Atlantea Ch. 12

"Now you show up!" I said, as a surge of anger coursed through my body. I hoped it manifested as mere sarcasm. "I could've used your help!"

Rhea held up her hands in a placatory gesture. "I'm truly sorry; as you know, there is little I could have done. Had I explained anything substantive about what was truly going on, to you, you would never have passed the lie detector test."

"So that whole family tree breastfeeding survey was a big scam? When I tried to contact your supposed department, nobody'd even heard of you. My mom spent hours on that thing!"

"I promise, Jason, it was no scam. The research was real, and more important than I can explain, even now. You would not believe me anyway." Rhea's eyes were downcast; I felt she was sincere. "But it is true that I was not working for the university, and I am sorry that I lied about that."

"Is that research why I'm even here?"

Now it was her turn to look confused. "What do you mean?"

"I'm no dummy, I can see all the other guys could model for GQ!"

"What is this 'GQ' of which you speak?"

"I mean they look like male models. I know I'm not anywhere near that handsome."

"Please, Mr. Walker, do not sell yourself short. You have a sort of, shall we say, next-door neighbor boy kind of charm about you," she said, her voice sounding more hopeful than certain. I tilted my head, and must have looked as skeptical as I felt. "But yes, your extended family's... rather unique qualities did play a role in getting you to this point. For what it is worth, if it had not been for said qualities, I would not have introduced you and Calista."

In the heat of the moment, I had forgotten that Rhea had been the one who brought Calista to the Caps bar, where we first met.

"That wasn't a coincidence?" I asked.

"Most decidedly not," she said. "I think you will find that few things truly are, in life, coincidence."

"Well, gosh, cryptic much?" I said; the realization that I owed my relationship with Calista, the love of my life, to this woman, had dumped cold water all over the embers of my earlier fury.

"As I said," she said, "I could tell you, but--"

"Yeah yeah, 'but then you'd have to kill me,'" I interrupted, finishing her sentence. "Everyone keeps telling me things like this."

"Oh, you are familiar with 'Top Gun'!" Rhea said, her voice rising with excitement. "That is my favorite foreign movie, by a wide margin."

"Really?" I asked. I had seen it once, and remembered the film well enough to recall the famous line, but had not thought it particularly memorable. "It didn't really seem like a chick flick."

"I take it that phrase means a movie with appeal to women?"

"Yeah."

"You must not recall the volleyball scene, then? Such beautiful males. Popular back home." Rhea came over and took my hand in her much smaller, and warmer, one. "Look, Jason, I know we have no right to, but we must ask you to be patient for a while longer. And I need to ask you for something."

"Oh--kay..." I said, suspiciously.

"We need you to stay in our country for two years."

"Who's we?"

"I cannot disclose that. And, I hate to keep saying this, you would not believe me even if I did."

"That sounds ominous. But why wouldn't I want to stay for two years, given that's where Calista is, and I don't even know if she can leave?"

"A good question, and precisely why I wanted to intercept you at this juncture. Getting your visa extended, which you will have to do semi-annually, gets progressively more difficult. Only a small number of visitors are granted the extension needed after eighteen months, let alone past that. If you ever find your spirits flagging, please believe me that a lot more is riding on your success than your own, or Calista's, happiness, important though that may be."

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and an impatient voice said something that I suspected meant "hurry up!" in Atlantean.

"I was supposed to give you a lie detector test," she said, motioning to the strange chair, with all its armatures and panels extending from it. "It doesn't matter; I'll pretend the machine malfunctioned. It happens from time to time. We don't want to look suspicious by delaying any further. Jason: you will need to work your proverbial ass off to stay in country! Be strong, and fight hard!" With that, she motioned me into the next room.

* * *

The thick, stainless steel door closed, and locked, behind me. I was alone, standing in a small room which contained another familiar device, the cylindrical body scanner from the visa application process.

"Please remove all articles of clothing, including shoes and socks, and deposit them in the receptacle to your right," said a metallic, disembodied, female voice. "I promise I cannot see you when you do this," the voice added.

'It's not like I really care,' I mused, thinking of all the crazy things I had done, so far, just for the chance to see Calista again. I took off all of my garments and put them in a pile.

"Where will my clothes go?"

