserable over it, I had already known we were never really going to be good for each other.

Personal feelings aside, I could never regret choosing this path, since it is this essential truth all our hopes now rely on: Nothing is ever what it seems, and nothing is ever truly lost.

Zooming out from micro to macro again, the pattern repeats throughout nature: Evaporation looks like disappearance, or at least diminution, but in fact is not. Winter in moderate climates once looked like death, but was instead the time for roots to grow strong and deep under the earth as trees slept.

That is the fundamental, please-gods-may-it-be-truly-universal Law to which we aboard this vessel have pinned all our hopes. Yet we are not unusual for a species as foolishly, desperately optimistic as humanity - the First Law of Thermodynamics is also the scientific phrasing for the worldview of so many animists and panentheists throughout our species' relatively short history.

We simply expanded the popular human hope for some form of life after death to include a hope for life after entering a Black Hole. I mean, what is a Black Hole if not a physical manifestation of Death? An impenetrable mystery; a void from which nothing ever returns once it has crossed the threshold. We assume it to be an end because we cannot see a continuation; but all the evidence of the cosmos points us to myriad possibilities we are too limited, too primitive, to perceive yet.

When Grainne Ni Mhaille sailed the oceans of Earth, it was widely believed there was nothing left to be discovered beyond the lands and waters already known; most people of that time saw it as madness to explore beyond the borders of my father's old map. Yet there were whole continents still undiscovered, waiting to be explored (and, tragically, colonized by a younger, more brutal strain of earlier humanity); so much vaster and richer a world than anyone of the time imagined.

If only we had done things differently then, we might not now be in desperate search of a habitable home for those of our species who remain.

More often than not throughout human history, it's been those branded by their peers as lunatics who lead us to our most revolutionary discoveries; we just hope to continue the tradition.

Satisfied at last, I close the holographic display and sign off, greeting Miles, who will take his turn at the helm for the next few hours.

***

Bones is as raucous as ever, I'm happy to note as I clump across the wide planks in my tall brown boots toward our usual table near the hearth.

Everyone except those who are sleeping after a long shift is present; that's rare, though not unexpected tonight of all nights. The growing proximity of SagA is fresh in everyone's mind, along with the immediacy of our plunge into its shadowy heart; we need each other more than ever, in every way.

I wonder what my pair of ancient queens, who had both led their people into battle, would think of the way we boost morale in our society; more particularly aboard this vessel. We are a crew of twenty-seven; small enough for true intimacy on any and every level, though the sexual aspect of that would almost certainly have shocked even Grainne, who laughed in the face of the moral strictures of her time.

I suppose our modern social ethics are closer to Greco-Roman than anything from the Abrahamic eras, and I thank all the gods for that every day - twice on group sex days.

An orgy on the eve of a momentous occasion is nothing new to humanity, although in Queen Elizabeth's Christendom all such joyful romps were officially banned and condemned - as if a realistic deity would ever care what kind of sex a mammal is having or with which other mammal(s). That was all hypocrisy, of course; the kind of foolishness that never applied to the powerful or the rich - it was just another way to control the masses.

We are far more pragmatic now, and it pleases me to imagine that one direct benefit of evolving that way is we have exponentially more orgasms as a species than they ever did in the Dark Ages. I am convinced that's one main reason our longevity has increased so much from the pitiful less-than-a-century lifespans our ancestors had. Orgasm is the true Fountain of Youth; floods of beneficial hormones and increased blood flow are just two of my reasons for believing so, and they're enough on their own.

I note plenty of cushions, blankets, and mats stacked neatly against one wall, ready for our very adult sleepover, and I wonder what I would ever do without you.

I admire the old-fashioned fireplace illusion just about every time I come in here, with its sweeping mantel and crackling flames; tonight is no exception. I breathe deep of the cozy scent of apple woodsmoke; it all seems so authentic to our easily fooled senses.

You look like someone with a good buzz already going, and I wonder if you've indulged in your favorite Highland-brewed Scotch in addition to the hefty tankard of whatever is in front of you now. I certainly wouldn't blame you; today was your first real look into the Void, and the old saying is true: when you gaze into it long enough, it gazes back. Not many are brave enough - or witless enough - to confront whatever it reflects unfazed.

You wave me over, your face lighting up when you spot me in the warm, genuine welcome that still makes my heart flutter every time I see it.

I make my way toward you slowly, taking time as I regularly do to greet the two dozen crew members here by name, asking how they are and making time to hear the answers. I know that when someone is in their cups and goes on too long, either you or Duncan at the bar will intervene without seeming to, smoothing things over with your different brands of charm and personality.

This crew is my family; you all, and this ship, are my world now. Yet I am still only one person, and I'm feeling rather more humble than usual after staring into SagA for the past few hours. We are closer to it now than any of the reports we read from others ever came, and we're no longer casually flirting - we're ready for commitment.

