Date: Mon, 21 Jun 2010 20:05:42 -0700 (PDT)
From: erik ritler <erikritler@yahoo.com>
Subject: space ship boys

Author's Note

Below you will find chapter two of my erotic science fiction tale. I hope
it entertains. As I promised previously, I strive to write a character
driven tale that is interesting, sexy, fun and amusing. I hope I have lived
up to this goal thus far. As I also promised, the chapter below contains a
fair bit of both plot and sex. Finding a balance can be tough, and I hope I
have with this chapter.

I love to hear back from readers. You can always email me at
erikritler@yahoo.com. In addition, there is a Yahoo Group for the story.
This can be found at the address below. I require membership approval in
order to prevent the spamming e-mail bots from getting in, but everyone
else is welcome, so long as they play nice. In the group you will find side
stories, inspiration pics and other bonus materials, as well as discussion
about this story.

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/spaceshipboys/

Thanks,

erik


Story so far:

Devon Chasen is a young college boy who's found himself in an odd situation
- when the Earth is destroyed, he and several thousand of his classmates
find themselves aboard a massive evacuation ship destined for a new world,
and hopefully a new home.

Devon has good friends on board - his roommates from Earth, Reid and
Patrick, have helped him adjust, and he likes the new people he's met.

Space can be boring, Devon says, and as such he spies on two classmates one
afternoon from a hidden location. When Sean and Dog engage in sexual play,
Devon is intrigued, aroused, and perhaps a little confused. He starts to
wonder about sex with other boys, and also about what the next two decades
will be like for him.




Space Ship Boys

Chapter 2 - New Perspectives


Two weeks had passed since I'd inadvertently caught a peep show over in the
dorms. I'd been thinking about that afternoon a lot, sometimes mulling over
what life would be like for the next two decades, and sometimes thinking
about Sean and Dog's hands on each other. The former had me feeling
apprehensive and concerned. The latter had me often reaching down my pants
to adjust myself, and on more than one occasion I'd run off to the
bathroom, red-faced and in need of a quick release.

It had been a busy couple of weeks.

At just over three months in space, June cherry blossoms began appearing on
some of the trees in The Commons, and we'd begun transitioning to more
permanent careers on the ship.

"You got food services?" Reid had asked one afternoon, sitting on one of
the couches in the living room area of our subsection. The flat, a long
rectangle composed of five bedrooms encircling a living room and large
common bath, was where twenty-three other flatmates and I slept and spent a
fair bit of our time. "Wow, sorry Devon," he finished, sounding sincerely
sorry.

"What?" I asked, looking uncertainly at the message I'd received confirming
this assignment. "Why? I wanted food service."

Reid laughed. "Dude, that's kinda grunt work. Serving people rations all
day? Why'd you want to be a cafeteria worker?"

He didn't seem to understand my logic, so I'd explained. "It's not like
that," I said defensively. "I mean, it is now, with us serving just ration
packets. But when the farms are working fully, it's going to be about
helping with those so we have the right foods at the right time, and about
learning nutrition. It will be like being both a chef and a scientist, I
think."

"If you say so." He sounded uncertain. But when he picks on Patrick's
assignment too, I realize he's just cranky. "Librarian? What does that
mean? Are there really paperback books in space?"

Patrick had been carrying a file folder, which he used now to slap Reid on
the top of the head. "You're such a dork. I'll be working in information
services. We'll be organizing data, archiving things, making stuff
available on the network - that sort of thing. It's really cool. You won't
be complaining when I'm able to upload your favorite movies from the other
ships so we have them here, or when they're organized so you can find
them."

Reid had grunted. Later, when he got his assignment, his mood lightened. He
was assigned in a subsection of engineering - he'd be working on managing
the production, distribution and maintenance of all the various computers
and devices used amongst the civilian population - like the wristcoms, the
combination cell phone/computer/messaging devices that replaced phones on
the ship. He was happy with his assignment.

My first day in food services, I wondered if Reid had been right to
criticize my selection.

Not surprisingly, my assignment meant working in the cafeteria area,
located in a section of the ship most people referred to as Topside -
located in the very top of the spherical vessel. Most of Topside was
designated as military space, but on some floors under that was Food
Services, where a maze of storage warehouses and kitchens were adjoined to
the largest eating space on the ship. Ultimately other areas - smaller
kitchens or restaurants - would open for this purpose down in the civilian
areas, but for now this was where all food was prepared and served.

Our shift had assembled one afternoon, a group of about thirty guys, most
of them looking rather bored and uninspired. I'd brought a binder to take
notes in, which I put away when a sideways glance from one of the other
workers made me feel like a bit of a nerd. A largish woman in a crew
uniform stepped to the front of the room.

"Welcome to food services, gentlemen," she said, sounding neither welcoming
nor like she considered us gentlemen. "My name is Lieutenant, Junior Grade
Amanda Skeives. I will be working with you on transitioning this facility
to civilian use."

"Be still, my beating heart," a floppy-haired boy next to me said. He had a
mischievous smile, and looked like he'd just finished a long day of
skateboarding. Smelled a little like it to. Lieutenant Skeives wasn't the
most attractive woman on Earth, er, in space, so I took his comment as
sarcastic and laughed, trying to be as quiet about it as possible.

Lieutenant Skeives hadn't heard us, and continued, "Let me be very clear
about this: space is a dangerous place. There are no supermarkets. There
are no pizza joints and there is no take away. Below us are the ship's
stores. If those are empty, nobody eats."

The thought of going hungry made us pay closer attention. "It's your job to
ensure this doesn't happen. Over the next month, we will be talking about
how to accomplish this.  We will be talking about how to ration what we
have in stock. We will be talking about working with the farms to ensure
that the right crops are coming available, and how we can have hamburgers
without making cows extinct."

This was all getting me more interested in my new career; the other guys
seemed less so.

"And let me be clear," Lieutenant Skieves had said, "It is my intention to
teach you these things, turn over control of this facility, and get back to
work upstairs. Yes, gentlemen, this is a civilian facility. You will be in
charge, and the moment you can do this without burning down the warehouse,
I will leave you to it. In the meantime, I intend to teach you how to run
things.

"But make no mistake - it is not my life's dream to teach a bunch of kids
about how to run a kitchen. If I had a choice, you can bet your skinny
asses I would be anywhere but here. Still, I'm going to do my best, and
hopefully we can get you and your shipmates off the rations and on some
real food."

"Wow, this is going to be a hilariously fun month," the floppy-haired boy
whispered to the group.

I responded, "Hey, I like macaroni and cheese. What's wrong with macaroni
and cheese?"

The other boy smiled at me. "I'm Zane," he said.

"Devon," I'd answered, glad to have made my first friend at work.

So I spent my days learning about food services, and farms, and stores, and
where the fire extinguishers were located. Shortly after that last one I
learned how to get on Lieutenant Skeives's bad side. Oops.

At night, I took up a new hobby, one I'd become particularly fond of:
sneaking around the emergency access tunnels.

