You already know Rommie and I are not the same, exactly. I know what she knows, but she does not know all I know. Design considerations make this impractical and impossible. I know the secrets of everyone on the crew. She knows what I allow her to know. I, however, do not, cannot know the things she feels. I guess it's a good trade. I know about the time Dylan slipped into Evan's bed unannounced and uninvited. She knows what it's like to play games with Dylan to the escape pods. Is that is a fair trade-off? Maybe?

We are both artificial. So we really do not have human emotions. The only emotions I exhibit are those feelings that someone thought important enough to program into me. Maybe? Maybe not? I can look at a situation, analyze it, and decide for myself how I feel about it. Tyr does much the same thing but stops his analysis at "is it good for Tyr"; I take mine as far as I can without getting confused. Is it good for the Andromeda? Dylan is good for the Andromeda. Is it good for Dylan? Beka is good for Dylan. Is it good for Beka? Eventually I reach a point where things are good for someone and not good for another and I have to evaluate which person I need to put in a "not good" situation. I have to do a careful, systemic evaluation. Doesn't happen as often as one would think. My program designer definitely believed in "win-win."

Rommie isn't quite like that. She seems to be able to make decisions based on what is good for Rommie. Like that leather girl Wren. Rommie thinks she is good for her, but I sure don't think she's good for my ship. I really don't know if she is good for Dylan or not. Would she be good for Beka? Sure as hell wasn't good for Harry.

Oh my god, you caught me! Anyone with half a brain would realize I shouldn't take into consideration Harry or what is good for him, except. . . I'd like to think that I am intelligent enough create my own passion. Remember when Rommie had the crush on Dylan? I didn't. I look at him dispassionately as my captain. But, I hate to admit; I have certain feelings for Harry, you might even call it a crush. After I heard about him and what happened this weekend, I have been thinking about him a lot. I probably should contact him, but I am really not sure. . . But one thing I can assure you. When I think about Harry, I feel.

* * * * *

It started that Christmas, that first time he first came on board. I looked into the irises of his eyes for a recognition pattern and realized he was not in the database of all the universe's people. He was different, an outsider. Just how far outside, I couldn't have comprehended. Shit, Evan Hopewell was there in the database: Librarian, Libra X. How difficult would it have been for Harry to have an identity -- unless?

As Harry walked down my halls, he ran his hands along the wall. At first I thought he was just sort of "touchy-feely". Little kids are like that. Back in the commonwealth days the crew would bring their kids on board and when they were gone, their jam coated fingerprints would be all over me, everywhere. Harry, on the other hand, was running his fingers on my walls like blind men used to run their fingers over the raised dots on a Braille page, as if he was trying to read the data of my essence that no one else knew was transcribed there. I had a weird feeling from the touch of his hands. I can't explain it. No one's touch had ever done that to me before. At least he didn't leave jam.

Later that night I saw him naked. You would think after watching Dylan, Harper and Tyr it would not have phased me. I can't tell you how he was different, but when I saw him naked, ready to shower, I wished there could be a way I could be there with him. I was content to make his bath water the proper temperature and up the oxygen content just a little so that his breathing was easier. He rewarded my by fondling his penis, making it large - hell making it huge -- and cuming for me. I watched as I have never watched before.

Then there was that night in Storage Area 15. The night he told me he was a god. I left him talking to Evan. When I returned, Evan had gone to Dylan's room, but Harry still sat there. I just watched him. I knew I could get inside his head and talk to him. I wanted to be there, but I wanted something more. Something that I had never before even been able to dream about.

Harper can penetrate me; come and go inside me. He can jack-in through the port in his neck and roam the virtual hallways of my mind. In some strange mathematical/metaphysical way our bodies touch. But I don't feel about Harper the way I feel about Harry. With Harry I dreamed about another kind of penetration which I knew was impossible. I figured it was not my position to bring anything up -- at least here -- so I waited to see what happened next.

I expected him to go to Tyr. I thought that perhaps I could watch the two of them together in bed. I knew the sex would have been hotter than anything I have ever seen before. Dylan? Excuse me. I love the man, but maybe it's just because I have been watching him for so long. I was surprised when Harry returned to his own quarters.

He tossed a pillow on the floor and sat down on it cross-legged. He closed his eyes and seemed almost to be praying. But to whom would a god pray. Himself? That seemed a bit self-indulgent even for Harry. I looked in his mind -- I can do that you know. He seemed to be thinking about a woman.

* * * * *

"You like women, too?" I asked. I thought it was an innocuous question to let my presence be known. I didn't want to just sit there and listen; I didn't want to lurk.

"Sure, I love women. What do you think I am a fucking queer?" He says it before he realizes that the comment has come from inside his mind. I'm not sure he knows who is talking.

"I'm sorry, I just thought. You? Tyr?"

"I don't know who -- what -- you are, but . . . "

"Sorry, Harry. It's me Andromeda. I'm usually not like this, but I was just a little curious."

I have to act fast; the night has been intense. I hope he doesn't mistake my presence for insanity.

