dilectus and amantor

Dilectus was washing syringes in a basin. The water was hot, steam rolling up along the sides of the dull metal rectangle, over the sides, and cascading over the counter and to the floor. The room was humid, always, making their brow speckle with sweat. They slowly dried each syringe, neatly arranging them in a carrier and placing them in the metal cabinet above the counter. They wiped their hands, walked down the sterile, white hallway, and opened a thin, steel door. Inside the small room was a bed, a lamp, and a small bedside table. Dilectus removed their apron, opened a thin panel in the wall and pushed it into a compartment. They laid down and stared up at the ceiling–their body unmoving. The lights would turn off shortly.

As the thick, glistening mists of dusk rescinded outside the portal window into blackness, Amantor pushed a large cart through the common hallway. They stopped at the sixth door, produced a key, and let themselves into a large room. Amantor looked around for others, walked to the laundry chute, and waited for the hundreds of aprons to fall into the large basket. They filled the basket, pushed it down the corridor to the Clerk, and waited for the next basket to fill. Over and over, and over.

Amantor ran their fingers through the piles of aprons, their hands guided by an innate sense. One of them belonged to Dilectus, they were certain. They had not met, they knew nothing of each other, but Amantor had been struck by this scent over and over each night. They rummaged through the pile, feeling closer with each movement. Suddenly they went stony, jerked their hand back, retrieved a crumpled apron, and brought it to their face. They inhaled and savored the moment, a Feeling, a warmth circulating just below the surface of their skin. They returned it to the pile and continued working. As First Dawn subsided, Amantor ended their shift and walked down the sterile, white hallway and opened their own thin, steel door, removed their apron, pushed it into the secret wall compartment, and laid in their bed waiting for the dark in perfect stillness. Except for their eyes. Amantor’s eyes darted back and forth, searching their mind for words that didn't exist.

Every day was the same on the Ship. Wake, dress, work, sleep. Amantor, being a Launderer, worked the evenings to ensure the guildsmen had fresh aprons by First Dawn. There were the Machinists that handled the Ship's engine and infrastructure. The Maintenance workers that cleaned the Ship. There were the Kitchen Staff who cleaned syringes and stored nutrients. Possibly the most important workers were the Injectors–the beings who compounded and administered nutrient injections. The Launderers rarely saw anyone else, only meeting the other guildsmen at Second Dawn in the cafeteria for their "breakfast."

Dilectus sat in the feeding chair, resources expended and tired, the same as every other day. They watched the drip travel down the tube, droplet by droplet, as the flow started. As it entered their body, they felt a dull pain at the injection site. As it pumped into their system, they began feeling normal, healthy, energized. They looked around the room at the sea of identical faces, identical beings with identical heights, identical builds, and identical aprons. Their bodies were pale, off-white. Their arms were elongated and slender, their legs as well. Their skin was smooth and poreless, shiny but not glistening. They lacked hair, even eyebrows, but each had identical large, round black eyes.

Without language, Dilectus and the residents of the Ship did not have proper ways to convey their thoughts, but they did have sensations and urges. Compulsions they could not understand or discuss. They hungered. They desired to work. They tired. That was precisely how the Councillor wanted it. But as with all things, expectations do not reflect reality, and as with all things, the unexpected is probable.

Amantor recognized the scent. They watched as Dilectus sat for the Injector. They moved within the lines, attracting the notice of other beings confused by the change in order. One did not get out of line, that was their way. Amantor positioned themselves so Dilectus would pass them as they exited the cafeteria. They watched the final drips, the Injector remove the needle, and wipe the injection site. Dilectus began the walk back down the line nearest Amantor. With each step, Amantor began to feel the warmth beneath their skin again. The unique scent they recognized from the apron laundry each day grew closer and more potent. Amantor’s mind, blank of words, felt anxious and excited and aroused all at once, with no way to express it.

Dilectus looked forward and did not move their head. With each step toward the door, they began to feel something. From the pit of their belly, stretching out to their elongated legs and slender swaying arms, they felt strange. Like nausea and dizziness, but also oddly pleasant. They brought a hand to their belly and paused, drawing attention from the other beings. They always walked without stopping, that was their way. Amantor watched and knew—Dilectus had the big Feeling like they had had weeks ago in the laundry room, the first time they came across the apron with the unique scent. Dilectus began walking.