It hadn't taken long following my experience with Sean and Dog for me to
begin daydreaming about what else might be going on around the ship. It
made sense, at least to me. Our ship-wide population of just over five
thousand was composed of mostly college-age guys. We were all young, in the
prime of life. And like most young men in a somewhat tedious routine, I
assumed that most of my shipmates reacted by fulfilling their sexual needs
on a regular basis, probably mostly with their own ten fingers.

But here's what else I thought.

In a population of five thousand young guys, taking into consideration the
college demographics and adjusting for the high instances of intelligence,
socially liberal ideas, creativity and adaptability, there were bound to be
anywhere from three to five hundred who were resolutely gay.

What's more, I assumed there was another whole group of guys, probably
similar in size, who were not as concrete in their sexual preference as
either the adamantly gay or adamantly straight. These, I believed, would
easily adapt to our new reality, sliding over to the gay side of the
scale. Let's assume this comprises another three to five hundred guys.

A third group, I hypothesized, might be predominantly straight, but not
prone to celibacy either. These guys might look at the situation, think
about spending twenty years "on the palm" and become very, very
disgruntled. I assumed this group to be approximately twenty percent of the
total population, say a thousand guys. Of these, I had no idea how many
would elect to remain self-pleasuring and how many would take up
same-gender play. If I guess fifty percent, that's five hundred more added
to my list.

Adding these all up, I guessed that ultimately anywhere from eleven hundred
to two thousand of my shipmates might be inclined to dabble in boy on boy
sex. Brave new world indeed!

So I'd become a bit obsessed - obsessed with exploring and watching and
spying, determined to find others who may be participating in activities
like those I'd seen Sean and Dog doing, and also seeing how I felt about
them.

Every afternoon, after my shift ended and I was done receiving nasty glares
from Lieutenant Skeives, I wandered upstairs one floor from my flat. It was
an unoccupied dorm area, the population on the ship being too small to
warrant using it, and from here I accessed the emergency access tunnels.

Making my way there one afternoon, I'd pulled out my wristcom and key to
the tunnels and thought about those early days on the ship.

The first week in space had been rough. We didn't even have room
assignments back then, everyone just sort of mulled about. I'd taken to
exploring the ship; sometimes Reid and Patrick would come along, sometimes
they'd sit around moping. But this didn't last long; eventually we'd all
received assignments to report for work preparing the ship for its
eighteen-year voyage.

Reid, Patrick and I had decided to sign up together, showing up in Area 43
one morning.

"What do they mean 'prepare the ship?' " I'd asked my friends along the
way.

"No idea," Reid responded, "Maybe we have to put away the luggage or
something?  Patrick?"

"Don't look at me, I have no idea," Patrick says.

Turned out, it was nothing nearly as fun as stowing baggage.

"The ship you are now traveling in is old," an ensign assigned to us had
explained. "But she's a good ship. Still, as you know, she's been buried a
long time. She was maintained, but not the same as a vessel on active
duty. Over the next year, we will be going over her thoroughly, checking
every inch and making any needed repairs. We will also be cleaning her up
really nice, and by 'we,' I mean 'you.' "

I didn't like where this was going.

The Ensign moved to a grey panel on the wall behind him, which was a
slightly lighter shade. He produced what looked like a small gold data chip
but turned out to be a key, which he placed in a groove on the panel. It
opened silently, a cool breeze emerging into the hallway. "This is a hatch
to the emergency access tunnels." the Ensign explained.  "Every space on
this ship is connected by both the primary hallways, like the one you are
standing in now, but also an emergency tunnel, like this one.

"In the event of a ship-wide problem, these tunnels would allow us to get
to problem areas, and they would allow those in problem areas escape,
should the primary exits or routes be compromised. There are literally
thousands of kilometers of these tunnels.  Today we will begin cataloguing
their condition and cleaning them. You will be assisting with this."

A guy to our left spoke up. "You expect us to clean thousands of kilometers
of tunnels?  How long is that going to take?"

The Ensign smiled. He's probably taken a lot of flak during his tenure in
the military, and was happy to dole a little out. "It takes as long as it
takes," he said, not rudely, but also not politely.

"That's bullshit," the guy complains, "I mean, isn't that your job?
Cleaning up this shithole?"

There's always that guy, you know, the one guy in the group that thinks he
knows everything and isn't hesitant to show everyone. You have to hate that
guy. I do. Looking at Reid and Patrick, they do. And judging from the tone
of the Ensign's response, he certainly does. "I know some of you might feel
entitled to sit back, laugh, and spend the next twenty years jerking your
little dicks silly. And you might not like the idea of doing some actual
work. Let me be clear about something, gentlemen: shit detail is now a part
of your lives, and it's going to be for a long, long time. Get used to it."

Complainer guy shakes his head, clearly annoyed, probably partially at
being told he has a little dick. "This is bullshit," he reiterates. "I'm
outta here."

"That's your choice," the Ensign said. "Just let me know your name, so I
can take it off the attendance list. We'll make sure it's noted in the
files, and we'll get you another job.  Just keep in mind, not all the
emergency tunnels and pipes on this ship are for people. I can't be sure
you won't draw an assignment checking the sewage pipes for leaks."

Complainer guy looked angry, but stayed and shut up. I looked at him as he
scowled and something registered. I'd seen him before. Hey - it's the jerk
wad who passed us in the black sedan the day we evacuated Earth, the one
who had blown past us, refusing to stop to help. See, like I said, there's
one in every crowd. What a dick.

Patrick had his phone out typing something on the keyboard. "What are you
doing?" the Ensign asked. Patrick continued typing away, not realizing that
he was being spoken to.  Reid nudged his arm.

"Oh, me?" he asked sheepishly. "I was taking notes. About the cleaning, or
shit detail, or whatever. You said there are sewage pipes?"

The Ensign smiled, then produced a metal case, opening it with a
click. "You can put the phone away. Or in the trash. Notes are good, but
you're going to need one of these."

The case was filled with rows of what appear to be dark leather wrist
cuffs. When I got closer, I saw they're actually electronic devices, a
flexible screen wrapping around the top. "These are your wristcoms," he
explains. "They will replace your phones, which will no longer operate
correctly. The wristcoms will keep you connected to the ship's network, and
allow you to communicate with one another. You'll find they also have the
ability to download and utilize all of the programs your old phones
did. You can transfer your phone data to these, then lose the phones."

"And for those of you who plan to spend the next twenty years jerking your
little dicks silly, you can bet we have a definitive collection of
pornography available." The last comment is directed at complainer guy, who
sneers.

"You will also need one of these," the Ensign said, producing a much
smaller case filled with gold keys similar to the one he used to open the
hatch. "Take one apiece, and do not lose them. These are the keys to the
emergency tunnels. The hatches only open with a key, or if an area of the
ship is at a status where the tunnels can be accessed by anyone. You WILL
NOT be keeping these keys. You will be signing them in and out with me each
day when you report for detail."

We worked all afternoon, cataloguing and cleaning the tunnels, which turned
out to mean literally scrubbing the walls, floors and ceiling, and noting
any problems, which was about as fun as it sounds. But Reid, Patrick and I
worked together and passed the time working hard and chatting. Some
branches of the tunnels get a little narrow; Reid got sweaty any time we
approached one of these. Patrick and I gave him a break and volunteered to
work the smaller tunnels, although there was a twinge in my fingers that
made me want to force Reid to do these; he and I had a past concerning his
dislike of tight spaces.