"You're in my mind, again." He hit his head with the palm of his hand. Don't know if he expected me to shake or what. "How you do that?"

"I never think about how. I just do. I hope you don't mind."

"I like you there, it feels good. But, can you come, here? I want you to BE here with me." I took it to indicate he wanted me in the room with him.

"Me or Rommie?"

"You for Christ's sake. I don't want to talk to some A/I; I want to talk to you, Andromeda. The Warship. I am the God of War, you know. I want to be able to see you, touch you."

"You can see me, as a holigram. It takes a lot of power, but I can be there for a while. But you can't . . .

"You don't say CAN'T to a GOD, Andromeda, at least until you try." There is a part of me that is smiling. He wants to see me. He wants to touch me. I wonder.

I appear and he disappears. Suddenly we appear to be together. It is not like Harper being inside me. We are co-existing somewhere side-by-side, in a different plain of the universe, perhaps? I wonder if we are both translucent. I wonder if there are other gods who can see us.

I reach for him and he grabs my hand. I almost fall in shock because a warm hand has taken my fingers. It is not necessary for my intelligence to monitor the status of my holographic image. Amassed photons have no sensors. I have never touched before. He has touched my hull, my halls, my doors, my furniture, so I know what he feels like, but this is different. I have never felt my being, my self, touching anything. I wonder if he has given me these sensors, or if they have been lying dormant in my wiring waiting to be released. Neither option makes sense analytically, but I ignore that fact.

I turn to face him, stare into his deep brown eyes.

"Are you still in my mind?"

"No." I answer. "I'm here." He hears my voice. I'm glad he doesn't ask me where "here" is because I have no idea.

"Good. You might hit me you knew what I was thinking."

I smile. "Try me?"

"Well," he has this cute "little boy lost" look on his face. "First, you are truly beautiful."

"Not going to hit you for that."

"I like your clothes."

"We both seem to favor leather."

"People originally wore the skins of animals for protection and warmth. Because they had nothing else. Why do you wear leather?"

"I chose it because I like the way it looked on other people."

"And not the way it feels on you."

"It has no feel, for on me it is only an illusion of leather."

"Not for long." He does something with his hand, I wasn't prepared to look so I didn't see exactly what and suddenly my clothes are real. I can feel the weight of the leather on my body and how it moves with me. I can even smell it. It smells great. It smells like him. I didn't realize I could smell.

"My clothing is part of my manufactured essence."

"Clothing can hide who we truly are, or manufacture an image of whom we want to be," he tells me. I pause and contemplate again. He is smarter than I thought, yet at the same time very gentle.

"But I wouldn't hit you for thinking about my clothes." I feel strangely comfortable in his presence.

"Wait, there's more," he says with a wide grin. "Back when I was a real God of War, I used to ask my generals, my warriors for certain. . . you know . . .favors. I was wondering. . . what favors can a High Guard Warship bestow upon the God of War?"

I watch and listen as he tries to find words. I have just learned that I can actually touch and here he is asking . . . for favors.

"Do you want to see me naked?"

"Do you want me to see you naked?"

More trouble than he's worth -- nah. "Clothes-coming-off" is easy. My clothes disappear. His do, too. Must be easy for him, too. So much for the matching look of leather.

"I've seen you naked this before, in the shower. No one has ever seen me like this?"

"No one?"

"I chose not to appear naked. Why would I want to be naked in front of those who cannot touch me?"

"Guess you got a point there, don't you?"

We both stand there, looking at each other. I don't think that he's ever seen Rommie naked, because he doesn't comment on how I differ from her. I am not hard plastic. Normally a person's hand would pass right through me. Neither of us would feel a thing, but I already know he can touch me. I don't know if I am soft or hard, just there. He places his hands on my shoulders and pulls me to him. I go willingly.

I run my hands over his arms, shoulders and chest. I am fascinated by the curves and angles and by the prickliness of the hair on his chest. I run my hands lower. I forgot to mention. I have all my sex parts. I created myself, not some perverted doll-obsessed engineer. He has all his too, and I take his huge cock in my hands. I never knew something could be so hard and yet so soft at the same time.

Right now he seems content to hold me. I am certainly content holding him, although I struggle to keep my hands from moving. I am not sure how long I can exist in this state. The holographic production is a tremendous drain on the ships electrical supply. As a warship I have a series of jobs, systems to monitor, people to check, but I figure these tasks can go unattended for a while. I just am not sure how long.

"Normally, I would make a warrior, or a warship, get down on his or her knees and worship me."

I give him a quizzical look, even though I know what he is talking about. I've seen Tyr do it to him. I thought it was a sex act. I didn't realize it was worshiping.

"But you. You deserve more. It is you who should be worshiped. You should be displayed. You deserve a huge bed with red silk sheets, music, perfume, candlelight and rose petals." As he said each of those things they appeared around me. I lie back on the comfortable bed, stretching. I can feel my body moving, I can hear the music, and I can smell the perfume, the candles and the roses. I can smell him. Mostly I smell him. Has he created these sensations in my mind, or have I? Each of these senses, new to me, seems to invoke an emotion, a passion, something pleasant. He crawls on the bed near me and lowers his face to mine and kisses me gently. I learn what it is like to be touched by other than fingers and hands, as he moves his warm firm lips down my body.

