CHAPTER 6
Jendra
My meeting with Ms. Opalin didn’t provide the reassurance I wanted. In fact, it did almost precisely the opposite.
I found her in her small office in the humanities building, surrounded as always by neat stacks of datapads and messier piles of old-fashioned paper books—some of them, I knew, rescued from old Earth’s warlord times, when most of the libraries had been destroyed. When I knocked on her open door, she looked up with that sharp, analytical gaze that had always made me feel both challenged and valued.
“Jendra,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
Of course she had. She probably knew exactly what had happened on Magisteria—or at least she could guess. I sat down, my hands folded tightly in my lap, and tried to find the words to explain the confusion churning inside me.
“The field trip,” I began, then stopped. How could I possibly describe what I had witnessed? What I had felt?
Ms. Opalin leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. “Tell me what happened.”
So I did. Not everything—I couldn’t bring myself to mention the most mortifying parts of what had happened in the theater, above all the vibrating seats, though I assumed she must know about them. Much less did I have any desire to talk about what had happened afterward in the dormitory. But I told her about the museum, about Glomana’s contentment, about the demonstration we had witnessed. I tried to keep my voice clinical, academic, as if I were simply reporting data.
When I finished, Ms. Opalin was quiet for a long moment. Then she sighed, and something in that sound made my stomach clench.
“Jendra, I’m going to be honest with you in a way I perhaps should have been earlier.” She leaned forward, her elbows on her desk. “Many women have the feelings you pretty clearly have. Many women respond to displays of dominance, to power dynamics, to… what you saw.”
My face burned. “But you said?—”
“I know what I said,” she interrupted gently. “And I stand by it. These feelings exist, but successful Hippolytan women learn to fight them. We acknowledge them, yes, but we don’t indulge them. We certainly don’t let them dictate our life choices.”
I felt something cold settle in my chest. “Fight them?”
“Yes.” Her voice was firm now, taking on the lecturing tone I knew so well. “You think you’re the first young woman to comeback from Magisteria feeling confused? You’re not. Every year, a few of my students return with these… urges. The successful ones learn to suppress them. They channel that energy into productive work, into advocating for Hippolytan values, into building careers that matter.”
“And the unsuccessful ones?” I whispered.
Ms. Opalin’s expression hardened. “They give in. They accept positions in Magisterian service, if the Magisterians deign to offer them. They become diplomats, perhaps, or even fleet officers. But also, wives or evenconcubines.”
She spoke that last word the way I might have expected her to say a different c-word. It made my forehead furrow, and knowing my face had visibly changed in response brought a hot blush to my cheeks. I couldn’t look Ms. Opalin in the eye, now, and my gaze dropped to the spine of a book on the bottom level of the bookshelf.Magisterian Atrocities: the Hidden Cost of ‘Traditional’ Values.Ms. Opalin’s own book, published twenty years before.
“They tell themselves they’re happy,” she continued, “because it’s easier than admitting they’ve betrayed everything they once believed in.”
The words stung like a slap. Was that what I was doing? Betraying my beliefs?
“Really, Jendra,” Ms. Opalin continued, her voice softening slightly, “you should consider not dating at all. Not for a while, at least. Until you’ve worked through these feelings and strengthened your resolve. Romantic and sexual relationships will only complicate things, make these urges harder to resist.”
I stared at her, feeling something crack inside me. No dating. No exploration of what my body wanted. Just… suppression. Denial. Fighting against myself for the rest of my life.
“Is that what you do?” I asked quietly. “Fight it?”
For just a moment, something flickered across Ms. Opalin’s face—pain, perhaps, or recognition. But it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“I did, once, perhaps,” she said simply. “But I grew stronger. So will you, if you’ve got the will.”
I left her office feeling worse than when I had entered. The hallway seemed too bright, too loud, and I found myself heading not back to my dormitory but toward the library, seeking the anonymity of the research terminals in the basement.
Over the next few days, I tried to follow Ms. Opalin’s advice. I threw myself into my studies, avoided Mabola and Brequa, and attempted to ignore the persistent ache between my legs that seemed to have taken up permanent residence since our trip to Magisteria.
But every night, I failed.
Every night, I found my hand slipping beneath my blankets, my fingers seeking out that swollen, sensitive place. And every night, I climaxed while thinking about the things I claimed to despise—strong hands, commanding voices, the sting of discipline against bare skin.
I hated myself for it. But I couldn’t stop.