"Hey, look at this!" I exclaimed at one point, having found an open vent in
the floor. I could see the floor below where another opening dropped to the
next floor down, and so on. "I wonder how far it goes?" I asked. I stumble,
losing my balance. I didn't fall - the opening is tiny, anyway - but I did
lose hold on my wristcom. I grabbed at it, which is actually what doomed
it, my clumsy fingers knocking it right through the center of the opening.

"Nothing but net!" Reid joked. I scowl at him, but then have to laugh.

Patrick and I looked down the hole. The com continued dropping, eventually
disappearing from sight. We didn't hear it land. Dammit. I hadn't even
turned it on yet.  "Wow, that goes really far," I marveled.

"Am I to understand you just dropped your brand new wristcom and hatch key
down that hole?" A voice said from behind, firm but not scolding.

We turned around to see the Ensign. I scratched the back of my head like a
guilty little boy. "Um...yeah. Sorry." I couldn't help but giggling.

The Ensign sighed in a frustrated manner, and then retrieved his case. He
handed me a new com and key. "Try putting it around your wrist," he said
sarcastically "It's why it's called a 'wristcom.' "

I accepted the items. My first com was long gone, but I hadn't actually
dropped the key.  It was tucked safely in my pocket. I considered
mentioning this to the Ensign, but felt too embarrassed to speak. Later,
when he collected the keys, making sure he got one back from each worker,
I'd forgotten about the first key and ended up inadvertently keeping it.

And that's how I came to have access to the emergency tunnels whenever I
wanted, which had proven useful when I wanted to see what Sean and Dog were
up to, and now was proving very, very useful in helping me spy on my fellow
shipmates.

Immediately following the "Sean and Dog show," I formulated my theories
about sex in space and realized how useful the key would be in testing
them. One free afternoon I accessed the hatch in our bedroom when no one
else was around, climbing up into the emergency access tunnel there to see
how things were laid out.

The ship is divided into areas; the living areas are divided into
sections. Each section has 4-6 subsections, which we usually call
"flats". These flats have 4-6 bedrooms each with shared common spaces in
the center. The bedrooms were designed to house eight refugees - even more
in an emergency - but thankfully our ship is under-populated. We only have
four or five guys per bedroom. Cramped, but not that different from
college.

Room assignments had been somewhat contentious. At first, we'd all just
been wandering around the ship. Then a group of guys, some of the older
students from the school, had accessed a floor plan for the ship; they'd
doled out rooms starting with the upperclassmen, which seemed natural even
though we weren't at the school anymore.

They decided to put only one or two guys per room. We had the space, after
all - there are about 1,730 bedrooms in the civilian sections. As it turns
out, these aren't all used in a situation like this; there are rules about
minimum population density and things. The crew stepped in with their own
plan and reassigned everyone, packing us in a little tighter. But the
choice rooms - smaller flats in more private areas - remained mostly with
the older boys. Figures.

It didn't bother me too much, though. I got roomed with Reid and Patrick,
who I requested, and two other guys, Nick Laskaway and Jacob Hirsch. We
didn't know them, nor them us, but they were nice guys and everyone got
along from the start.

It took some time to get to know the guys assigned to the other four rooms
in our flat, but we ultimately did, and I had few complaints. The guys in
A-Room were all a little older, second and third year students. One guy,
Reagan, is annoying, but not too bad. Another, AJ Mendell, is pretty nice,
although a little quiet.

B-Room's occupants were mostly first years like me, and I'd been excited to
see one of our hitchhikers, Beck, move in. Two others looked very serious
and very military, and it took me three weeks to even say hello. We had
C-Room. D-Room, at the back of the flat, is occupied by four guys who'd
been seniors. They're nice, but I don't see them much other than coming and
going. E-Room houses five more guys, about our age. I get along well with
them, especially this guy Milo, who is just about the nicest guy you'll
ever meet.

So that was our flat - twenty-four guys in five rooms. Cozy, sometimes
lacking in privacy, but given the whole "end of the world" thing, the
company was often comforting.

The hatches in the bedrooms are located at the top of the rear wall. My key
works and the panel slides open. I have to leap up to get into the space,
but with a little effort I do.

As soon as I've entered, I think I hear someone approaching our
room. Scrambling, I close the hatch, and hold my breath. There's a vent in
the center of the hatch, providing airflow into the flat. I peer into my
bedroom, expecting someone to enter, but no one does. But it teaches me
something: climb into the tunnels somewhere more private, you doofus!

Walking down the narrow tunnel, feeling more than a bit naughty, I follow
the tunnel, making my way in a circle looping around my flat. Every few
feet I come across a closed hatch, marked in large red letters that state
where it leads to. Unlike hatches in the main hallways, a vent is
positioned in the center of the hatches leading to the rooms, providing
both airflow and a line of sight into the space. The other rooms in my flat
are pretty empty, although looking into A-Room I do catch AJ reading a book
on his bed. Woo-hoo.

I walk the tunnel, finding where it leads to other flats and discovering
how to get to other floors. I'm getting a bit lost when I stumble onto
something good.

Looking into a vent that leads into a bedroom in Area 19, I see a boy
sitting in the middle of the room. He's not doing much other than sitting
quietly in the middle of the room, but that's not what stops me now.

The boy looks young - younger than me, which is odd since I was just about
the youngest guy at JDU. Still, there were a couple dozen "early
admissions," guys who passed their exams with high enough scores like I
had. Thinking about it, I realize I met him at orientation. I think his
name is Mike; I don't remember his last name.

He's shirtless, which make me stare. I notice that his tummy is flat, not
the washboard of older boys, but clearly firm to the touch. His chest is
smooth and cute; he has pectorals that are just starting to become defined;
they are small now, but by no means is his chest concave. In another two
years his body will probably be unbearably hot, but right now he has the
physique of a boy who is still becoming a man: cute, and sexy - and also
angelic.

His face reinforces the idea of innocence, a solemn expression set on pouty
pink lips.  His eyes look sad, or thoughtful, but unbelievably adorable,
owing largely to long, black lashes. His features are delicate - not
feminine, but rife with a boyish masculine beauty that displays none of the
gangly clumsiness some adolescents do. In this, I consider he's slightly
like me.

I'm about to head down the tunnel when something happens. Mike starts
rubbing the front of his pants.

I do a double-take, first assuming there's a reason his hand has made its
way to that spot on his body. Turns out, there is. He looks about the room
shyly, then apparently satisfied that he's totally alone (little does he
know!) he unbuttons his jeans. Sitting up on his knees, he pushes these and
his boxers down as far as they'll go. A hard boydick comes springing out of
his pants; it's just as cute and adorable as he is.

He sits in this position for a moment, giving me ample time to check him
out, which I gladly do! His body is totally hairless except for a patch of
chestnut hair around the base of his dick, the same color as that on his
head. The hair in either area looks like it would be soft as down.

But what I find most interesting is the shape of his erect penis. It looks
to be somewhere between five to six inches long, similar in girth to mine
(Just right for holding!) What's different about it, though, is the way it
extends from his body, emerging from a nice-sized tan sack and curving
upward in a delicate arch, culminating in a pink tip that points defiantly
at the ceiling.