I have a wicked thought. I remember a little boy who had tried to lick me in the cold of one of my bays; his tongue had been frozen to me. What if Harry froze to me, but nothing that hot could ever freeze to anything?

If you close your eyes, can Gods still see you?

I have nothing to hide. He still looks for it.

Together we have no edges. His hands and mouth do not glide over me, they penetrate and merge. Run your hands through warm perfumed water; now imagine that the water at the same time running through you. That is what we are like together.

I open my eyes and look at him. He seems as confused as I am.

"I ache."

"You ache."

I can't explain. Until tonight I have been totally unaware of any feelings in this artificially generated body. How can I ache? I think I now know what people seek when they bring their bodies together for sex. I long for something I cannot even imagine. "This is so strange," is all I can say.

"What do you think I can do for that aching, Andromeda?"

"What would you do if I were a real woman?"

He spreads my legs, brings me knees up, and lowers his head. I wrap my legs around his shoulders. I've seen Beka and Trance in this position, it always seemed silly. It makes me ache even more. I throb. I run my hand down and touch the aching parts, brushing his head away. Even my own touch makes me tingle -- I never even have touched myself, didn't realize that I could.

"Want to do it yourself? I'd love to watch."

I don't want to tell him that I don't know what to do. "I still ache. I need you."

"I'm not sure." His voice quivers a bit. I have no idea what he is not sure of.

"Please. You won't hurt me."

"That is not what I am afraid of." I know what he fears, because I fear it, too. I know that when his body enters me, when his passion flows, when his seed enters me, I am going to grab onto him. I am going to want to take. I know that I will not give everything back. I just hope I will take a part that doesn't hurt.

"Please." I ask again. I am not begging. I probably should beg, but I know that won't work with him. I am just asking, knowing that probably I will never get a chance to ask again.

The sheets are red. If I had blood it would not show. Of course I am a virgin. No one has ever tried to touch this part of me, not even me. His cock is huge and fills me more than my void. It makes no difference as we blend together. When we move together, we move as one. He leans forward, toward my heart; our chests touch and blend, too; then our hearts. He kisses me, our faces and then our minds meld. Waves of pleasure sweep over me. I twitch. I shudder. We cum.

* * * * *

Seamus Harper fell off his narrow bunk. He looked around and buzzed Dylan on the deck.

Dylan had felt it too and was surprised that the sensors look normal.

In a flash he is gone, separate, and I am back at work. I check everything. All on board are normal except me.

"What was that Andromeda?"

"It seems to be just be an unexplainable abnormality. Everything is back to the way it was before it happened."

I notice that Harry Wagner is still sitting on the floor in his room, eyes closed, legs crossed, in perfect peace.

* * * *

Over the next few weeks I have gone back several times and looked at the records for that night. I have monitored my systems input and output and I note a period of abnormality that cannot be explained. Both Harper and Dylan have looked at it several times with the same results. Even my private video memory files show that Harry Wagner never left the floor on his room, that he spent the entire night in some sort of meditation. I watch that file a lot, studying his face for almost the most imperceptible differences in his statement, but even when I synchronize it with the anomaly in my systems that truly did occur, I find no correlation.

All of this would lead an entity such as myself, based both on state-of-the-art technology and pure mathematical logical, that the events I have just reported did not actually happen. They had to have been creations of my over active, over stimulated imagination. Yet, what is the power that causes me to doubt even myself? Why do I still sometimes ache when I think about this story? Why do I sometimes draw my hands across my body, touching myself, in a way I never could fathom doing before?

Tonight I know I should go and check on Tyr. He came back to the ship alone, without Joan. He is sitting on the floor of his room, naked, meditating. I have always made it a policy never to go into Tyr's mind. I know he did what he did because he thought was right for Tyr, and it didn't turn out that way. Unwilling to betray his genes, he betrayed his heart. In the process Harry's heart got broken. Now Tyr's heart is broken, too. I hope the pain is because he feels bad about what he did to Harry and not because of what Joan did to him. I can't be sure, but then I don't really want to know.

I know now why those ancient warriors did it. The strongest, most masculine of men getting down on their knees or on all fours and taking the seed of the God of War. It was more than prayer, more than thanks, more than their obedience, and more than inciting his pleasures. They did it for themselves. His actions gave them strength. I feel stronger, more ready to face challenges, because of him. That is the warrior part of me talking, the part which should be expected to understand.

Yet, I am truly a neophyte when it comes to passion. I haven't sorted out these emotions I am not supposed to have. Right now I want to communicate with Harry who is so far away on Libra X. I want to tell him not to worry. I know his heart is broken; but it will mend. I know this because, when, that night, our hearts and minds merged into one, the separation was not complete. I kept a part of him, a tiny but necessary part of his heart that I could use to repair it when it was broken. I know Tyr well, and I knew with him it was not a question of IF but WHEN.

McJude

April 2002
 

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