Chapter 117

#Day 35 — 09:30

The treatment suite was quiet, the morning light pale through the slanted window. Aida sat on the lounge, her tablet in her hands, her brow furrowed. Mei-Lin was beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched, her own tablet dark on her lap.

The numbers on Aida’s screen were not good.

Dawn Meter readings were climbing across the ship. Not fast—not yet—but steadily. A few points here, a few there. The kind of rise that didn’t trigger alarms but added up over time. In a week, maybe less, they would be back where they started. Another wave. Another crisis.

And the treatment bookings were not keeping pace.

“This isn’t sustainable,” Aida said.

Mei-Lin looked over. “What do the numbers say?”

“The same thing they said yesterday. And the day before.” Aida set the tablet down, rubbed her eyes. “People feel safe. Their meters are low enough that they’re not worried. They’re putting off treatment. Waiting until the last minute.”

“It’s human nature,” Mei-Lin said. “No one wants to be the first to schedule something awkward.”

Aida nodded. She knew that. She had known it for weeks. But knowing didn’t make it easier to solve.

“Did Alexis come?” Mei-Lin asked.

Aida shook her head. “I didn’t expect her to. Not yet.”

“You left the door open.”

“I left it open. She’ll come when she’s ready. There’s no point teaching someone who isn’t ready to learn.”

Mei-Lin nodded. She understood. She always understood.

Aida picked up the tablet again, scrolled through the numbers. “How is Vivienne’s lactation progress?”

Mei-Lin’s face brightened slightly. “She hates my tea.”

Aida almost smiled. “I remember.”

“But I think the milk itself is already carrying the same effect. It should be easier for her when she’s off duty. And it tastes better than the tea.”

“Will it affect Chen’s feeding schedule?”

Mei-Lin considered. “The milk still carries suppressant. It works for Chen. The amount is slightly less, but not enough to matter. For Chen, anyway. I won’t have enough to treat others.”

Aida touched her own breast, absently, as if checking. She had been producing less lately. Not dramatically—but enough to notice. Enough to worry.

“I’m not producing much either,” she said. “Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s because I never had a real pregnancy. I don’t know. But I’m struggling just to meet Chen’s needs.”

Mei-Lin said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“If I stop producing,” Aida continued, “Zhao’s workload doubles. And we don’t know when Vivienne will lactate. We don’t know if Alexis’s ability can be used sustainably—or if she’s even willing.”

She put her hand over her forehead, took a deep breath.

“The ship is getting some recovery time. But it’s a false sense of security. Any emergency will tip the balance. Hard.”

Mei-Lin waited.

“Recruiting new treatment specialists takes time. And not everyone is suitable for this work. Even if we train them, what good does it do if people won’t book treatment early? Should we force them? Make it a military drill?”

She looked at Mei-Lin. “That’s the wrong direction.”

“I know.”

“There must be other ways.”

Mei-Lin sat up straighter. She put her arm around Aida’s shoulders, pulled her close.

“Brighten up,” she said. “Stop being so moody.”

Aida snorted. “I’m not moody. I’m realistic.”

“You’re moody.” Mei-Lin squeezed her. “I have an idea.”

Aida turned to look at her.

“What if we make everyone have sex more?”

Aida blinked. “That’s your idea?”

“We know it works. The doctors’ data proves it. The Alexis incident proved it—even with the extra aphrodisiac effect. Sex lowers the meters.”

Aida picked up the tablet, opened a tab showing the camera feeds from B-Deck. She handed it to Mei-Lin.

The feeds showed scattered activity. A couple of women in a corner, half-hidden. Another pair in the shadows by the bath. A few individuals moving through the corridors, alone.

“This is B-Deck today,” Aida said. “Not the B-Deck during Alexis’s reign. That was wall-to-wall naked bodies. This is—” She gestured. “This is furtive. Hidden. Shameful.”

Mei-Lin watched the feeds. “How many?”

“Maybe ten individuals. Regularly. And their meters are still rising. Just slower.”

Mei-Lin set the tablet down. “Then we change it. We make sex part of the culture.”

Aida stared at her.

“Treatment is for emergencies,” Mei-Lin said. “For high-load cases. The new culture has to be strong enough to cushion the majority of the load.”