Wow.

I've never seen one like that, and I wonder how it would feel to the
touch. Mike apparently wonders the same, since he immediately takes it in
his hand. In a maneuver unfamiliar to me, he presses it downward firmly,
making it point toward the floor as much as possible, which it doesn't seem
to want to do. He releases the shaft from his grip, and his dick swings up
toward his body, landing with an audible "slap!" against his tummy before
returning to its normal position. He does it again. Then again.

I'd never beat off that way, so I watch intently. It isn't long before I
realize that the visual of this boy masturbating and the slapping sounds
he's making are causing a distinct reaction in my body, my own penis
growing to its full six inches and feeling like it's about ten times harder
than it's supposed to be. I'm wearing loose gym shorts with no underwear,
and quickly reach up a leg to pull out my cock, which is VERY happy with my
touch.

I stick to some light squeezing. Being this close to Mike, him unaware of
my presence, makes me really nervous, and giddy. But scared about getting
caught. I try to be absolutely silent.

Mike, on the other hand, freely makes noise as he jerks; and apparently he
wants this to be a quickie. He does the dick slapping maneuver a few more
times, and then takes his penis in his right fist, pumping the shaft
furiously. He bites his lower lip, eyes closed in ecstasy, beating off,
unaware that I'm playing with myself a mere six feet away.

He grunts and groans, and then he's there. An adorable and HOT chirping
noise emanates from his mouth, a look of concentration and pleasure
plastered on his face. He holds a hand over the pink tip of his cock as it
starts spraying cum. I frown when his hand obstructs my view, but settle
for watching his tan body tense and writhe.

Mike's panting slows, and then something unfortunate happens: I almost come
too. I mean, cumming isn't unfortunate, but it is when you're trying to be
silent and an involuntary gasp potentially alerts someone to your presence.

A couple of things happen in rapid succession. First, I take my hand off my
cock, willing the orgasm to subside. The muscle is fully primed and WANTS
to shoot, but my body obeys, but just barely. In the room below, Mike
stares wide-eyed at the door. In a panicked hustle that takes him about a
half second, he pulls up his pants, wipes his hand on a sock, and jumps
onto a bed, grabbing a book on the way - a maneuver known and practiced by
many a teen.

If he's disappointed when no one enters the room, he doesn't show it. Nor
does he look up at the vent, where I'm hiding. I assume he thinks someone
had been approaching from inside the flat; he doesn't seem to have
connected the noise with my spot in the tunnel.

I take a deep, but quiet, breath. I feel like I've pushed my luck enough
for one afternoon, and very quietly step away from the now-alert Mike. I go
back to my dorm to do some light chores before reading Proust.

No, really, that's totally not what I do.

I shake my little Devon ass all the way back to Area 23, and when I find
the hatch back into my room I take it. No more than two seconds later, I
have my cock out again, grunting and panting and thinking about the angelic
Mike.

"Uh...uh...uh!" I pant. And then I blow. Everywhere. All over my mattress,
on my sheets, even some on my pillow. Semen erupts, as if escaping the
confines of my balls is all the new rage. "Wow!" I exclaim to myself, my
breath coming in ragged gasps.

My cock doesn't go down. It refuses to do that sometimes, even after I've
been nice to it.

I wrap my hand around it once again; it feels ten degrees warmer than
usual, the way dicks do after a good wank, either from the friction or all
the hot blood throbbing away inside the shaft. About three seconds later,
I'm going at it again.

"Oh...oh...oh...oh!" I gasp and groan, laughing a little because each time
I finger my tip I get a jolt of intense, overpowering sensation. And then I
come again, feeling free to shoot all over since I'd already made a
mess. "Fuck, oh yeah, Fuck!" My second load is lighter, but there's still A
LOT. Wow, Mike had me stoked. Spying is fun!

I clean up, wiping away the evidence of my play and putting on a pair of
loose-fitting jeans. I leave my shirt off - I love the way my chest and
nipples feel after a good jerk. I follow Mike's example, and crawl up in my
bunk to do some reading. I have this info on macrobiotic protein loads and
potassium enrichment to go through.

My mind wanders, though, as it is wont to do. I think about little Mike and
his cute dick.  And Sean and Dog. I go hard in my jeans, but resist
whipping it out because Reid and Patrick are due home any moment. This
makes me daydream about my friends, drifting back to that day we escaped
Earth.

We'd driven to the evacuation site, having taken on more than our fair
share of passengers along the way, and that's when things had become a
little too real.

The lobby of the evacuation center had been decorated simply but elegantly,
not unlike the art deco train station back in San Diego. Graceful white
columns reach up to a ceiling thirty feet overhead; there are narrow
windows lining the walls, allowing shafts of soft afternoon light to pierce
the lobby in angled spears.

Above us, a square stained-glass ceiling sits in the center of the room,
decorated in a geometric design of blues and oranges. It looks as if two
different liquids had collided, pushing against one another violently
before freezing in place.

The room is not overly crowded yet, but there are more people here than
there would be on a regular day. Everyone has a solemn expression, some
chatting in low voices, but most remaining silent. They were probably
thinking about the same sorts of things I was.

I'd never see San Diego again.

I might never see my parents again.

I'd never see my bougainvillea again, or my room, or all my childhood
toys. I suddenly want my childhood "teddy elephant," a plush toy that was
comfortably (if not logically) coated in soft sandy blonde fur. I blush,
hoping my friends can't see that I'm thinking I want a doll with me right
now.

Reid and Patrick talk nervously to each other. The guys we'd given a ride
to stayed close to us, in the way a small group can refuse to break up,
none of us quite knowing if we were technically still traveling together,
or if we should separate.

I look at the glass ceiling again, and it may be silly, but I feel sad for
it. It will be destroyed, doubtlessly, if the evacuation continues, along
with this entire building. Along with the entire Earth, and most of the
art, architecture, a fair bit of its culture, and, of course, many of its
citizens. Today would be a day of great loss. I look at the glasswork above
me, enjoying its strange beauty; I feel I owe it this one last look of
admiration before it fades away, just a memory, or maybe a photo on a
computer drive somewhere.

"If I could climb up and get you down, I would," I think to the window. But
I can't. All I can save today is myself and a small bag of my possessions.

The back half of the terminal is our destination, an area that remained
closed off when this room served as a visitor center. Now the walls have
slid open, funneling people toward the disembarkation station. We join the
crowd, not quite a crush, and find ourselves in a line with twenty or so
students in front of us.

This is a pre-boarding area, where people line up to get into "the tubes."
The person at the head of our line is doing so now, climbing into what
looks like a giant oblong vitamin pill - an eight foot capsule that has
just lifted from a space in the floor before opening for its
passenger. Once inside, the passenger, a nervous looking boy, lies back,
closes the door to the capsule, and with a whir and a whoosh it shoots off
down a silver track, which extends for thirty or forty feet before
disappearing through the rear wall of the station.

I watch the capsule slip from sight, and then look over to Reid and
Patrick. Patrick seems vaguely interested, but Reid has turned a sickly
shade of white. "Hey, what's wrong?" I ask him.

