I’ll be honest, I panic.
First because some girl managed to stowaway aboard the ship. That’s a huge problem, she’s going to be hungry and I only have enough food for 6 months of me and no one else.
This assumption lasts for long enough for me to turn around and see no one behind me.
My heart rate is going wild, and I can feel my pulse in my wrists as I try to figure out whether or not it’s a trick mirror. I hear when people are friends they play pranks on each other. I don’t have any friends, so that theory has a pretty short half life. I cup my hands over the mirror anyway, in case it’s a two way mirror and…
…and I’m not sure what. It’s only when I cup my hands that I realize I can look down.
I don’t. I stare at the mirror, and at my hands. It turns out “the back of my hand” isn’t just an expression. I know what my hands look like, and these are not them. I can see their reflection in the mirror, see the mirror hands almost touching mine.
It’s not just because I’m a butterfly. My hands would be different anyway, I know that. You can’t get all the veins and ridges to match exactly.
These are definitely a woman’s hands, the kind that haven’t evolved for punching people or working on cars. No big veins. No wide spread. No knobby knuckles.
Dainty. Pointed. Feminine.
I put my head against the mirror and close my eyes. Breath softly. Fight the panic.
My hand moves from the mirror and runs up over my ribs. My skin is new, never been touched before. It’s pretty agonizing. Yeah, there is definitely a breast there. I know what a breast feels like in my hand, and I’m feeling a breast right now.
“Shit,” I say it out loud this time, and realize it’s not my voice that’s saying it, it’s a girl’s.
Deep breath Eleven.
I look down, get hair in my eyes, and look into the mirror again instead. My hand brushes the hair back behind my ear, and that little thing almost makes me scream. That was a perfectly natural movement. You’re not a woman.
Red hair. Really really red. Blue eyes, they haven’t changed. Bomb shell figure.
It’s hard not to ogle butterfly women on the street, but I don’t because I’m a gentleman. If you’re going to grow a new body, why not make it count? So they have gravity defying breasts, tight waists, wide hips. They’re almost cartoonishly super-normal.
Now someone who is probably me has all that stuff. I look over my body, and it’s pretty impressive. Then, looking at myself, my nipples tighten up, in a way that I notice. Focus on what’s important, Eleven. Right now you can’t do anything about this.
That’s a healthy thought, to lead to healthy action. My therapist bottle would be proud.
Shit, I’m ravenous.
I’m not putting on clothes, I can barely stand the feeling of my own skin. My fingernails brush my thighs as I head to the mess. They aren’t too long, but they’re too long. And they hurt, and leave marks on the skin that take awhile to fade.
Dinner is blue goo out of a jar. It smells like baby food, and probably tastes like baby food. The microbiotm in my gut hasn’t developed yet. I can’t eat dairy products, or honey. It’s gravy and creamed vegetables for now. I’ve got some pills to take. In the end I’ll be able to eat things that would kill a human. Knowing that doesn’t make the baby food taste any better.
I can’t get over my hands. They aren’t my hands. Sure they’re a womans, but I get a feeling I’d feel confused anyway.The veins are all wrong. Knuckles not even wrinkly yet. As I eat, I constantly wonder who the fuck is feeding me. I go through six jars, feel full, and eat another one just to be sure.
Then I sit an stare at the empty jars for awhile, and just numb out.
I run my hand through my hair. It’s different hair too. Too thin. I debate crying. It’s been years since I cried, but it seems like the appropriate thing to do if I’m going to be a woman.
I turn the gravity off in the bunk house, and give myself a little shove over to the bed. There’s a couple little heaters here for this contingency, and a fan that will blow over my face. Without it, my breath would build up in front of my mouth, and I’d suffocate on carbon dioxide.
I close the cover, so I don’t wake up in the middle of the room, and curl up into a ball.
I cry myself to sleep.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out. When you fall asleep crying, you’re supposed to wake up happy. Instead I come to consciousness fitfully aware of how fucked I am.
It’s total-fucked. That’s how fucked I am.
Might as well report that to someone.
Turn the gravity on. Everything falls nice and slow, because I’m smart like that, and I can’t just jam the I-Defs on.
The ship pharm tests my skin conductance for stress, and allows me a xanax. I know better than to take it with alcohol, so I take it with alcohol. I have some calm going on, I’m ready to talk to someone else.
Probably not about this, but I can handle talking.
Then I make my way to the flight deck, and unlock the brain. The Sector & Sector logo appears on my screen while the mainframe boots. A star and an S (that’s my father), surrounded by eleven suns in stages of eclipse (that’s his children). The bottom right is completely hidden with only the corona showing (that’s me).