"Well met, child of O'Malley," comes your drolly quaint greeting; your expansiveness tells me you've certainly indulged in a few fingers of Scotch and probably at least one full tankard before this one; I plan to catch up and surpass you in as short a time as possible.

"Hello yourself," I reply, sliding into the booth across from you in the inglenook. Duncan is already on his way over with the Irish Car Bomb I ordered as I passed the bar. After that, I've already requested an Irish coffee. My whole day - perhaps my whole life, in many ways - has had this Irish theme, though admittedly I'm spanning more than a few centuries of antiquity between my 16th century Queen and my 20th century drinks. Still, I'm more than happy to quite literally ride the shamrocks into the Event Horizon.

"I realized after we spoke - the Pair of Queens; you named this ship for our ancient Queens Elizabeth and Grace, didn't you?" You lean forward as you speak, excitement lighting up your face. You always seem to revert to the adorable wide-eyed kid you must once have been after you put a couple of drinks away; it's endearing.

"What, you want a medal for that deduction?" I snort.

"The hell would I do with a medal? You know what prize I demand, Captain!"

"You don't get to demand a damn thing, Quartermaster," I laugh, blushing and looking up to thank Duncan as he hands me the shot glass and beer stein.

You start up a rhythm, thumping the floor with your boot and the table with one hand, so I take my cue and stand to salute the room with my drink, laughing in the face of fear as every good captain must. I drop the whiskey into the beer, shot glass and all, and down it to frat-house-adjacent chanting from the audience you instigated. I set the stein down with a triumphant gasp and wipe my face with my sleeve, then lean down to murmur in your ear, "You won't outperform me tonight!"

"But I can damn well try," you retort as you clap, adding your own wolf-whistle to the general melee.

"Another, Cap?" Duncan asks as he deftly sweeps up my empty stein, "or d'you still want the coffee next?"

"Both," I reply with a wicked grin. You were right - we all need this boost to our morale, myself as much as anyone else; you're wise even in your drunkenness, and I'm grateful.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Captain?" you ask, tilting your head in the puppylike way that makes me want to pat your head and roll you into bed, not necessarily in that order.

"Am I? One sure way to find out," I reply, daring you to act boldly.

You take my dare as enthusiastically as I knew you would, a new flame of reckless adventure kindling in your lovely eyes just before you stand, take my hand with ostentatious ceremony, and sweep me with you to the middle of the mess hall. You leap atop the long rectangular dining table, then lean down and extend your hand. Not to be outdone, I take it and leap up beside you, giving Duncan an apologetic shrug; he's asked more than once that we set a better example of decorum for the crew, and I have tried, but this is an exceptional occasion.

I'm a little surprised at how fast the hubbub subsides, all eyes expectantly on us. It won't be the first time we've entertained the crew with songs or stories in the artificial evenings we still observe aboard ship, but the atmosphere is imbued with electric currents of urgency, our survival instincts clamoring to avoid the very fate we came here to claim. Honesty really is the best policy 99 times out of 100, especially when staring down eternity; so I address the room in earnest:

"Hail and well-met, crew of the greatest ship of our time!" I begin with a flourish, toasting the room. "I know you all feel the same surge of anxiety I do now that we're about to meet our Destiny together, for better or worse, and take the plunge into the heart of Sagittarius A. We stand together now on the very edge of the unknowable Abyss we deliberately sought out, our lives and fates intertwined," I take your hand, lacing our fingers together in a visual metaphor.

It is my duty as Captain to keep morale intact, to motivate and inspire the crew as a whole, especially now that the crucial moment is at hand; you told me once that you see your real job as doing the same for me. I hope I prove to be as good at my job as you are at yours. You give me a bright smile and a reassuring nod; you're ready.

"So it's time you all knew the true meaning of this ship, with its strange name and stranger design," I continue. "I named Pair of Queens after two of the most fascinating women to rule ancient Britain: Elizabeth the First, Virgin Queen of England," with this I make a deep bow to indicate that I will be playing her part in our ad-libbed performance, then turn slightly toward you, trusting you will take your cue as you always have and run with it somewhere better than I ever imagined.

You draw yourself up to your full height, so you are slightly taller than I, and narrow your eyes at me in quizzical challenge. "Virgin Queen? I, Grace O'Malley the Pirate Queen, will personally investigate that dubious claim during our private audience!" you declare in a theatrical hiss.

The crew laughs and whistles, and I know it's at least in part because they don't often get us performing as a same-sex couple in historical reenactments. Our generation is so fortunate in our versatility, which has eliminated most of the needless conflicts our ancestors had over sexuality. Even more fortunate, perhaps, in having gained almost universal understanding of both gender and sex as wide, vibrant spectra rather than the either-or binaries dictated by oppressive cultures in the past.

