“Adlerode, your nightmares are associated with your anxiety concerning your union with Mildred—and I think you know that. So why have you rescheduled your next five watches to consult with me over this?”

“Doctor Zeller,” said the much younger, much more blonde, male, “I’m afraid that she won’t be happy with me. She came up in the Beta Pod. I’m from Sigma. I know it’s a vetted match, and I’m good enough for her. But, I’m not, not—like you. All the females prefer you to the rest of us, even though you’re so old we—well, I—wonder when you’ll start breaking down. You’re the prime consultant—females stop what they are doing and watch while you walk by.”

The young male, on the eve of his partnership, simply wanted some advice from a more experienced partner, a male who had been around. Doctor Zeller, his eyes now taking slightly longer to focus on that distant foci icon on the wall of his consulting suite, stopped, considered his awkward position, and then plunged ahead—known as he was to be of an unorthodox frame of mind, “Adlerode, I was born to Omega Pod—and, as you have already alluded to, my most recent partnership was with an Alpha. I was born knowing I was behind the curve and acted accordingly, overcompensating, experimenting, taking chances.

“I would not want to have an understudy like me for all the downtime in Ceres. Females like that. It is in their design. It is not something I like about myself. But it was put there by our Creator, so I use my aberrant nature—or try to employ it—for the better of us all. I am a failure though, on a personal level, in partnerships. I have been partnered on half cycles since I was eighteen. I’m thirty-eight now, Adlerode. That is twenty parings. Certainly, from a young un-partnered perspective, I must seem to be the model. But, Friend, I’ve simply advanced all the way to an Alpha partnership to have it dissolve. She has applied for disunion already, claims I spend too much extra time here, at the consultant’s chair.”

The young male sat, stunned and slack-jawed.

“Adlerode, you are a fine example of a Sigma Member. Your entire crew wing vouches for you. Be Adlerode Sigma, the best egress scrubber in his age grade. That’s who you are, who you are known to be, and who that fine Beta Squeeze is dreaming about when she’s on watch down in Bio-salvage.”

Adlerode smiled, and then the suite audio ramped up and a sweet voice of a fine beta female intoned, “Doctor Zeller, Doctor Zeller, you are needed in Bio-salvage!”

“Yes, I’m with a crew member a—”

A more assertive voice broke in, and Adlerode's face expanded into a wide-eyed smile, “Doctor Zeller, this is Mildred-Beta, fourth assistant to Doctor Marx, who has just died in the consultant’s chair! The rest of the team is down. We are either scrubbing the recovery effort and going to containment or doing whatever you suggest—that is, if we can drag your much sought after posterior away from whatever Alpha squeeze you happen to be luring into your partner arc while you should be working!”

“I will be their immediately, Mildred. Please don’t spank me when I arrive.”

The audio cut out, and, as Doctor Zeller disengaged from his consultant’s chair, which automatically released Adlerode from his consultation cradle, the young male fairly beamed at his much older consultant, “She doesn’t even like you! She meant it when she said you were a—well—please don’t tell her I was here…”

“Adlerode,” he said, as he completed the disengagement, “it is against my oath of service to divulge the content of any consultation. Be careful though, you have a male-devouring squeeze waiting for you at the union suite tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait, Doc! Thank you!”

At this point both men, the elated partner to be and the agitated and grimly focused consultant, ran from the consulting suite, each along their own path, through the evenly lit corridors of the place they called home, of the only place in the cosmos they had ever known.

Doctor Zeller had been consulted by Doctor Marx and his team concerning the resuscitation of the three ancient brains that had been discovered in the bio-salvage containment vault. That was three years ago. There had been no follow up. And, what, with prepping the Crew of the Ceres for colonization, he had not even thought to inquire as to the progress of these efforts, which were above his grade in any case.

He picked up his pace, spurred on by his curiosity, numb from the news that Doctor Marx was somehow dead! This was huge news, and would mark the first fatality in Ceres since Generation Day.

Marx was only 90. Sure, the old fellow was First Generation, but life expectancy was 120. There had yet to be an augmentation on the entire crew. The bio-mechanical crew was actually debating whether or not someone should sustain a purposeful injury just so that they could experiment with the equipment. They had consulted with Doctor Zeller over that, and he had invoked Baseline Ethics, and the initiative was set aside. Yet a few bio-techs still grumbled that it might be necessary.

Faster he ran, perhaps as fast as that amorous young Adlerode sprinting back to his crew members with the grand news that the failed bottom-feeder stud, Doctor Zeller Omega, had not only declared him fit for union, but had been rebuked on a professional level by his partner to be.

“The kid must be over the egressway about that!”

Faster he ran, wishing, for the first time in his entire life, that he were younger.