"Um, nothing," he says, trying to blow me off. Patrick has looked over, and
I can tell he also thinks Reid looks pale.

"This is all a little weird and scary," I say, pointing out the obvious,
"But it's not that different from the training modules." I'm trying to
reassure my friend that the actual evacuation will be exactly like the
mandatory week-long classes we all took once a year throughout grade
school, although I'm dubious about this myself.

"Yeah," Reid says. I'm not convinced he buys my comment either.

He has good reason to be worried. The ultra-futuristic whooshy tube
thingies look cool, but we all know the concept behind them is
terrifying. Their primary function is to load the evacuees onto the ship in
an orderly fashion, but their secondary, darker purpose was to
discriminate.

When a planet is destroyed, not everyone gets out alive: it's a cold, hard
fact. The capsules we're looking at now, another streaking off into the
darkness of the tube, are a symbol of this.

The United States and Europe invested heavily in DENON, and even then
there's only space for about a quarter of the population on the ships
buried throughout the country. In poorer countries, it's more like five
percent. In many places, only the very wealthy or connected have access to
escape.

The DENON project takes into consideration that humanity needs to escape a
dying world, but it also needs to be able to survive on a new one. Again:
cold, hard fact. The capsules are open for everyone, and yes, they lead to
the ship. But they don't only lead to the ship. Climbing in one is a
guaranteed ride, but not one that's guaranteed to take you to outer space.

When you enter a capsule (as we will in about ten minutes) and close it
off, it takes you to a secondary disembarkation area. Here, the capsule
scans you, taking a blood sample and checking your vitals. It goes through
a DNA test, and then checks your medical files, social security records,
and everything it has access to. A data check takes into consideration
145,000 variables, determining your "subject viability." This is a nice way
of saying the capsules are machines that determine who lives and who dies.

"This is taking too long," someone behind us says nervously. Someone else
shushes them.

So what happens if you fail the scan? It's a good question - chances are
that many of the people who pass through this station today will fail. I
swallow hard. I could fail.

The scans look for everything - genetic disorders, major injuries, current
illnesses. There was a long list of curable ailments that could trigger a
"fail," some which you might not know you had. Evacuation was about
survivability, and even though flu was treatable, the computer might
prioritize individuals without the illness. I tried to remember if I'd felt
feverish recently.

Across the way, an elderly woman climbs into a capsule. No one stops her,
and I want to cry. Being older than forty-five triggers an automatic fail -
unless you possess some skill or quality deemed important enough to let you
on board. Like you might be a sixty-year old heart surgeon. You'd just have
to hope a thirty year-old heart surgeon didn't come along - the computer
might very well send them along and keep you behind.

Fortunately, I think, we didn't have to witness evidence of this genetic
lottery here in the lobby, at least not directly. Bigotry, I learn, even if
subtle or warranted or reasonable, always smells a little better when the
dump is located across town.

Like I said, everyone gets to take a capsule. The computer takes all the
capsules to a staging area, loading the ship as it deems fit - shuffling
the capsules around, loading some immediately and holding others to
determine the overall mix of humans who have arrived at the station. The
closer we get to lift-off, the more it will place on the ship. The others
remain in a bay deep in the earth, destined to remain there forever, their
occupants sealed alive in their own coffins.

I shudder, and go a little pale.

We get far enough in line so that one of the guys that rode here with us -
I think his name is Beck - climbs into a capsule. Before he swings the door
closed he turns to us, smiling nervously. "Thanks for the lift. See you
guys on the other side."

When his capsule whooshes off down the track, Reid turns to me and gestures
for me to let him by. "I don't think I'm going in there," he says. "I'm
just gonna go back to the school. I hope I can find my car keys."

"Uh, I don't think that's an option," Patrick says. I nod in agreement.

"He's right. This is for real, remember the radio?" I was referring to the
broadcast we'd listened to on the way over, me feeling increasingly like I
needed to pee with that guy sitting on me.

"Yeah. No. Yeah. No," he says in a weird loop, "I think I'd like to go back
to campus and see what happens."

I look around nervously. Others in line are starting to stare. The second
guy we'd given a ride goes shooting down the track. "Reid," I say, trying
to sound serious, "You can't go back. You'll..." I look around, and then
finish my thought in a whisper, "...die."

This doesn't make my friend any less pale, and I regret saying what I had.

The next-to-last of our hitchhikers climbs into a capsule and closes the
door without saying anything. We're almost to the front of the line. "I
don't want to go in the capsule," Reid says in a frantic, pleading
voice. He sounds like he's about to lose it.

Another capsule rises from the floor, locks into place, and then its door
swings up and open, ready for an occupant. It's the blonde boy's turn -
Ian, I think - he steps toward his capsule and looks back at us. He sees
Reid, who's starting to push into Patrick and me in an attempt to get by
us.

Looking thoughtful, he says to us, "Here, you better get him in
here. Quick, before he totally loses it."

Ian is correct that Reid is about to "lose it," and Reid proves it by doing
just that. He slams into Patrick and me, the full force of his body pushing
us back a foot or two. I almost topple over, but smack into the people in
line behind us and regain my balance.

All at once about thirty-seven things happen. Ian grabs Reid from behind,
wrapping an arm around my friend's shoulder and tugging him toward the
capsule. Reid outweighs him by at least twelve kilos, and not only is Ian
incapable of moving my friend; he pays for his effort with an elbow in the
chin.

Ian yelps, and I take advantage of the opportunity to grab Reid's other
arm. I miss, though, when someone behind me decides to get involved,
pulling me away from Reid.  "If he wants to go back, fucking let him," a
growly voice says in my ear.

I turn, annoyed, to see an angry looking guy with pretty eyes holding me
back. I recognize him immediately - he's the dickwad that blew past us in
the car back at the school. "Mind your own business," I grumble, more
concerned about Reid than having an argument with some random guy.

I pull forcefully away, moving to join Ian and Patrick, who for their part
are trying to push a screaming Reid into the capsule. I get a running start
and plow into the trio, winding my friend. He's off-balance, putting us at
an advantage, but in his enraged state we're still just barely able to hold
him down. Fuck, when did he get so strong?

I'm grabbed from behind again, roughly. "What is this guy's PROBLEM?" I
think to myself, enraged. He tugs on my arm with all his strength, but
rather than pull away again I take a page from Reid's book. I let my arm
relax so that it pulls violently back, right into the other guy's face, my
elbow connecting solidly with his nose.

"ARGH!" he screams, enraged, "You FUCKING stupid little...ugh...you
FUCKING...my NOSE!" he yelps and curses in pain.

He moves to strike me, but another guy who's been standing with him holds
him back.  "STEVEN!" he says in a firm voice, "You're not helping, calm
down!" I recognize the second guy, he was student body president. Well,
former student body president. He holds Steven back, and I quickly mumble
"thanks" before turning back to my other problem.