I’ve got a private secure channel to Sector & Sector. Whoever answers will know without a doubt it’s me. I adjust the camera so only my face shows, I’m still not putting on a shirt. Even the leather pads on the seat are like sitting on razor wire.
I look at my face in the camera for several minutes. The butterfly proportions are wrong. My eyes are too big, my mouth too small. I cup a breast in my hand and adjust the camera down for a quick second. I’m the figure of jealousy to the best tits in the galaxy.
The channel clicks open but there’s only a green cursor on the corner of the screen. In an emergency, I might not want anyone to know I’ve got a line out.
“Hey, Coms.” Anyone manning the com station is called Coms, “I have a minor problem.” Don’t choke up Eleven.
Five minutes later I have Susan on the screen. I’ve pulled her out of bed. I’m not sure if she’s getting laid, and this intrigues me more than it normally would. I might have a problem here. Her hair is back to normal, shoulder length, straight and blond. Her makeup is microbial, so she rolled out of bed and her eyeshadow is perfect.
Her facade breaks for a second, and she whispers, “Fuck.” Then, “I’m pretty sure that’s you, Eleven?”
I tuck my bottom lip under, and give her a little nod. Please don’t freak out, Susan, or I’m gonna cry again.
“Hang on,” and the screen goes dark.
A minute later she’s back, and moderately composed. “Well. Your doctor isn’t going to make it through this week, not after your father has something to say about it. In the meantime we have to get a doctor we can trust. I’ll put in calls and ping you in two hours.”
Professional. Thank god. I have to kill the glimmer of hope that there’s an easy fix for this, because I’m 60 light years away from anything habitable.
“You look exhausted.”
“I was just born.” And I’m kinda in shock.
“Why don’t I call you in eight hours, and you get some sleep.”
I feel some tension drain out of my face as I nod. We sign off at the same time.
I swim back into consciousness, and for a moment everything is okay. And then it hits me. I don’t have to adjust my balls. That’s new.
For the next nine months (at least) I have a woman’s body. I have a vagina. That’s a little hard to reconcile. Probably best not to think about it.
I think about it.
Everything is sensitive as hell. I have pussy lips and I can feel them rub together. Connections are still being formed between my brain and body, but for the moment I am very conscious of my clitoris.
I don’t know what to do about any of this.
I’ve been asleep for nine hours. I have to pee. Susan has surely called me by now.
First things first. I float my way over and turn on some weight, until I’m standing on the floor.
For the first time I don’t have to give a little hunch to get my bladder right. That’s new. For the first time, I hit the bidet button after I pee and not by accident. That’s uncomfortable.
This time sitting in the chair isn’t agony. There’s probably a book somewhere that will tell me how long it takes my skin to adjust. I was never much of a reader, so it’s going to remain a mystery for now. I’m still eating when the com comes through. It’s not the secure channel. Susan must have briefed everyone. Knowing that makes it harder and I cry a bit over it. I’m still crying when I answer the com, and Susan lets me take a minute to compose myself before she starts up.
“I have Doctor Jordan on the second line. She’s been briefed on your…situation…and has more information for you. I’m afraid that for the foreseeable future you’re fu—in trouble. Eleven we need you to stay on this run. There’s a lot of money involved, and meeting the Chinochkan for the first time cements a relationship that will keep other units from muscling in. They place a lot of emphasis on punctuality.”
My nose doesn’t run when I cry. My eyes are larger when I rub them though so it kind of evens out.
“So you want me to…” I can’t really finish the sentence, but Susan nods anyway.
“I’m gonna bring Doctor Jordan on the line, unless you want to take some time…” Susan is being understanding. It’s worse than her distant professionalism, because I need it so much.
Doctor Jordan has her own Gen-B. Her features are like mine, the way I have to get used to looking in the mirror. She’s stunningly attractive. That’s me now.
“Mister Sector? May I call you Eleven?”
We both wait for Susan to get off the line. She doesn’t take the hint, so after an awkward minute I boot her from the channel.
Dr. Jordan starts right up, “I’m sorry that this happened to you. Unfortunately there’s not much we can do. Adjustment to a new body would be difficult even if it was your own gender. The neurological damage will take awhile to undo.”
“So it’ll be at least a year?” Hold out hope Eleven.
“Eleven, we aren’t even sure how some of the drugs that put you under work.”
Ignore that. “Do you know anything about what will happen to me?”
“There have been…experiments. And mistakes. In fifty years it’ll be an actual therapy, and even a “larva” will be able to get another larva body in the opposite sex.”
I’ve never heard that term for my old body before. I’m pretty sure it’s derogatory.