Greek culture was the seminal influence on all of Western civilization, and we owe them a lot of gratitude. However, Greek Dualism did set a series of thought-traps, and just about everyone fell into them for a very long time.

For millennia, western understanding saw everything through a Dualist lens of opposites locked in perpetual struggle: Day vs Night, Light vs Shadow, Male vs Female, Life vs Death, and the one that always seemed to get humans entangled in needless violence - Good vs Evil. What science ultimately confirmed, however, is that these were never enemies at war, but partners in the steps of a cosmic dance. Bookends at either extreme of a wide, beautiful span of variations on a common theme.

Take Light and Dark, for instance - either one in the extreme causes blindness. It is through the interactions of the two that a balance is created, allowing illumination. The steps of the dance create tension in the space between the partners, and it is in that Between, in finding and striking the right balance, that we all live our lives. What's true for the visible spectrum of light is also true for the spectrum of human sexuality and, separate though related, the spectrum of gender. It was a great relief when our species as a whole took a deep breath and let go of the oppositional lens of Dualism, finally allowing everyone the freedom to express their true uniqueness.

Once the genetic mutation was artificially introduced that allowed humans to change our dominant sexual characteristics back and forth at will, almost like clothing, it spread rapidly throughout the next generations until now it's considered a rare handicap to keep one specific gender identity for a whole lifetime.

I can only speak for myself with any certainty, of course, but I cannot imagine such a thing. I relish the freedom and flexibility of having the whole wide, beautiful spectrum of human sexuality available to suit my whims as well as my practical needs. Some days, today included, I need the comfort and blatant sensuality of a voluptuous female body wrapped around me like a warm robe; other days, I want to thrust my own throbbing cock deep into my partner's warm wet center, or I need to build a shelter in inclement weather with nothing but my muscles to help. And most days, I'm somewhere in between, without giving it much thought. So far as I know, it's largely the same for everyone here aboard ship.

I am very much enjoying the sweet cadence of your alto voice and your trim, girlish figure; you tend to prefer a masculine form when there's a high risk of sudden physical upheaval, which is always the case during a voyage. I have no complaints, of course - but neither do I have a preference, so the change is refreshing.

You are giving a dramatic synopsis of the events that led our Pirate Queen Grace to such desperate straits - her youngest son captured and charged with treason by her most deadly enemy: Sir Richard Bingham, English governor of Ireland. Rule of Ireland was in dispute at the time, Gaelic nobles such as Grace in the west refusing to recognize English authority despite Elizabeth's determination to rule.

"First thing you need to understand," you explain to our rapt audience, "is how crazy this situation is: two powerful women both claiming to be rightful Queen of Ireland. Not since Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni Celts, who burned London to the ground and routed the legions of the Roman Empire, has there been even one such powerful female leader in Britain. Now not only are there two at once, but these two are in opposition."

"You can imagine my surprise," I say, stepping forward and adopting what I imagine might have been the haughty mannerisms and accent of an English queen with a chip on her shoulder as big as the Tower of London, "when this sea rat from a backwater on the western coast of Ireland had the balls to petition me to release her offspring, and even beyond that, to get Governor Bing-Dick off her back. She was so brazen she wore her crimes as part of the title she claimed - Pirate Queen," I snort with the deepest contempt I can muster.

"And like I keep telling you, your Majesty, my kinda piracy is really just trade conducted like an extreme sport from later centuries," you interrupt, rolling your eyes in character. "I don't attack just any ship at random - I target specific ships with specific goals."

"Indeed, and with great success!" I agree, arching one eyebrow and eyeing you speculatively as I walk in a tight circle around you on the table. "That might just be the reason I let you keep breathing rather than dreaming up a creative public execution for you. Could've made Bing-Dick euphoric by giving him a two-for-one, even! You and your brat, facing death together. But your skills at piracy are too useful to me to justify such a needless mess."

"Hmm, is it that, or did you find something you liked while inspecting my merchandise?" you inquire seductively, while still somehow projecting your voice so the whole room can hear.

I pause behind you on the table and slap one of your luscious round ass-cheeks as loudly as possible, grinning at your startled yelp. The room erupts in bawdy delight.

"I am very good at multitasking," I murmur over your shoulder, relishing the visible chills that dimple your skin at the soft touch of my breath on your neck. "Would anyone be surprised if it's both? We're around the same age, both powerful women in a time and place ruled almost exclusively by men."

"There are so many things we hold in common that would never have any chance of being understood by any other human being we know," you reply, your eyes darkening with desire.

"As you stated rather eloquently in your first letter," I agree, coming around to face you.

"I didn't expect you to be my pen-pal, though," you say with a soft smile. "All those questions you sent back! Took me forever to answer them all."