Reid is about to overpower Patrick and Ian, and my adrenaline is starting
to boil. I'm suddenly angry - REALLY angry. At the situation, at the guy
behind me, and at Reid for pitching a fit; I was angry for the uncertainty
and fear I was feeling; I was angry about the fact that my parents might
die today - and that I might die today; I was angry the skylight was going
to be destroyed when the ship lying buried beneath us erupted from the
Earth in a massive fireball; I was angry about the old lady who was going
to die in a capsule somewhere, buried wherever the tubes send you when you
failed the scans - perhaps she'd be thinking she was loaded on the ship, or
perhaps she'd know she was patiently waiting for death; I was angry that
the Earth was in its final hours. I was ANGRY.

So I channeled it, and ran at Reid, whose eyes go wide right before I pop
him in the nose with my fist.

My punch made a sickly dull thud when it landed, not the satisfying pop you
hear in movies. Also, movies never demonstrate the pain the puncher feels
when he breaks two or three fingers - as I'm pretty sure I've just done.

"Aw, FUCK!" I yell, swinging my hand in pain.

Reid actually makes less noise, looking hurt and stunned, although his nose
erupts in a gush of scarlet blood, which lands in vibrant splotches on his
tee-shirt. I want to continue hopping around in agony, but I take advantage
of his surprise to join Patrick and Ian in pushing him into the capsule. We
force the door closed just as he realizes what has happened, locking it and
pressing the failsafe launch button on the outside.

We see a terrified and frantic Reid pound on the glass and scramble for the
emergency release, but he's too late - the capsule ramps up with an
electronic whir and then it shoots off down the tube, its terrified
passenger trapped within. Another capsule rises from underneath where
Reid's had just departed.

"Dude, that was intense," I say, tears welling up in my eyes. I didn't want
to start crying, and I hoped the people around me were buying that this was
from the pain.

Ian puts a hand on my shoulder when the capsule clicks into place. "Here,"
he says, "You go next."

I'm not sure whether his offer is because I'm hurt or because the guy
behind me seems enraged and about to leap at me, but either way I
accept. Reid has left his bag behind.  We cram both his and mine into my
capsule; they fit, but just barely. I climb in, swing the door closed, and
press the green button by my face. I take one last look through the small
window in the capsule, watching as Ian and Patrick's faces disappear when
my capsule takes off, streaking away into the dark.

And that's the last time I was a resident of the planet Earth.

I can't hear anything outside the capsule, but I can feel that I'm
moving. The car slides along the track, inertia and centripetal force
telling me when I speed up or slow down, or when the capsule serving as my
escape pod or my coffin - or both - turns a corner.

It suddenly feels claustrophobic, and after a moment I realize it's not
just because I'm in a tiny one-person capsule. It's because things are
getting tighter in here.

At first my legs are more constricted, and then my sides. I look to see
that the interior of the capsule, a purple plastic of some sort, is
expanding to fill in the extra space. I imagine grape jelly being forced
into the bed, holding me tighter and tighter in what is quickly becoming a
"Devon and grape jelly sandwich." Gross.

I remember that this is part of the process and try to relax. I then feel a
prick on my left arm - it's subtle, but distinct. I know the computer is
taking a blood sample, beginning the complex computations that will
determine whether I live or die. I take a deep breath.  I'm a healthy guy,
I think. No problem, right? And then I think about the pain in my left
hand.

Jesus, my hand.

Oh my god, fuck.

What if my broken fingers were enough to fail me? What if all the other
healthy candidates - youthful, vigorous, bones unbroken - were deemed
better candidates than me? What if I were heading to a place deep in the
Earth to await my own death? Some said the capsules euthanized
non-escapees; others said that was just a myth. Either way, I start to
freak out.

I try to lift my hand and find that it's completely bound, which makes
things worse. I thrash, involuntarily, and then sit perfectly still,
concerned the thrashing may make the computer examine me further,
increasing the risk of a fail. My heart rate is going through the roof; the
adrenaline and fear are about to make me frenzy when...when...I don't
know...suddenly I feel a lot calmer.

I take a deep breath, feeling proud of myself for calming down like
that. Suddenly I remember a cartoon I'd seen as a child with a hilarious
robot that dressed like a green dog and loved taquitos. I wonder if we'll
have robots dressed like green dogs in space? It makes me giggle, a little
at first, the uncontrollably. The lights on the panel above me seem blurry.

That's when I realize I've been drugged. Fucking computer. Was it drugging
me to calm me down, or kill me? Suddenly I didn't care. "I like being
calm," I say out loud, "but you can kill me too,
computer. Momputer. Doduter." I giggle hysterically at this, and consider
that dying in here wouldn't be so bad.

Things go black.

When I wake up, it takes a moment for me to remember where I am. Once I
open my eyes, the capsule lights up, although from interior lamps. The
space beyond the capsule's window is black. It stinks in here - no, I stink
in here, like rancid sweaty boy ass. A calm feminine voice sounds from
somewhere above my head.

"...imminent. DENON protocols are in effect. We are currently fourteen
hours seven minutes three seconds from launch. Subject: Chasen, Devon,
viable. Your capsule has been successfully loaded into escape vessel
five-nine-nine-seven. Vitals, acceptable.  Genetic screening, above
average. Are you in any pain?"

It takes a moment for me to register I'm being asked a
question. "Uh...no. Well, a little.  My hand hurts."

"Noted. We are currently fourteen hours from launch. Would you like to
sleep?"

I think about how nice that would be, to be able to dream away the end of
the world.  There's no way I'm ever going to sleep, though, maybe ever
again. "I wish," I sighed.

And that's when things go black again.

When I wake again I feel confused. I think that a computer was just talking
to me. Then one does. "Subject awakened. Chasen, Devon. We are currently
two minutes, thirty- seven seconds to launch. Please remain calm. You have
been revived for your safety."

"Uh, thanks," I say uncertainly.

"Noted. Do you have any questions or concerns?" The voice is reassuring,
which also makes it annoying.

"Um...where am I?"

"Noted. You are currently in launch capsule beta four four four nine three
alpha blue, which has been loaded into the launch bay of Earth Evacuation
Vessel five nine nine seven."

"We're taking off?" I ask.

"Noted. Affirmative, we are currently two minutes, five seconds to launch."

"Is Reid here?"

"Noted. I do not understand the request, please restate."

"My friend Reid was with me. Did he make it onboard the ship?"

"Noted. I can provide basic information on other passengers if provided
with a full name."

"Reid Woodard."

"Noted. Woodard, Reid is currently occupying launch capsule beta four four
four nine two alpha blue, which has been loaded into the launch bay of
Earth Evacuation Vessel five nine nine seven."

I ask about Patrick and get a similar response. I breathe a sigh of
relief. I think about Derrick, our fourth roommate, and ask about
him. "Noted. I do not have record of anyone by that name being processed by
the system."

I sigh, and things feel very real all of a sudden. "How about Ian?" I ask,
thinking of the boy who'd helped us and wondering if he'd passed. Reid had
smacked him hard.

"Noted. I can provide basic information on other passengers if provided
with a full name."

I think about it. I don't know his last name. "I'm not sure. His first name
is Ian."

"Noted. I cannot access passenger files without a complete name." I think
about calling the computer a bad word, but figure the response will
infuriate me. I'm about to do it anyway when it speaks up again. "We are
thirty seconds from launch. This system is going offline. Assuming a
successful launch, your capsule will open approximately thirty- two minutes
after liftoff. Have a nice launch. Good day."