“Being romantically involved with the same sex isn’t easy,” Aida said. “This ship is mostly heterosexual women. It was designed to be a harem, not a lesbian ship. Elena told me many women still avoid sexual intimacy outside treatment entirely.”

“Then we make sex and arousal about culture, not just intimacy.”

Aida frowned. “What does that mean?”

“In many cultures, it’s normal to get a massage without it becoming intimate. Massage could easily become intimate. But people have learned to make it professional, relaxing. They focus on the experience, not the person.”

Aida nodded slowly. She knew this. She had lived it.

“Even if intimacy is required,” Mei-Lin continued, “it can be done without attraction. Men get massages from male masseuses all the time. They focus on what their body is feeling, not who is touching them.”

“I know,” Aida said. “I’ve been teaching women to do exactly that. But not many can actually do it. In the end, it’s the Dawn Meter that pushes them across the line. Not their willingness.”

“Then we start small.” Mei-Lin’s voice was firm. “Clubs. Interest groups. People can start their own.”

Aida raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve been experimenting with breast milk and herbs,” Mei-Lin said. “I can open that activity to anyone interested. Maybe one or two people show up. Maybe none. It doesn’t matter. Once the group exists, it sets an example. Over time, it becomes culture.”

“And if no one comes?”

“Then we try something else. But we have to start somewhere.”

Aida was listening now.

“The activities don’t even have to be sexual at first,” Mei-Lin said. “People can get comfortable first. Share food. Talk about things they care about. The barriers will lower naturally.”

She ticked off ideas on her fingers. “Victoria could start a nude wrestling club. That could become sexual easily, once people are comfortable. Elena could start her dating club—she’s been talking about it for weeks. You could start an onsen club. Naked baths in the spa. Fun activities. No pressure.”

Aida’s eyes widened. “The whole B-Deck could become the new treatment deck. Bigger. More open. More inviting.”

“Yes.”

Aida stared at her. Then she kissed her.

“You’re a genius.”

Mei-Lin laughed. “I know.”

Aida pulled back, her mind already racing. “We have time. The bookings are low. We can afford to experiment. Even if the first few tries fail, it doesn’t matter. We learn. We adapt.”

She stood, began to pace.

“We could have ship-wide events. Promote intimacy and sex, if time and resources allow. Without hurting productivity.” She stopped, turned to Mei-Lin. “Trendsetters. Professional sex workers. We could train them like masseuses. This is the new world. Sex work shouldn’t carry stigma anymore.”

Mei-Lin nodded.

“The old world stigmatized sex to accommodate monogamy,” Aida said. “To control diseases. To conform to religious beliefs. Those constraints are no longer valid. We’re all stuck on one ship. STDs aren’t an issue. Birth control doesn’t exist—there’s no pregnancy to worry about. And the women on this ship are largely non-religious. They were chosen for their bodies, not their piety.”

She spread her hands.

“There is literally no moral or physical issue with consensual sex on this ship. In fact, it’s a necessity for survival. Making it a culture—making it acceptable, normal, even expected—is an essential survival strategy.”

She thought of the guest list women. The ones who had been brought aboard for the owner’s pleasure. Many of them were struggling in their assigned roles—cooking, cleaning, maintenance. Work they had never been trained for.

“Some of the women on the guest list would be more accepting of this than the original crew,” she said. “They’re already comfortable with their bodies. They already know how to perform. We could retrain them as culture specialists. Event coordinators.”

She looked at Mei-Lin.

“I’m going to talk to Vivienne. Propose the whole thing.”

She turned toward the door.

“Aida.”

She stopped.

Mei-Lin was still on the lounge, her hands folded in her lap, her face soft.

“The treatment room shouldn’t be called the treatment suite anymore.”

Aida frowned. “What should it be called?”

“The Willow.”

Aida paused. She thought of the tea tree in the corner. The jasmine blooming by the bath. The ceramic cups from a long-ago galley. The family gathered around the low table, laughing, eating, surviving.

“The Willow,” she said.

“It’s our home,” Mei-Lin said. “Not a clinic. If treatment becomes culture, this space doesn’t need a clinical name.”

Aida smiled.

“I like it.”

She hurried out the door, toward the bridge, toward Vivienne, toward the future.

Behind her, the suite was warm, the morning light bright, the tea tree green in its corner.

The Willow.

It was a good name.