It had happened again. Their wings had briefly touched while the Commander was leaning over a control panel to help Darius with the daily sensor calibrations. The Commander had thought nothing of it; had barely felt the two tender membranes gliding over each other. Still, Darius was soon triggering ambient testosterone alerts all over the command deck.

They had argued, explosively and rapidly, as if trying to get it all out before the therapists back at Earth (now several light minutes away) could hear them and transmit a response. As the argument reached its crescendo, Cape Canaveral was on the screen, summoning the Commander to the private booth.

The transmission was a slow back-and-forth these days, more with the tempo of a series of texts than a live conversation. Over several hours, the Commander listened to the therapist talk in her calm, measured tones. She had the time to choose her words carefully, never saying that Cape Canaveral was worried about the mission, though that much was clear.

"We are simply curious to know how you feel you are adapting to your change of situation," the therapist said sweetly. "Are you adjusting to the new body?"

"I am adjusting perfectly fine, thank you," the Commander huffed, folding his arms beneath his bouyant, microgravity, micro-sized breasts. Accustomed to performing space walks in cumbersome spacesuits, adjusting to the petite body that NASA had provided him with had been easy by comparison. Even joyful, as he'd made his first flight through the biosphere on his new wings. "It is Darius who is not! The way he looks at me..."

"He is attracted to you. That is understandable. You were created as compatible mates by design. Darius has made several mating overtures towards you. You appeared to consider them unsatisfactory?"

"'Overtures'? That's a fine way of putting it. Peeping on me showering is how I'd describe it," the commander said through gritted teeth. He was a consumate proffesional and couldn't understand why his hormonal colleague couldn't hold himself to the same standard. "We're only seven months out from Earth. We're not scheduled to breed for another nine years! He is the one deviated from the mission brief - not me!"

"But when that time comes...?" the therapist said. The question was pointedly allowed to hang, considering the multi-minute delay.

"I will do what the mission demands of me."

"You have no moral qualms? Perhaps against consigning a hundred generations of your offspring to ship maintenance?"

"If I did, I would not have been selected to lead this mission," the Commander retorted.

"And you are comfortable adopting the female role?"

"I will do what the mission demands of me," he repeated.

"Good." The therapist said. There was an even longer pause. He suspected there was conferring off-screen. "We'd like to run you through some exercises, just some preparatory work. They should be coming through now."

The Commander was startled as the screen switched to a scene of oily, bulging biceps and hard washboard abs. Deep, masculine grunts played through the headphones.

"We'd like to start adapting you to female sexuality sooner rather than later," explained the therapist over the audio feed. "We'll have you watch an hour of female-orientated pornography every day. The 3D printer on the command deck will provide you with an assortment of vibratory sex aids to use during this time. Oh, and we'd like you to write an analysis of your experiences afterward, just to ensure you're adapting well."