Wait, what? Assuming a successful launch? What the fuck does that mean?
"Hey, what do you mean by 'assuming?' Hello? Computer person thingy?"

I don't get a response, reassuringly patronizing or otherwise. A very few
seconds later when the capsule begins to vibrate and rumble, I realize that
this is all really happening.  I'm going to space. On a space ship. I shake
my head in denial. I'm just a boy, a boy who belongs on Earth. I don't want
to go. This sucks. I don't want to go.

Regardless of my last minute freak-out (which I never tell anyone about),
the capsule continues to shake and shimmy, the grape jelly setting to
holding me firmly in place. And then there's a very slight pressure behind
my eyes, like the haunting tingle that says a really bad headache is on its
way. I tense, and then...nothing.

Turns out, taking off was nothing like I expected. Later I'll talk about
artificial gravity and inertial damping and a bunch of stuff. What it all
boils down to is that leaving Earth and taking to the stars is a matter of
sitting in a capsule wishing you had a hand free to play with
yourself. Nothing happens. It's quiet, and boring.

I try whistling. I suck at whistling, I discover.

Then I sing God Save the Queen. Might as well, right? It consumes at least
two minutes, and when I stop I find the silence unbearable. So I sing God
Save the Queen in the style of a techno rave mix, accompanying myself with
mock-instruments of my own design.

Eventually my singing annoys even me, and I stop. Then I get bored with the
silence.  "God, I wish this thing played some music."

I jump when the feminine voice behind me says, "Noted. Please enjoy." A
soft, comforting tune fills the capsule.

I grumble. "Stupid computer, could have told me there was music."

"Noted. But you have such a beautiful singing voice, Chasen, Devon."

It's the last tender moment my computer girlfriend and I share - a white
light appears in the capsule window; the room outside has been
illuminated. Seconds later the door to my capsule swings open with a hiss
and the jellied seat releases me. I'm sore - REALLY SORE! - but I sit up
immediately, ready to step out into my new reality. Humanity's last
hope. Whatever.

Back in reality, as opposed to Devon daydream la-la land, I'm startled by
Reid.

"Sheesh, Devon, you sleeping? This early?" He's standing next to my bunk,
looking up at me.

I shake my head. "Uh...no. Sorry, what? I was just reading over some
stuff. You wouldn't believe the things I need to know for this test
tomorrow. Who knew we'd still have exams?"

"No doubt," Reid says, pulling his shirt over his head. He smells musty,
like he's been cleaning tunnels again. Or working one of the farms. Patrick
looks tired; he plops down on his bunk.

"I like tests," he says. "Easy, simple, wonderful tests. No cleaning, no
scrubbing, no planting. Just words, words on a page." I laugh; I know he's
joking, but then again, he's not.

I look at the time, it's late. "Hey, anybody hungry?" I ask.

Patrick says he isn't, and Reid says he's bushed and is going to crash
after a long, hot shower. My tummy grumbles, and I tell my friends I need
food. I toss on a shirt and head to the cafeteria.

I meet one of my flatmates, Charlie, in the living room. When I tell him
I'm going to get food, he asks to tag along. I gladly accept. This was one
of the great things about living in a flat like this - there was almost
always someone around willing to hang out, grab a bite or do stuff with.

We take the shortest route from our dorm to the cafeteria, winding our way
to the Forward Concourse and then walking into an area called The
Commons. From there we catch elevators to Topside, and take another short
walk to Food Services. Along the way we chat, talking about our days. I
omit my spying and post-spying masturbation from my retelling of the day's
events. When Charlie tells me about his shift, I wonder if he's censoring a
similar, more interesting part to his story.

While we chat, I think about how the thing with Sean and Dog has me looking
at everyone in a new light. Which of my shipmates are having sex? Which of
them masturbate? (Well, probably all of them!) How many are masturbating
right now? I'm starting to think about these things a lot. A lot!

It's late, and the cafeteria crowds are lighter, but not totally thinned
out yet. We pass through the line; I see that Zane, who I was getting to
know better, was serving. He could be annoying at times, always slacking
off a little, but then he was fun.

"Hey guys," he says when we arrive at his station.

"What'd'ya'have'tonight," I mumble in one long horrendous word, knowing
what the answer will be.

Zane laughs, and then takes a deep sigh that seems sincerely
regretful. "Sorry, dudes.  Rations this week. Rations, rations,
rations. Maybe we'll get some more salad or something real in on Monday."

We disdainfully accept the food - plastic bags of grey looking goop, and
then find a table. "This looks...great," Charlie says, pouring the slop
onto his plate. I laugh. Across the room I spot Ian eating with some
friends - I'd discovered shortly after emerging from my capsule that he had
made it off Earth, and I was glad for that. He sees me laughing at Charlie
and smiles at me. Even from forty feet away I found his pale blue eyes
disconcerting. I had to wonder: would he be up for playing around some
afternoon?

Not long after we start eating, I see another friend make his way through
the line. He spots Charlie and me and makes a silent gesture that says "May
I join you?" I nod and make an equally silent motion that says "Yes, of
course."

When he gets within earshot he becomes substantially less silent. "There he
is."

"Hey, Conner," I reply, which earns me a huge Conner-smile in return. He
has an infectious smile that always seems to lighten a room. I introduce
Charlie and the boys shake hands.

Conner is a really cool guy. I'd met him back at school, and we'd hit it
off despite me being a first-year student and he being in his first year of
medical school. He seemed young to be a doctor - way too young. But he'd
started JDU at the same age I had, double and triple-loading his
coursework, then attending summer sessions, so that he had his degree at
nineteen. He moved right into medical school from that, which is where I'd
met him. Well, I mean I met him just outside the medical building, eating
at a table not unlike the one we occupied now, books piled all around him
like sand castles.

"I was beginning to think you'd been sucked out an airlock. I haven't seen
you in forever," he says to me. It was true, training had been rough, and
on top of that shifts, then second shifts, then shit detail. It was
dizzying sometimes.

"Yeah, it's been wild," I say, explaining my current work schedule.

Conner understands completely, and explains his own schedule on the
ship. "You know I was med back at school, right?" I nod; everyone knew - he
talked about it all the time, to anyone who would listen. "Yeah. So they
tell me I can do double shifts, and eventually become a field assistant to
one of the current doctors. It would be a lot of work, and not at all like
medical school, but I'd end up a full MD. And hey, what else do I have to
do around here?"

"Mildew duty? Tunnel-scrubbing? Planting cotton?" I ask, listing some of
the duties we'd seen rotating through the roster. Conner laughed - sort
of. My brand of humor could be a little odd to some. I give him a
break. "But that's great you can earn your degree. Wow.  Good luck with
that."

Conner beams. I didn't know him well, but I knew being a doctor was the
most important thing in the world to him. Which is why I kidded him a
little. "Just one thing," I say, "I am never, ever, EVER letting you cut
into me. No offense, but I've seen you play video games." He had a terrible
record against me at the campus commons.