"They will be incinerated. We cannot allow anything other than the contents of your leather pouch to be imported from the mainland. You will be provided with a new wardrobe in the next room."

"Good thing I wasn't wearing my Versace suit!" I joked. Apparently the voice did not find this funny, as no response was forthcoming. I pulled on the chrome handle of the disposal chute. It looked like the kind of thing where one might return over-sized library books. I deposited every stitch of clothing I had on me, as well as my shoes and socks.

"Done," I said to the empty room, feeling faintly foolish.

"Please enter the cylindrical device to your left."

I did as instructed, knowing to expect the rotating panels, as well as the blue light they gave off. "You may proceed to the next room," the voice informed me, once the procedure had completed. "Please put on the gown first," it added. I noticed that, next to the exit door, there was a lone, paper hospital gown, hanging from a coat hook. I put it on, and pushed through into the next room, my unshod feet feeling the cold of bare steel floor. Another gray-clad woman was waiting for me in this room, which was lined with two rows of six lockers, made from black metal. She opened up one of them; the only one, in fact, whose door was still closed.

"You'll find everything you need in there," she said, "it has been sized precisely for your body measurements." Then she exited thru the next door.

'How did they get my body measurements?' I wondered.

Inside the spacious locker was a white shirt, on a wooden clothes hanger, a pair of brown pants, suspended from a different hanger, a shelf upon which rested a pair of underpants and pair of sandals, and, lastly, a duffel bag, on the floor. The bag, I presumed, contained spare garments.

I slipped on the underpants, if they could be called that. They were like nothing I had ever put on, nor expected ever to put on that part of my body. In the front they resembled a Speedo swimsuit, and in the back they tapered to a g-string. The front part was, true to the gray woman's words, sized to fit my anatomy precisely. The clingy material cupped my massive cock and balls just so, supporting them comfortably without any pressure points. The garment's color was close to that of my skin, and would not show easily beneath my trousers.

Next I tried on the shirt, and if anything, began to feel yet more ridiculous. It was a white, long-sleeved affair, made out of a blend of cotton and silk. The arms were generously cut, creating a billowy appearance, and in front, there was a generous vee-shaped opening that extended nearly to my navel. The pants matched the shirt for sheer ostentation. Made of brown leather, they, like the underpants, were sized exactly to my proportions. I had to tug them on over my butt, and they fit, but only just. It now dawned on my why the underpants were so scanty in back; embarrassing pantie lines would show otherwise. Perhaps most shocking of all, however, was that the pants had no pockets, front or back.

Lastly, I slipped on the tan leather sandals, picked up my duffel bag, and made for the next room. A black-haired woman with a long white lab coat was standing next to a high table, wielding what looked like a pneumatic nail gun. The heavy duty white plastic device had a green hose which extended from the base of the pistol grip into a large machine off to her side.

"Mr. Walker, this is the identification chip. You were informed about this device at your visa application interview?" I nodded. "I know it looks intimidating but it does not hurt," she said. "Do you have any concerns?" I shook my head.

She put the head of the gun, which was glowing with an orange light, against my left wrist. My vital information was being displayed on a screen on the wall, and she quickly verified she had the right person, then squeezed the trigger of the gun. I felt a slight warmth in my wrist, which passed after a few seconds. "All done with the hard part!" she said brightly. Next she had me sit down at a desk while she performed a test for sexually-transmitted diseases, using the now-familiar square pads and microwave oven-like test machine.

* * *

I squinted as I alighted from the other end of the trailer; my eyes had become accustomed to the dim light of the interior. My frilly shirt did little to protect me from the crisp weather, and I felt my nipples stiffen. Once again, I was standing at the end of a line of men, arranged in the same order as before. All were wearing similar outfits to my own: tight pants without pockets, loose tops and sandals. Only the colors varied, to match their skin and hair. To our left were four flight attendants, all female. To our right were seven women wearing full body armor, including helmets. The material of their suits had a carbon-fiber look to it, not unlike the tubes of xhash. Standing to either side of a mobile aircraft staircase, which led up to a our passenger jet, were two additional military personnel. They had on the same type of tactical vests as their peers in the group of seven, and had holstered sidearms as well, but were bare-armed, and did not have on any body armor.