"Time well-spent, since that was when I decided to grant you an audience."

"I had to entrust myself to you body and soul, coming into your throne room knowing you could have me dragged to the Tower of London and tortured, even executed, without a breath of consequence attaching itself to you."

"Exactly. That level of trust and courage always was a soft spot for me, the Virgin Queen, with a vested interest in staying alone to preserve my power. Why else would I consistently indulge the ramblings of someone like Sir Walter Raleigh? Pompous prick," I snort, knowing he is widely considered to be among the most likely of Elizabeth's courtiers to have served as her lover.

"Why, your Majesty, do you not enjoy riding that pompous prick after all?" you demand.

"Anyone can become bored by routine," I shrug. The thunder of oohs and ahs is almost worthy of a rap battle; that thought amuses me greatly. "And you, Grainuale," I breathe, using her nickname to bolster your obvious arousal as I pull you in close against me, one arm around you and the other hand threaded into your luxuriant hair. "You, my brave Pirate Queen, are the last thing anyone could consider routine or boring. One hour of your average day aboard ship requires more courage than all of my nobles possess in combination." I slide my hand through your hair, then back up to your beloved face, grazing the strong yet delicate line of your jaw with my knuckles.

"And you, my Good Queen Bess, are the only ruler who could command my respect and allegiance. You alone are more powerful than I in my world, yet you hold it with such elegant stoicism it almost makes me forget how lonely you must be; the sacrifice of never having children of your own to whom you could pass on your mighty legacy is especially heart-wrenching to me," you breathe these words as intimately as you would in bed, holding the whole room in thrall while you place your hand over mine on your cheek.

"Don't you dare pity me," I reply, my tone stern but my voice shaking as I fist my hand in your hair and pull your hips sharply toward mine. "Your child was the weakness that made you vulnerable to me; I do not envy you that burden. My people are my children. And, motherhood aside, you well know that emotional solitude is in our time and place a by-product of being uniquely powerful - especially as anyone other than a rich white male."

Your pupils are so dilated with desire now that I can barely see the lovely irises around them. You speak as Grace, but also as yourself; I can see the two overlapping and feel the roleplay adding fuel to the ever-burning passion between us.

"Pity?" you echo, sinking to your knees before me. "Never that; just the recognition that bearing and raising children is, in our time and place, more often than not a central aspect of human life. By choosing not to have them, whatever your reasons might be, you exercise a freedom most can't dream of." You reach up to put gentle hands on my belly, then stretch your fingers to span my waist, making me hiss in surprise and arousal.

You let your hands drift around my waist to my ass, then drag your nails gently down over the backs of my thighs and knees in an exquisite tease as you continue speaking: "Prioritizing your position as Queen of the British Empire, upon which the sun never set at one point in history, is another choice most can never fathom having. You are as close as our species came back then to a living goddess; I hold you in the highest respect."

"You speak of respect, and you kneel before me here and now, yet you refused to bow to me in my throne room," I challenge you gently, with just a hint of menace in my tone.

"Would you bow to Cleopatra in the Halls of the Pharaohs, your Majesty?" you retort with a daring grin.

"Not in public, but I think I might in private," I laugh in response. This references a game we often play in bed, and it suits the mood of the room to perfection. We have not kept our intimacy a secret - that would be impossible - but we have never been quite this overt in displaying it either. Here at the edge of the Universe, reckless abandon rules the day. There are no more secrets here.

"The same choice I make, then," you say in a sultry tone with a broad wink that draws hoots and applause from the crew.

"And an effective choice - my whole court is shocked and titillated, or outraged, or both - when I grant your every request after our private meeting. They know I never give something for nothing, after all."

"I rarely give anything to anyone willingly, but I give you myself, body and soul, as well as my promise to attack only your enemies in my future piratical endeavors. I don't have to preserve a false dignity here and now, though," you continue, switching at the last sentence to speak as your own dear self. "I trust you, Captain, as Grace had to trust Elizabeth, and I offer that trust freely. I know you face this strange new adventure as blindly as the rest of us, and I know you're also afraid, as any sane human would be. No matter what happens, you have my gratitude for sharing this voyage with all of us and your bed with me." You take my hand in yours and kiss the palm, making my whole arm tingle.

I feel the heat of my flushing skin and the swelling lump of tears in my throat as the rest of the crew follows your lead; one by one, they come to the table, take my hand and either shake or kiss it, then take a knee on the wide plank floor of the mess hall.

My heart is so full it's hard to breathe, and I'm grateful words rarely fail me at times like these. I want you all to know my true thoughts, so I try to meet the eyes of every person here as I speak:

"There is nowhere else I would rather be than here with each of you on the brink of humanity's next great adventure; if we are right in our optimism, we're about to be reborn into a new dimension, and the possibilities are infinite. If we are wrong and we die, what a way to go! As for tonight, let's love each other well. 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die' - King Solomon knew what was up!"