He knows I'm kidding and laughs, which is accompanied by another big Conner
smile.  "We'll see if you change your mind when your appendix bursts and
you have to choose between me," he waves a spoon through the air
theatrically, as if it were a scalpel. "Or a slow, painful, oozing death."

I'm glad to have cheered him up. He's smiling and playing around, but
something about him seems off. "Oh, god, this is horrible," he says,
scrunching his face when he takes a bite from his ration pouch.

As we eat (or try to), I notice something about Conner. He's a pretty cute
guy, actually, his ultra-white wide smile offset by easy green eyes specked
with brown, sandy blonde hair hanging to his ears, and a long, lean
frame. He studied hard - all the time, really - but there was still
something laid-back about him, perhaps brought out by his preference for
cargo shorts and raglan tees, which always hung off his shoulders in a
casual, carefree manner that made him seem very approachable.

I'd hung out with him occasionally, but for the first time tonight I
wondered about his private life. Did he masturbate? When and how often?
What was his body like under his clothes? Come to think of it, I'd never
seen him shirtless. Hell, I don't think I'd ever seen him without an armful
of books until now.

Conner was easy to know, fun and carefree, but he was also a little shy. Or
maybe just hard-working. Either way, when I joked around in my dry,
sarcastic manner, I could always see a bit of confusion lingering just
behind his eyes, although he never said anything. It was cute, really,
having a friend you could perplex in this way. I sometimes wondered if I
were always on the verge of shorting out his brain.

Across the room Zane drops a bin filled with ration packets. The noise is
sharp and unexpected; several diners jump. "Sorry!" he exclaims to the
room, apologizing for his accident. "Tell you what," he says, adding a
goofy joke with a sly smile, "Dinner's on me!"

Several guys laugh, and I can't help but crack a smile.

I had to also wonder about my coworker. Zane was older than me, a graduate
student like Conner; I think he was probably twenty-one. We'd become
friends, commiserating over ration packets and long shifts. He was openly
bi-sexual. All throughout training he spoke about it - not just to me, but
to everyone. About who he'd had sex with, what he'd done with them. The
list was long, extensive, and replete with partners, both male and
female. Some guys bragged or exaggerated, and others just plain lied. But
there was something about the way Zane spoke, with a self-deprecating ease,
that made me think every word was true.

Whatever Zane's past, after my experience with Sean and Dog I found myself
looking at him in a new light. He was tall and muscular, his body solid in
both frame and build; his hard, lean muscles filled out the tight
tee-shirts he always wore, but he didn't seem overbuilt. His facial
features, though beautiful, were soft, so that you were instantly at ease
with him and never found him threatening, which was probably what made the
boy such a threat.

Zane seemed to realize he was good looking, but he didn't seem to care; or
if he did, he didn't show it. Unlike some of the other guys I've met, who
might flex their arms to show that their biceps had grown a quarter inch
from extensive gym work, Zane was more prone to press his fingers behind
his largish ears and point out how they made him look like a monkey. And
you know what? They kinda did.

I yawn. Watching guys is tiring. Plus, it's almost midnight.

We've all finished our tasteless goo, and even eaten the rice paper that
went under it.  When Conner proclaims it the best meal ever, I know he's
joking.

"Hey," I say, "Was that sarcasm? I think I'm rubbing off on you."

Conner laughs and agrees with me. He looks very tired, and I think about
all the long shifts he must be pulling to get through his studies.

Charlie and I take a longer route back to our room, enjoying the
tranquility of the ship at night. I realize I'd been somewhat ignoring him
at dinner. I didn't know him that well, but I'd been his flatmate long
enough to know he had bouts of high energy, but also periods where he was
quiet and seemed sullen. Now was such a time, so I keep the conversation
light.

Back at the flat I chat with the guys still up and about in the living area
before yawning and heading for my bedroom. I find my roommates to be asleep
when I enter, so I try to be especially quiet. I glance in a mirror and
look at my hair disdainfully. It's been this color - what? - almost three
weeks? I wonder something, and then pull my bathroom supplies from my
personal footlocker.

When I return, I've brushed my teeth, flossed, peed, and clipped my
toenails. Oh yeah, and I've dyed my hair.

Looking again in the mirror, the dirty-blonde with blue streaks is gone,
replaced by a shade I had particular inspiration in choosing. My head is
now coated in thick, shiny chestnut hair, an exact color match to the boy
I'd witnessed masturbating that afternoon, although mine was longer,
falling down my forehead to rest just above my eyebrows.  The shade makes
me look younger, as it had Mike, which is what I'd been curious about.  It
also softens my features, making me look a little more boyish. But it does
something to my almond-shaped eyes that makes them look deeper, sadder,
more intense. The boy staring back at me is no angel.

I think about the things I've seen today, and about what my life has
become; I think about the egress from Earth, and about the endless tiring
shifts we now work; I think about my friends, and how I'm starting to
question where I stand with them: which of them are solid friends, and
which of them would make good sexual partners, if I go that route?

I glance at Reid, whose sleeping face reflects in the mirror in front of
me. He was adorable, and I had to wonder how I felt about my best
friend. In three months' time would I be locked away with him in a room
somewhere, hurriedly grabbing his dick in my hand? The thought is exciting,
but also scary. Reid was like a brother to me, my best friend. Even if the
thought of something sexual with him gave me tinglies deep in my jammie
pants, purple shorts with little green images of Marvin the Martian running
amok, he was my best friend - telling him I liked boys felt
terrifying. Telling him he might be one of the ones I liked was
unthinkable.

"You look tired, mirror Devon," I whisper. He says the same to me
simultaneously. We're both right. Escaping a doomed planet is easy. Being a
gay teenager on a space ship filled with hot schoolmates is hard. And
confusing.

Tomorrow will be a new day.



To be continued



Thank you for reading the second chapter of my story! I hope it was
interesting, entertaining, intriguing...ok, enough use of that section of
the thesaurus.

As of this draft, I'm including endnotes for anyone interested. Here they
are:

Soundtrack: I try to assign a song to each chapter. Put them together and
you'd have a soundtrack to the story, or at least how I picture their world
to sound. The song for chapter two is Surfing on a Rocket by Air. I imagine
its what the computer plays for Devon in the capsule, and it's also a great
tune for the sex scenes.

This is the first time Devon mentions liking macaroni and cheese.

Devon losing his first wristcom was inspired by a friend who waited ten
hours in line for his iPhone 3G, then dropped it down a storm grate later
that day. He wasn't overly amused then, nor when I told him I made my
character do the same thing.

The flats are laid out similar to the apartments I was housed in my second
year at college. Originally I had the ship having quarters like most
generic scifi. These subsections seemed cool in college, and so this became
the model for the apartments on the ship. There were no emergency access
tunnels and peepholes, though.

The character of Mike intrigued me. Right after writing this chapter, I
started a profile on him. This blossomed into the short story "Mike and
Joey", which is posted on the Yahoo Group and Nifty. It was the first time
I considered talking about the boys' lives before they came to live on the
ship.

The glass ceiling in the lobby was inspired by the album cover to Is This
It? by The Strokes.

Devon's giggle fit about the robot dressed like a green dog is a reference
to the immortal cartoon show Invader Zim.