As Lumberjack, still at the head of the line, started to climb the stairs, the line slowly inched forward, and I could hear the soldiers talking to each other; mostly, as far as I could discern, in Atlantean. They appeared to be mixing in English words, seemingly at random.

"---- ------' ------ -------- --- ------' lucky -------!" Solider Seven said to Soldier Six, as Chris and I passed by.

"-'- ---- -- hit ---- ass!" Solider Six added. I felt self-conscious, as the women, based on the angles of their headgear, were blatantly ogling our butts as we moved past them. The tight material left nothing to the imagination. I was starting to see why they gave us g-strings rather than regular underwear. A cat-call rang out as NFL mounted the stairs, coming from the direction of Soldier Three or Soldier Four.

The sun was setting behind the control tower, as I looked back at the airport one last time, from the top of the stairs. As the last in line, the two vest-wearing women had folded in behind me. One of them had broad shoulders and a broad face, with a long, brass-colored braid hanging down to her mid-back. The other had Japanese-looking skin, cold, emotionless green eyes, and thick black hair, styled identically to her counterpart.

I had flown a mere handful of times before, which only added to my sense of awe as I saw the opulent interior of the plane. On either side of the broad aisle was a single row of private, lay-flat seats upholstered in light cream-colored calfskin leather. Towards the back of the plane, I could see a full bar, and from that direction I could smell delicious meals being prepared, as well. Chris and I were led to the two front-most seats; he got the port side and I the starboard. I had no idea that airplanes could be this comfortable, and realized I would be henceforth spoiled for any future flights.

"Gentlemen, this is First Navigational Officer Damian Leonidas, and on behalf of myself, Captain Davcina Metaxas, and Nautraxian Aeronautical Limited Charter Society, I would like to welcome you all aboard Flight... aw, heck, we don't really have a flight number, let's just call it Flight X. Or maybe Flight Triple X would be more appropriate?" At this point there was a momentary pause. "Ow! Okay, okay!" Officer Leonidas said, presumably to the captain. "Anyway, welcome aboard Flight Whatever to Atlantea Kumaiya International Aerharbor." At the word "Atlantea", a hush fell over the plane; I must have been the only man who already knew the name of the country we were headed to. As if to confirm my supposition, Chris stared at me wide-eyed from across the aisle, silently repeating the name to himself. Damian continued, "Our flight time will be approximately, aw, shoot, I can't tell you all that either! Let's just say it will be a long time, with a bunch of stops to refuel. Which, while we have never actually had a security breach, is a precaution to ensure that none of you clever boys figure out the location of our fair land.

"Fun piece of trivia for you gentlemen," he continued, "only Captain Metaxas and I know the location of our final stop. Our lovely flight attendants, and even the two Mermaids--" There was a brief pause, "Ah, excuse me, even the Mermaid and Valkyrie we have on board, could not point out our bounteous homeland on a globe." From there, Officer Leonidas handed off further instructions to one of the flight attendants, Khrystyna, who, by coincidence, turned out to be handling the section where Surfer Dude, Chris, I were seated. Each of the four flight attendants was assigned to three of us men. As we taxied to the runway, she walked, awkwardly, through an abbreviated set of pre-flight formalities; it seemed like it might be her first time doing so. Unlike the flights I was used to, there were no instructions regarding turbulence, seat belts, or when we could use the bathroom.

* * *

Although separated by the generous aisle, Chris and I continued to converse non-stop for the first thirty minutes of the flight. Eventually, we got around to discussing our families. He had a two siblings, a brother and a sister. I found this surprising, as it seemed like having a female-heavy family tree was one of the only reasons I had been in the running for a visa, in the first place.

"If you don't mind my asking," I said, "do you have a lot of aunts by chance? I know it's kind of a weird question."

"How'd you know?" Chris asked, his face wide with surprise. "We always joke about it. I have six aunts and only two uncles, and that's across both sides of my family. I mean, by blood of course."

"And your cousins? Are they mostly girls?"

"Dude, that's getting weird, how do you know all this?" he asked.