Cheers erupt from every throat in the room at this, and once again I have to blink back the sheen of tears blurring my vision.

The proximity of Death has always been among the most powerful aphrodisiacs known to humanity. So many children conceived after funerals, courtesy of the instinctive drive to propagate the species and survive.

I hand-selected every crew member aboard this vessel; I love each of them dearly, though not so far with the same degree of intimacy you and I have shared. When I pitched them on joining this last-ditch-hail-Mary effort to preserve our species by diving into the dark seed at our galaxy's center, I gave each of them the same stark honesty I gave you; and for their own reasons, they too took this chance.

I am moved by all of you, by all of this, and maybe by the soul of my ancestress, so vividly invoked by your performance tonight.

I lean down to whisper in your ear; not for permission, which has never been a relevant concept between us, but in invitation.

We have never yet taken part in the group sex aboard ship, though we always give it our blessing by hosting for awhile before slipping away to our sumptuous private bed. But I knew the moment I walked into Bones that tonight is the right time for me to break that habit, at least once. I believe and hope you feel the same, but I'm not going to assume so; I told you I would not decide for certain until I felt the vibe of the crew, so I'm letting you know now and asking if you would stay too, with me.

You draw in a sharp breath and meet the challenge in my eyes as you always do - with excitement, never dismay. You nod, and I turn to face the crew again, who remain expectant and relatively quiet.

"I consider each of you a precious member of my family, not just my crew," I announce. "No one here can ever be replaced. You might have noticed the cushions and blankets stacked near the wall; you all know what that means!"

You, meanwhile, have been unbuttoning my shirt. I straighten my arms to let it fall from my shoulders once it's open, and by unspoken agreement we leave my corset in place; it covers three big scars that are untimely reminders of violence. Cheers go up when my shirt falls, and I laugh.

"You're all very welcome to stay," I continue, seeing that some are enthusiastically stripping while others still seem stunned and uncertain. "But as always, it's your choice. If it helps, these are my orders tonight: decide how you most want to spend this last night in our native galaxy, and go for it. Your decision is sacrosanct, no matter what it is, always of course with equal respect for the choices of others." I pause here, both to let the words sink in and to take my next drink from Duncan.

"Now!" I say, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand and handing the empty beer stein back. "Duncan, you're off duty! Everyone is responsible for their own drinks, and let the orgy begin! With that, Quartermaster, would you be kind enough to relieve me of the rest of my clothing?"

There are a few gasps, and I see Duncan is still worried about the mess an orgy will make of his precious shipboard tavern, but this announcement is followed by a wave of delighted cheering. Someone throws a boot in the air, and I take a moment to worry about potential injuries before shrugging it off with abandon.

"Aye aye, Cap'n! You never gave a more welcome order," you reply. "Just one rule still applies, Crew: make love, not war - absolutely no fighting! Anyone throws a single punch, they'll be spending the night in the Brig," you warn the crew, who reply dutifully as a murmur of excited conversation begins.

Everyone begins to open up, getting drinks under Duncan's watchful eye as he joins in by starting his own striptease atop his precious bar. I put my fingers in my mouth and let loose a wolf whistle in appreciation of his muscular physique, then step out of my uniform pants just as you spring back to your feet atop the table and toss your hat to the crowd.

Your eyes are dancing with enjoyment, that dimple in your left cheek very much in evidence, as I beckon you closer and begin to undress you in turn. It has been too long since I enjoyed your womanly form, and the moment I see the soft curves of your lovely breasts I feel my whole body flush with delighted heat, my clitoris pulsing already.

I'm feeling greedy and grateful at once, so I lean in before I finish unbuttoning your shirt to kiss the hollow of your collarbone, then fondle your tits through the lace of your bra; they are a perfect handful for me, and I write my name on each with the tip of my tongue, teasing one nipple with my thumb. Your gasp of pleasure ignites a deeper fire in me, and I pull your other nipple into my mouth, feeling it pebble under my tongue as I release the last few buttons and slip your shirt off your shoulders.

You are not wearing a corset, though you have a few scars of your own on your back. I'm very proud of you for the confidence you've worked to gain since those injuries, which did more damage to your mind than to your body; it took quite some time before you were comfortable going topless even as a man because of those scars.

I take a moment to press a tender kiss to your mouth while unbuckling your belt, a familiar process. Once you step out of your pants and kick them playfully toward a corporal friend of yours who seems to be struggling with his own belt, I turn you around and kiss each of your scars, briefly but with meaning I know you can feel. Your eyes are shining with unshed tears when you turn to face me again, reaching out to put your graceful, slender arms around my neck.