“But it’s illegal as hell. When your doctor is apprehended, mistake or not, he’ll have to plead down to death.”
“So what’s going to happen to me?”
“Well. Long story short? You’re going to get very horny.”
“Your pituitary gland has noticed that your testicles are shrunken. It doesn’t know that they’re missing. So it’s going to send you through puberty again, which means it’ll produce a whole bung of luteinising. And that’s going to make your sex drive hardcore.”
I don’t think thats the medical term. “Acne?” It’s the first thing I ask and I don’t know why. My voice is timid. Trembling.
“No,” Doctor Jordan laughs, “your skin is far more resistant to infection than your larva.”
I terrible thought occurs, “Do I have to deal with, um, my time of the month?”
“You have a Gen-B,” Doctor Jordan tells me. “You only have to have your menses if you want to.”
My nose still isn’t running, but I sniff anyway and nod.
“There are pills that will make your uterine lining build up,” Jordan continues, “but, as you might imagine, most women don’t see a reason to undergo it at all.” She pauses. “Are you eating the goop?”
“Does it taste like baby food?”
“I think it must. It’s made of the same stuff. Just be glad you don’t have to teethe again.”
I think I like her. I think I might like her more than I should. I think all this liking might be a problem.
“If you were planet-side there would be hormone treatments that would make it easier, but I don’t think the ship pharm has anything that will help you.” She pauses, I think delicately. “Eleven, you really need to cut out the booze.”
Why? What have you heard?
“Your neurology is in crisis. For the next month or so, trying to augment it is going to cause you serious problems.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m embarrassed. As a way of not thinking about it, I turn to…the thought of Dr. Jordan’s teeth on my nipples. I might have a problem here.
“You have my com. Lets try and stay in touch, at least weekly, over the next six months.”
“Sure, that sounds fine.” More than fine.
“Get a lot of exercise, almost as much as you sleep. Bye,” she signs off.
I’m alone with my thoughts which have moved on to the way a Gen-B pussy tastes.
It’s a week later. I’m five months out still. On solid foods now, and I can eat honey. I haven’t consciously eaten honey in years. It’s probably in some things I’ve eaten, I know. But just sat down and eaten honey on toast? Just not a part of my diet.
To make sure I can handle it, there’s honeycomb in the galley. Like bears eat. Like I ate as a child, on toast. I put it on an English muffin. The first bite just sits in my mouth for a full five minutes as I taste it. After all that baby food, something familiar from my childhood is a frighteningly amazing experience. It takes me 40 minutes to have breakfast. I pack a third of the honey comb away, for when I need comfort food.
Exercise. Four hours a day. It’s actually physical therapy, but I don’t call it physical therapy, because that makes it sound like I’ve been shot. I practice balancing, which I’m pretty good at now. Then I lift heavy things for awhile. I’m not going to be chubby, but why chance making this body look less incredible.
There aren’t a lot of mirrors on the ship, but there are tons of screens and cameras, and I wander around with the mirror settings on. I’m trying to get used to it, but I’ll be honest. Every time I see my body, I can’t help but touch it. Sometimes just my face, but my breasts are gorgeous. I look like a different person touching myself, and it’s hot as hell.
I’ve tried touching my pussy. I didn’t want to at first. It’s been hard to accept that this is the way I am for now. Normally a run like this would be a wankfest, there’s not a lot to do.
I’m aroused all the time. My nipples could cut glass for 23 hours of a normal day. But my little clit is still too sensitive to rub around.
I can get close with just my nipples though. Before I go to sleep I have to touch myself, it feels like I’m a teenager again. I lay back and pinch my tits and feel shock waves go down my spine, and tingle my pussy. But it’s not enough. Eventually I fall asleep, feeling my snatch soaking wet, and frustrated completely.
I’m totally guilty. I want to cross. That’s the way I think about it still. It’s a solo run. There’s no one around. And I feel embarrassed about wanting to wear women’s clothes.
It’s been three weeks. The fans on the ship don’t hurt my skin. My long hair doesn’t rip my shoulders to shreds. I can wear it down now and I don’t wince when I move my head too fast. Of course my old clothes don’t fit, for a start they have an inseam. I tried it out with my boxers. Just put them on and wore them about Bertha for a bit. But I felt…
I don’t know how I felt.
I guess like I was dressing wrong.
But women’s clothes are wrong too, and I feel terrible looking through the printer’s wardrobe mods. There’s a lot of stuff in here. I knew I’d need new clothes. I’m not surprised to find the women’s section has 3 times as much as the men’s. It makes me feel a little proud. I’m not sure of what.