I outlined my own unusually female-heavy family tree, and my theory that it was somehow a requirement for any successful visa application. Chris looked thoughtful, as he considered this, but before we could discuss the matter any further, Khrystyna came over to Chris to take his drink order, and, as far as I could tell, flirt ostentatiously with him for the following half hour. She had spent an equivalent amount of time with Surfer Dude, so at this rate none of us would actually have a drink in hand until ninety minutes had gone by. She squatted next to his chair, leaning forward so that, as I was myself to learn sometime later, her heavy cleavage would be on full display. She seemed nervous as she talked to him, her awkward pauses contrasting sharply with the excitement in her voice.

"Did you, um, ever model... by chance?" she asked, after some time.

"Funny how people always ask me that. But yeah I did." Chris admitted.

"What kind of clothing did you, um, model?" Khrystyna asked.

"It wasn't so much clothing as exercise gear," Chris admitted.

'Underwear Model!' I thought triumphantly to myself, 'called it!'

"Oh, I'd like to see that," she said. "I bet those pictures were beau-- handsome!"

"Well, maybe you can sometime," Chris said smoothly. I could see Khrystyna's lower back, which was not covered by her uniform, flush red at this suggestion. The two continued to chat for a while longer, until Chris finally got his drink order in, an Old Fashioned, and Khrystyna came over to my side of the aisle. Before she could ask me anything, a palpable hush fell over the plane, followed by a gasp. Instinctively, I looked out the window, and saw that we were flying by the Eiffel Tower. Not only was it far too low an altitude for a passenger jet, we had not been flying anywhere near long enough to be near Paris. Khrystyna looked like she was suppressing a laugh, when Officer Leonidas' voice came over the intercom.

"Ah, Gentlemen, just a little joke from the cockpit. Since the location of our little country is secret, we can't exactly just let you all look out the window, now, can we? So in fact your windows are in fact computer screens." As he said this, it looked like we had moved from France to Egypt, passing by the pyramids near Cairo.

"Gets them every time," Khrystyna said to me. Now that I could see her up close, I realized she was much younger than I had thought at first, around Natasha's nineteen years of age. She had a pleasant face, with brown eyes and short blond ringlets that had mostly been dyed an aquamarine color. It matched her olive skin tone nicely. Her ample bosom was barely contained by her uniform: a maroon crop top that tied in the front, paired with a micro-miniskirt of the same material. As she knelt next to my seat, the tops of her areaolae were plainly visible.

Although smiling and friendly, Khrystyna spent less time with me than she had with Chris or Surfer Dude. After five minutes of banter, without the blatant flirting she had graced the ex-model across the aisle with, she took my drink order of a scotch and soda, and made for the kitchen. I was not surprised; both of them looked like they had walked out of a movie screen. My ego was also shielded by the fact that I had had so much female attention of late. It was hard to begrudge the two handsome men their pleasure. At least, at first it was. My forbearance strained over the next two hours.

After returning with our drinks Khrystyna and Chris began to chat once more. Soon she offered to give him a tour of the plane. There were two staterooms, one of them immediately in front of our seats, which were the furthest forward in the passenger section. The other stateroom was in the back, near the full bar and kitchen. I watched them disappear around the hallway at front of us, and they only resurfaced half an hour later. Khrystyna had a goofy, satisfied grin on her face, and Chris was, despite a clear effort to act casual, demonstrating a textbook execution of the walk of shame. After a brief rest, Khrystyna repeated the same supposed tour with Surfer Dude, appearing some time later from the stateroom with an equally self-satisfied grin. By coincidence, dinner was about to be served, so she did not return to give me a tour. I suspected it had not been in the cards, anyway.

When she knelt next to me, to take my dinner order, I had immense trouble choosing between the three major options: scallops, filet mignon, or vegetable curry. I had been finding these sorts of conversations difficult back home, as well; food now sounded unappetizing compared to breast milk. Khrystyna looked at me with concern, as my lack of interest in any of the meal options became evident. I finally settled on the scallops.

As excellently prepared as they were, flash fried with Cajun spices, and accompanied by a citrus salad, I could only muster the interest to pick at my food. Chris, by contrast, tucked in to his steak with evident gusto. Khrystyna gave me ample time to eat, yet after forty minutes I was the only man on the plane whose service had not been collected. "I'm sorry, Mr. Walker, but I have to clear your plate now," she said. "Was the food prepared to your liking?"