Of all the kisses we've shared over the years, this one is among the most passionate. I think it's turning us on to be sharing our first shipboard orgy with this crew we have come to trust and love during the many months and years of our voyage; how else could I explain the tremulous quality of each breath I now take? You are beyond beautiful in your nakedness, but that has always been true to me.

"Captain?" a hesitant voice reaches me through my fog of desire, and I look away from you to see Taylor, our chief engineer, standing with several large cushions in their arms as two of their junior team members drag a large mat toward us. My head is so full of hormones and desire it startles me a little that we're still standing on the big table.

Poor Duncan! I think, darting an apologetic glance his way that he is far too busy getting sucked off to notice. I jump lightly down to the floor and tug on your hand so you'll join me.

"Yes, Taylor?" I reply with a grin. They've always been diffident; one of those socially awkward genius types with more empathy than is necessarily always good for them. You were surprised, and perhaps a little dismayed, when I chose them for a leadership role; but people are what I understand best, and I knew all they needed was a meaningful vote of confidence to channel their sensitivity and intelligence into one of the best team leaders I've ever worked with.

"Would you do us the honor of allowing us to make love to you?" they ask, blushing like fire but not losing eye contact, as the junior members stand a little awkwardly behind them, Jory looking like an eager puppy while Lucille looks as if she's half-heartedly trying to hide.

I beam like a star at this boldness - I could not be prouder of Taylor's personal and professional growth; you are frankly astonished, as your face clearly states. Taylor sees this and suddenly loses their nerve. "That is - I mean, unless -" they stammer, looking at the floor until you step in close and bring their chin up so you can press a kiss to their lips.

"May I join?" you murmur in your irresistibly sexy voice. Taylor's blush deepens to a hue I had not suspected possible, and I resist the urge to laugh at how adorable they are.

"O-oh! Of course, ple- please, Quartermaster," they stammer, and then all of you look back at me.

"If that's your pleasure, Taylor, it's also mine," I promise, letting my fingertips glide down their face, tracing their collarbone to the hollow of their throat, then down in a sensual invitation. "First, let's get comfortable," I murmur, tucking my first two fingers into their waistband and tugging gently.

You are faster than they are, and I sense the mischief in you rising up as you pull their uniform pants down before they know you're there. They gasp and smile, their eyes large and luminous, framed by long, sandy lashes. I know the hierarchy of the workaday ship is probably too ingrained in many of the crew for them to be immediately comfortable with me or with you this first time, so it falls to us - and especially me - to make sure they all feel as beloved as they are, starting with Taylor and their juniors.

"You are divinely lovely, Taylor," I tell them, letting my eyes speak to how deeply I mean this as I take their hand and kiss the palm, then place my hand over theirs and guide it to cup my breast. Taylor's face goes pale, then red again, their breath coming fast as they squeeze, so gently at first I can barely feel it. "Mmm, very nice - now harder, Taylor," I say, careful to maintain my bedroom voice and steer clear of my Captain voice.

I glance down, knowing you're about to start working your own magic. Taylor resembles a Faerie with their small bones, big eyes, and slightly pointed ears; now, they look drunk on sex hormones - fair skin flushed and eyes glazed with desire.

Sure enough, you finish warming your hands and lick two fingers before inserting them into Taylor's warm center, making them gasp and open their eyes very wide in panic for just a moment before I pinch one of their nipples lightly and distract them with a deep kiss. Soon enough, their eyes are half-closed in pleasure and I see your face buried between their legs, your hands grasping the backs of their thighs as they suckle contentedly at my breasts.

"Lucille," I call softly, beckoning her closer. She generally prefers her womanly form, even more often than I do; given the phenomena of her enormous tits and ass, I can see why. Hers is a body built for exquisite pleasure, and I've heard scorching tales from those who've been lucky enough to have a turn with her before to confirm it. Now that it's my turn, there's one thing I have always wanted to do with those beautiful big breasts. You're not the only one occasionally possessed by mischief, as you and Lucille are about to discover; the thought makes me smile.

Taylor notices Lucille's hesitant approach and turns toward you for the moment, so I can give her some attention. I cup her beautiful globes in my hands, admiring how abundantly they overflow my fingers and how she gasps with wanton pleasure as I flick her dark, hardened nipples. Then I lower my face to her generous cleavage and push up with my hands until I'm smothered in the velvet soft flesh; I rub my face between her tits like a cat, then without warning take a deep breath and blow it out against her glorious cleavage. I know she loves this, but she probably doesn't know that I know; I'm banking on it breaking the ice faster than anything else I can think of.

