Ceteroquin: The Space Lovers Face the Trap

This is the second part of The Trapping of the Ceteroquin. This story appears in full in M/U's 2020 speculative fiction anthology, Demiurges and Demigods in Space, Vol. 1 and will be run as a serial online every Tuesday and Thursday for the next couple of months and each entry can easily be found here. To read this in its entirety, along with all of the other brilliant pieces included in the collection, you can obtain paperback and PDF copies in our store, with Kindle versions available on Amazon.

As for the others, there were no such requirements for rigid “professionality”. Beyond their non-military, non-commercial status, they were also non-Puritanical. One might even call them libertine, especially in their approach to relationships and entanglements, which were never prohibited so long as they did not interfere with business – on any level. And the very nature of that mission meant that only those who could hold it higher than mere sex or romance would ever be invited to participate in it. 

In actual fact, a majority of the crew did not retire alone to their separate rooms. 

Ben and Molly had gone straight to Ben’s quarters, as they always did. They had a whole routine at this point. 

Ben was in his late 20s, clean-shaven with light brown hair parted to the side. He was of average height, and though his build was lean, he was fit and muscular. He stripped nude, walked to the bathroom, and set about washing his hands and cleaning his teeth. 

Molly was just a couple of years younger than he was, just a couple inches shorter, hair – always tied back in a ponytail or braided – just a couple of shades lighter. For her part, she drew two fingers down the middle of the light brown one-piece garment she typically wore aboard the ship and it parted, falling lightly off of her shoulders. Deftly, she stepped out of it, watching him all the while as she stooped to pick it up and tossed it on the floor by the closet. She walked over to the shiny brown counter that ran the length of the room’s longest wall. “What should I put on?” she called over her shoulder.

“Jath,” he replied cheerfully without pausing his flossing. 

She tapped a few times on the center of the shiny mock wood surface and a lonely trumpet began to play over a jazz beat from tiny speakers embedded throughout the room. She continued fiddling about, her back to Ben in the bathroom, pressing more buttons to automatically conjure a couple of tart green cocktails and preparing the vaporizer. 

He turned to stare. She was quite pretty –blue eyes and a small nose, high cheekbones and a delicately pointy chin. As was everyone on the ship, she was quite physically fit. (The Group wasn’t strict about physical training, but some level of basic fitness was both expected and easily attainable with the diet and exercise made available.) He felt that she retained a feminine softness despite this, and he relished all of it. Her magnificent legs met at the light green panties she still wore. They were utilitarian undergarments, high-waisted and free of any adornments, but the way she wore them, they may as well have been fine lingerie. 

“Stop staring and come over here,” she said without turning around. She carried a little tray with the two drinks and the vaporizer and set it down on a night table on one side of the bed. She got in, laying facing him on her side, propping her head up with one hand. He did as he was told, facing her. 

She turned and grabbed the small glass vaporizer off the tray and took the first hit. It contained a mild, harmless narcotic not dissimilar from cannabis but with a hint of opium in the high. She handed it to him. They puffed without speaking for a few minutes, looking at one another and listening to the jazz. 

To the others, they were known – with equal parts jealousy, admiration, and sincere well wishes – as something of a golden couple. The fact that they looked so good together was just the most obvious aspect. They were well-matched professionally as well. Ben was, on his own, known as a bit of a golden boy. This was not meant with any malice or disrespect, for Ben was also a reasonable person who treated everyone well – and it was also accurate, because he was very good at his job. 

He’d been riding the Ceteroquin for three years, but he’d already distinguished himself prior. Inasmuch as Group members were widely known to one another – which was not much – Ben was known as a rising star. Laura was unquestionably second-in-command aboard the ship and was absolutely being groomed to be a captain – either of the Ceteroquin should Hancock retire (unlikely) or choose to pursue another role in the game (even less likely) or of her own ship and troupe (most likely). Ben, on the other hand, was being trained and mentored in such a way that he could choose a path that led to becoming a captain like Hancock or, alternately, one that led to becoming a priest like Nick. Perhaps, should he choose to remain with the Group for the duration of his working years (as many did, and beyond), he would ultimately serve in both roles at different points. There were rumors of a pilot program in which ships would be led by a singular captain-priest. Only time would tell. Ben was open to pretty much all of these options. 