Yeah they’re all synthetic. Even my father can’t afford to wear organic textiles every day. To be honest, I don’t even think he could tell the difference between modern poly-cotton and organic cotton. It’s just a status thing.
In the bunk house, with the printer, I pull out my tablet, connect it, and look at the options again. My heart rate is going up. Instead of action, I ping Doctor Jordan.
She answers in a chipper mood, “Eleven! You’re early. What’s going on?”
It’s only been a couple of days since we talked last. The conversation has been light, while I try and figure out what’s going on in my head. She’s been supportive, hasn’t pushed me too far, so calling her up for this feels okay. Scary, but okay.
I look down as I explain the situation. The part where I don’t want to, not the parter where I really want to. The wrongness of wearing girl clothes. I feel more vulnerable than I’ve ever felt while sober. Halfway through I just give up, toss my hands, and wait for her to say something.
“Oh honey,” Doctor Jordan sounds like she’d touch my shoulder when she says it. Or my hair. Or my… “You should do it. Just start slow, you don’t have to wear anything risque. But you can’t run around naked all the time. Why don’t you just print some clothes, try them on, and call me back?”
We hang up, and I put my head in my hands. My nipples are so hard, they hurt.
I turn back to the wardrobe. I know I should just pick up some plain cotton panties, and a sports bra. But there’s an icon my finger immediately hovers over. It’s a pair of panties with flowers and lace.
I print out three bottoms and three tops. Red, black and purple. Some of them have straps, some of them have lace. All of them have frills. All of them are inventive.
Then I really take a risk. Stockings and heels.
After a little bit of holding my first bottoms, I figure it out. There’s an off color seam on the inside of the panties, but only on the left. That’s how you tell, without a fly.
The panties feel so good, going up my legs. I tuck them under my pussy, and they feel foreign and wonderful. The lace brushes over my thighs as I make an experimental parade around the bunk. My hips have felt different, but I’ve been frumping around the place. When I really start to walk I can feel them swing. I’m sure my ass looks incredible. I set all the screens in here to camera, and watch myself.
In a haze of hedonism, I pose, and snap a couple of pictures. I’m feeling a little demented when I lay a tablet on the floor and straddle it. Look down at my body from a worm-eye angle. Shit I look good. After a couple of seconds I notice a damp spot on my crotch.
So I switch to bras. I know this body was perky enough not to need them. I don’t know if I doubt that, or if I just want to wear a sexy bra.
No. I know.
They take a little bit to work out, and I end up looking online. There are a bunch of “life hacks” for putting on bras. I feel like I’m getting a jump start on this whole “woman” thing. I don’t know how they worked in antiquity, but all I have to do is pinch the clasps together and hit the tag, and they bind right up. The shoulder straps take a lot of working out, the little adjuster things are over my shoulder blades, which seems like bad design. There’s some stuff online about how to fit the shoulders right. That’s great, because when they’re wrong, they’re really wrong.
With the first one on, I model for the screens. I have cleavage now! Again, little bits of lace tickle my skin. Looking at myself in the mirrors, my nipples are like little pebbles. A quick check. Yep, that damp spot has grown.
I double down on this crossing thing, and pick up the hoes and garters.
Putting on the tights is intuitive, of course. Until I get to the garters, and then it’s back to the Internet to figure out how they work. Apparently I’m not the only woman not to have been taught this.
I just called myself a woman. I don’t know how to feel about that.
Okay these panties are absolutely damp now, I have to change and start the process over.
The next ensemble is red and black. Lacey with little flowers. It’s see through in places I’ve never seen through before. The bra goes on first this time. It squeezes my tits together, almost too tight. Almost not tight enough. I can feel my pussy get wet, when I tuck my legs together for another picture. It makes my toes curl a little.
These tights are finer, and lined with red lace. I put them on and clip them to the garter belt in one smooth motion.
Panties still off I go over the shoes. I decided not to get too complicated, and didn’t want to set the heels too high. So three pairs only have inch heels. The red pair though. The red pair is six inch stilettos, in shiny red leather. I jump in the deep end and try on them on.
Here’s the thing, I don’t know how to put on heels. I put them on the way I wear my boots. This means that I’m kneeling in one, while I buckle the other. This is hardly optimal, because I can’t bend the ball of my foot, because these shoes don’t work that way. I have to grab the bed post when I get both feet beneath me, and I catch a glimpse of myself on the monitors.
I’m squatting, in red lace tights and bra, on the tips of my heels. My pussy is bare and glistening. I can’t help but put my fingers in my mouth, and brush a finger over the shutter button on the monitor. I take more than a couple of pictures like that.
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