Sure enough, she squeals in delight, and Jory shrieks, "MOTORBOAT!" in yet another throwback to a previous century. This just happens to be, for whatever reason, one of Lucille's particular kinks. I am delighted by the rosy flush of her dusky skin and the hectic gleam of shocked joy in her big eyes, so I indulge myself again until I'm properly dizzy and need to lie down on the mat against the cushions. You and Taylor have already been down here for a little while, as you coax them to a shattering series of orgasms that will no doubt leave them so relaxed they won't be able to feel shy - possibly ever again.

"My turn?" Lucille asks breathlessly.

"Please," I say as I beckon Jory to come closer too. He joins us with enthusiasm, plunging his head between my legs and making me gasp in surprise - he really is like a puppy, I think as I chuckle low in my throat.

He also licks with the enthusiasm of a puppy, but the skill of an older stud dog, I observe to myself in astonished bliss a few moments later as he sucks gently on my swollen clit, then inserts his tongue into my wet vagina. Lucille has been doing things to my breasts that I never thought of before, and will have to ask her to teach you. My nipples are quivering in what feels like their own small climaxes, and between these two I'm soon crying out wordlessly as uneven waves of ecstasy engulf me, shaking like a temple bell at a festival. I would never have guessed it would be Jory and Lucille who would jointly give me my first orgasms of the night; it's a delightful surprise.

You and Taylor have finished 69ing, meanwhile, and once I can speak again I pull you and Lucille together on the mat. "Oh, Lucille," I beg, "Please teach the Quartermaster what you just taught me about breast orgasm."

Your eyes were a little sleepy, as they are when you're freshly sated, but at that they light up again in a hurry.

"Breast orgasm?" you repeat. "Yes, Lucille, please teach me!" She giggles, blushing with pleasure and pride. I leave you both to it as I return my attention to Taylor, involved in a slow kiss with Jory, whose erection is as enthusiastic as ever.

I take Jory in my mouth, and it's not long before he shouts, "Oh no, I'm coming!" and tries to pull away. I growl in the back of my throat and squeeze his ass cheeks hard, refusing to let go until I swallow every drop of his load. I'm very much in practice, since you've been leaning male throughout the voyage. He arches his back and shrieks in ecstasy, filling my mouth with salty, creamy cum that goes down smooth as a smoky bourbon over rocks. His legs seem to collapse beneath him, and he joins me on the mat, his face as shocked as it is adoring.

"You ok, Jory?" I ask, a little concerned. His face lights up in bliss, dispelling my momentary worry.

"Literally! I have never, ever been better," he replies fervently if a little ungrammatically, making me laugh. Martine, our traditional French chef who has probably drunk a bottle of his favorite red by now, comes up behind Jory then and pulls him to his feet, then begins nuzzling his neck. Jory grins over his shoulder and gives me a nod, off to delight other crew members with his talented tongue, no doubt.

Taylor has gone to the bar, I see when I turn around, and is watching Duncan pour Bailey's into a steaming coffee mug, a martini beside them. I join them and push myself close against their slim, wiry back, letting my tits pillow their shoulder blades as I grind my pelvis against their ass, my hands exploring the multiplicity of delights between their legs and relishing every sigh and moan.

"Is that for me?" I murmur in their ear, enjoying the responsive shudder.

"You know it is, Captain," Duncan says with a wink. "They just came over to ask what you prefer, so I knew you'd be on your way over. About damn time, too," he added with a sultry look my way. We have always flirted outrageously when off-duty; we knew each other even before I met you, and enjoyed each other more than once back on Earth. Until tonight, of course, I haven't fucked anyone but you since the voyage began, but I knew I'd be coming to Duncan eventually tonight. I've missed his rough, calloused hands, his girthy penis, and his rumbling laughter during pillow-talk.

But first, I want to explore the rarity that is Taylor; able to express the full range of sexuality at every moment, with literally everything a human could want at once. I fondle their clit with one hand while the other teases their cock, wondering at the sensations that so visibly pass through their body and across their face. I lean in and murmur into their ear again, loving the delicate rosy flush of their dimpling skin in response; what exquisite sensitivity!

"Mind if Duncan joins us?" I ask.

"I hoped he would," Taylor gasps, seeming already close to a climax. I nod to Duncan, who lifts them in his brawny arms and lays them out like a charcuterie board atop the bar. Their eyes are wide and startled at first, but it doesn't take me long to get that glaze of pleasure back in them. Their tits are small and firm, the nipples neat points flushed at the tips; Duncan covers one in his large hand, his mouth busy with the other, while I explore the pleasures further down.

Seeing Taylor laid out on the bar has inspired me; I reach into the cold storage for whipped cream and dip my fingers in, dropping a generous dollop onto their pubic bone and spreading it tenderly over every delicious organ they have, then put my fingers in their eager mouth to suck before I direct my full attention to lapping up the cream. Their cock is erect, small but perfect, twitching at the cool touch of the cream in a way that makes my clit tingle in response. I tongue their clitoris thoroughly first, then close my lips around the throbbing bud and suckle, thrilled as they gasp and writhe in pleasure.