Molly was a few years behind him in her own career. It was right now, aboard the Ceteroquin (she’d joined eight months prior) that she was being given her first opportunity to really shine. So far, it was going very well. She was less religiously-oriented than Ben was, but her ability to perform the subtle tasks of their operation, including those that involved rituals and rites, was routinely extraordinary. Her intent was to become a Specialist, an elite grade of  highly sought-after operative trained to the master level in at least seven major disciplines. This took many years to attain, of course, but it was already an open secret that Captain Hancock had flagged her for the fast track. She’d be allowed to remain on the Ceteroquin as long as she liked, even after the promotion to Specialist, Third Grade, but she’d then also have her pick of other assignments. Everybody wanted a Specialist on their crew, and everyone with one Specialist wanted another one.

Both of them were particularly good at acting, and had thus acted together in countless performances in a very short period of time. Any good-looking actor knows what happens under such conditions – and the rest of us can easily imagine. 

There was little to no discussion of the nature or the future of their entanglement; as long as they both remained on the ship and continued to want to do this, it was assumed that they would. If one of them were slated to leave the ship and they still wanted to continue doing this, the Group would accommodate a request to remain together. Romance, again, was not contrary to their aims, and it was in their interest to maintain moderately happy traveling operatives. As for monogamy, it was not a rigidly enforced rule in general among their milieu – whether among the Group or among any artists generally, in every time and place – nor was it usually even regarded as a virtue. Nonetheless, many still ultimately came to practice it, and Ben and Molly were currently doing so. That could always change, something everybody knew and nobody minded. 

They were pleasantly high, reclining on their backs, side by side, staring at the ceiling, listening to the song. 

“Ahhhh!” Ben growled contentedly after some length of time at nothing in particular, eliciting a giggle from his partner. “You know, I could really go for one of those cocktails!” he exclaimed. He pressed a button on the side of the bed that raised part of it up so that they could sit upright in order to drink. 

She smirked and passed him his beverage before reaching for her own. 

“Fantastic,” he said. “I forgot you made these.” 

They sat there sipping contentedly for another spell, until their fancy-shaped cups were nearly drained. 

“Ben,” she said, suddenly sounding a bit more serious, placing a hand on his chest.

“You know Frank’s not wrong about this thing. It’s a goddamn trap. We all know we can all sense the same thing.”

Ben didn’t say anything but drained his drink and set it down.

“You know I’m not making this up,” she insisted. 

“I know.”

“I’m not given to paranoia.” 

“I know.” 

“So…!” She drained her own glass and put it back on the tray.

He rolled back onto his side to face her, hitting the button to lower the bed again. “So?”

“I said it’s a goddamn trap, what do you mean, ‘so?’?”

He lightly slapped his own hip. “Maybe something isn’t right. Something isn’t right, something isn’t right. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes that’s just what we gotta deal with. That’s the life. Sometimes there’s traps.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. It’s almost condescending.” She remained on her back, folding her arms across her chest. She took a deep breath. “All right. I know. And if something bad happens, something bad happens. Bad things are things that happen. That’s the way of it.”

“But listen,” he said coolly. “There’s still time yet before any of it goes down.”

“I know, but what if—”

“Shhhh,” he said, leaning over to look her in the eyes, then raising himself up to hook an index finger on either side of her hips and slowly slide her panties down. He slid himself down along with them, moving her knees apart.

She breathed in sharply and leaned her head back forcefully into the pillow, feeling as though she were just now remembering something very obvious. “You…make a good point.”