As Dilectus reached Amantor, they stopped once more. Again, defying routine, they turned their head to look at Amantor. This was not their way. Around them, others grew nervous, eyes darting every which way but bodies remaining still. Dilectus tilted their head and blinked, they recognized something they could not explain. Amantor reached out to Dilectus, placing a hand over their heart. Dilectus remained motionless, but the dizzying nausea faded. Suddenly, they felt something electric and mild growing beneath their surface. Warm, comforting and new. Amantor nodded. Dilectus turned their head, eyes searching. Amantor felt a flash of cold before warmth returned—they understood. Dilectus had seen the Councillor’s Prefect making their way across the lines. They quickly dropped their hands to their sides and Dilectus walked to the exit with brighter, larger eyes than the day before.

Amantor woke and readied themselves for laundering. They pushed the carts of mundane aprons to the Clerk, basket after basket. They inhaled the scents of hundreds of others, ignoring them and pushing through the day’s work. Then they got to the basket that contained the apron that Dilectus had worn the day prior. Amantor clutched it to their chest, inhaling Dilectus. The launderer next to them took notice and grabbed Amantor’s wrist. They shook their head and blinked twice. Amantor shrugged, but the other tightened their grip. There was fear in the other launderer’s eyes. Begrudgingly, Amantor dropped the apron and carried on with filling baskets and pushing the carts to the Clerk.

At Second Dawn, Amantor excitedly waited for Dilectus. Now that there had been contact, a recognition, Amantor could feel their presence when within a certain distance. The sensation grew more intense—Dilectus was in the cafeteria. Amantor watched and waited for Dilectus to feed and walk down the line. They could feel each other and choose the right line now, evading notice. As Dilectus walked down Amantor’s line, they each felt the warmth rise in them. Dilectus approached, subtly reached out their fingers from their elongated arm, and brushed fingertips with Amantor. Though brief, the interaction felt deeply sensual, sending currents through their bodies. They did not raise any suspicion. Dilectus walked off, entered the kitchen, and began cleaning syringes with bright, round eyes one might interpret as a smile.

Each day forward, Dilectus and Amantor brushed their fingertips and felt brief moments of joy. The monotony of work and routine was broken—but Amantor wanted more. They felt a need within them that could not be sated by the few seconds of gentle contact. Amantor began plotting.

The next day, Amantor moved their initial place in line, something set by the Councillor ages before, further back than the day before. The day after, a little further back. The others in line stared on in fear and anxiety but dared not move from their own spaces. After several weeks, Amantor found themselves at the end of the line, and when Dilectus reached them, they paused a little longer. Dilectus went along to work, excited to finish and come back to the cafeteria at Second Dawn. Amantor was overcome with Feeling. The infatuation grew. They wanted—needed more.

The next day, Amantor waited for Dilectus. When they met, Amantor grabbed their hand. Dilectus looked around for the Prefect nervously. Amantor went to reach out for their other hand but Dilectus shook their head in protest. Amantor’s eyes dulled. Dilectus softened and pointed toward the taller head making its way horizontally across the room. Amantor nodded in acknowledgment.

The next few weeks stretched on with Amantor and Dilectus holding hands for a few brief moments in the cafeteria. Amantor’s incomprehensible lust overtook them. As they funneled the day’s aprons, finding the apron that smelled of Dilectus, they once again defied the rules of the Ship. Amantor peered around to see if the other launderers or the Clerk were looking, folded the apron, and stowed it in the pocket of their own. When they returned to their room to sleep, they unfolded it and brought it to their nose, falling asleep in the aroma of their beloved.

Dilectus hurried to the cafeteria. They fed and walked down the line. They stretched out their fingertips to grab Amantor’s hand. After a moment they let go and walked off to work. After taking a few steps, they still felt warm. Usually it had subsided by now. Dilectus turned. Their eyes grew wide. They shook their head back and forth quickly. It was Amantor.

Amantor approached Dilectus, eyes shining and wild. Amantor led Dilectus by the hand, hurriedly, to the thin steel door and into their room. Dilectus appeared worried. Amantor placed their hands on their shoulders, attempting to comfort Dilectus. Amantor pressed Dilectus against the wall, and moved the flat, smooth skin between their nose and chin along their beloved’s face. Dilectus shut their eyes. The warmth became greater as Amantor’s hands traveled down their smooth skin, found their wrists, and guided them to an embrace. Amantor removed their aprons, guided them to the center of the room and onto the floor, and positioned Dilectus with their arms stretched out at their sides and legs apart. Amantor laid upon Dilectus in the same position but facing them, the smooth skin between their mouths and noses nestled on each other’s shoulders. At that moment moment of contact, the warmth became unbearable burning. Their embrace grew tighter. Dilectus shut their eyes tightly.