"Duncan, come down here - there's enough for us both," I call, diverting his attention from their breasts. I want to bring Taylor to simultaneous cock-and-clit orgasm, which I can only imagine must be an absolute paradise of sensation. For that, we need two mouths.

Duncan takes over at their clitoris, while I take their cock as deep as it will go, starting slow and building to a crescendo, switching with Duncan when they seem on the verge, prolonging the tease in a way that has them drooling and pleading eagerly with us not to stop. Meanwhile, Duncan has one hand first teasing my ass, then grabbing my breast - what a multitasker!

After several glorious minutes of pleasurable discovery for all of us, Taylor starts calling out to deity. "Oh god! OH, godohgodohGOD!" they shriek as the whirlpool of ecstasy begins to swallow them. They squirt, too, I notice, amazed at the plethora of sexual delights to be found and savored in this one lovely person as their intimate juices bathe my chin and lips.

Duncan has brought their cock to simultaneous ejaculation, and turns to me with his mouth full of their cum, offering to share. I lean in eagerly, and we exchange Taylor's delectable juices between us in a long, deep kiss as they shudder beneath us.

Once Taylor is replete in the aftermath, I bring my face to theirs and offer them a taste of themselves, kissing their lovely mouth with all the tenderness they inspire in my heart.

"Now you know how delicious you really are," I whisper with a smile, though I am not certain they hear me, a dazed, faraway look in their eyes and a blissful smile on their lips.

"And it's time for you to know that you are the goddess of this small moving universe we call a ship," Duncan murmurs, lifting me suddenly by the waist and pushing me up against the wall opposite the long mirror at the bar, so I can see myself wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, gasping as he thrusts his huge cock deep into my drenched vagina.

I have been experiencing what I can only describe as low-grade orgasm throughout the evening, ever since Jory and Lucille brought me to that shattering climax on the mat. It has been the warmup to the incredibly explosive zenith I reach within moments of Duncan's calloused fingertips flicking my nipples and my clit as he thrusts deep into me, my back rubbing against the wall. I lose my vision for several achingly euphoric moments, though I am uncertain if it goes bright or dark, so lost am I in the vast tidal waves of sensation that rock me one after the next in this shattering climax.

I go limp in Duncan's arms, still shuddering spasmodically every few moments, astonished at how long and powerful this orgasm has been. I am sated to the point of exhaustion, something I don't recall ever happening before.

"You're gasping like a fish on land," Duncan observes in his usual unflattering way. I don't have the energy to glare at him this time.

"I know, you giant mood-wrecker," I pant against his shoulder. "Take me to my quarters, please, and let the Quartermaster know I've retired?" I ask, not bothering to lift my head from where I've rested it against his broad chest. He gives that rumbling chuckle I love, and I think I might be asleep before he actually puts me in bed.

***

What a glorious night; what a way to leave this universe behind, is my last conscious thought as I drift to sleep with a blissful smile on my lips. We are ready now, for whatever SagA holds in store for us. We'll meet it together, without regrets.

Our Mother Planet taught us the secret power of seeds that fall unnoticed to the ground and are buried; the secret of new life arising out of death. Every seed holds the promise of life, of rebirth; and it always begins with death, in the depths of winter darkness. Where better, then, to place our hope than in the living darkness at the center of our dying galaxy?

So hello, darkness, our old friend; we've come to talk with you again.

***

AFTERWORD: The line from Simon & Garfunkel's classic Sound of Silence is deliberate, of course. Garfunkel is quoted in an article as saying, when asked what the song is about, that it depicts the tragic inability of humanity to effectively communicate; it's about people being unable to love each other. I wanted to depict a time and place where humans have finally learned these essential lessons; where unconditional love and inclusion is not a debate, but an accomplished fact. Where people are not only able to love each other, but eager; the tragedy of our species undone. And if I can show it through a fun, outlandish story about an orgy on a pirate galleon in space, all the better.

I deliberately left out the names of the two main characters in the hope that in the spirit of inclusivity you, the reader, would naturally be able to insert yourself into whatever role you might fancy, if any. I have left out most physical details of all characters, and left appearances as vague as possible for the same reasons.

Also possibly of interest: the seed of this story was a recurring dream I've had over the past decade of a Steampunk-style pirate galleon sailing through space toward the Event Horizon of a Black Hole. There are people aboard, and the mood is one of anticipation rather than doom. I took that dream and had a lot of fun with it in this tale.

Many thanks to the amazing Penny Thompson for her willingness to beta-read, despite being very busy herself. I hope very much that you've enjoyed this story; any errors are, of course, my own.