The two remained in embrace for minutes. When the burning subsided, Amantor shuffled off of Dilectus and sat off to the side, experiencing residual joy. Dilectus lay unmoving doing the same. Amantor opened their eyes and peered down looking horrified. Dilectus looked with worried eyes at them. Amantor pointed. He had marked Dilectus. A dark, black pattern had burned into the shiny, off-white skin of Dilectus. Neither had seen anything like this before yet they knew it meant something bad. Amantor did not share the mark. The Prefect would notice. They sat, wordless and worrying, holding hands.

For several weeks, business went along as usual. Amantor waited patiently in line for Dilectus to brush fingertips. Amantor relished the thought of their heated embrace fondly, thinking the danger was long past them. Each day, they briefly touched and looked at each other with loving eyes. And then the day came.

Amantor waited in line. And waited. And waited. Something was wrong. Nobody was in the feeding chair. Amantor looked around and saw the taller head of the Prefect making their way toward the center of the room. For the first time, all the others turned their heads and moved out of line, looking for something or someone. The Prefect stomped hard onto the floor and everyone returned to position. Amantor felt Dilectus. They weren’t walking toward Amantor yet. Knowing something was amiss, they dared not move. And then Amantor saw it.

The Prefect stood at the feeding chair with Dilectus beside them. The Prefect gestured toward the crowd. Dilectus shook their head. They urged Dilectus over and over, growing angrier with each denial. Dilectus was being forced to name the being who had marked them. With tears in their eyes, Dilectus refused each time. The Prefect swung their heavy, armored arm and slapped Dilectus across the face. Amantor cringed and went to move, but another grabbed their wrist and stopped them. The Prefect urged again and Dilectus refused. The Prefect slapped them again. Dilectus sobbed silently and held their hand to their cheek. The Prefect urged a third time. With the third refusal there was no slap. The Prefect dragged Dilectus by the hand down the line to the exit. As they passed Amantor, Dilectus reached out their hand and brushed Amantor’s fingertips without being seen. In that moment, Amantor felt their fear and something else.

Amantor watched the Prefect drag Dilectus down the long hallway they had began their tryst in so many weeks ago. Amantor turned and went to follow. The others held them back. Amantor broke free of their grip and silently crept along the long hallway following them to the Councillor’s office.

Amantor peered into the office, watching the silent conversation ensue. The Prefect removed the apron from Dilectus, leaving them naked and trembling. The Prefect pointed at the marks. The Councillor inspected with furious eyes and made a few gestures. Amantor did not understand. They began dressing Dilectus, and Amantor hurried back to the cafeteria before being seen.

The cafeteria was full. Everyone stood in position. The Clerk dragged in a platform. The Prefect entered with Dilectus and the Councillor followed behind. They stood in the center of the room on the platform. The Prefect removed the apron from Dilectus, revealing the mark on their body. Every eye in the cafeteria went wide with shock. The Councillor made several gestures understood to mean this had resulted in forbidden behavior. The Councillor produced a large, sharp blade from within his regalia. Dilectus searched for Amantor’s eyes in the crowd. Finding them, each with tears in their eyes, Dilectus nodded. Amantor nodded back. The Councillor raised the blade and cut into the smooth, shiny skin between Dilectus’ nose and chin.

With the cut came a deafening, harrowing, and unceasing scream. Everyone in the cafeteria clasped their hands to their ears, the volume causing pain. It would not stop. The Prefect and the Councillor led the screaming Dilectus out of the cafeteria and into the Observatory.

The room had thick, clear glass on one side. Dilectus sat in the center of the room, naked, helpless in their chair, their new mouth stretching wider and wider as the incessant screaming continued. They received no nutrient injections. The workers from every guild would pass by each day seeing Dilectus waste away, a reminder of the sin of being marked, of the Feeling. Each day a little weaker, Dilectus had Felt too much to reveal it had been Amantor. Within weeks, Dilectus had grown frail and unrecognizable. The Councillor resolved to leave their body on display, contained in the Observatory and preserved for the Ship, instilling fear in the workforce.

Amantor was despondent. Their days blended together as one, an eternity of pain until their own final days, each night clutching and inhaling the apron that still smelled of Dilectus. This was their way.