Symbiosis

by Nicky Drayden

  I catch a glimpse of the babe’s face. Her skin is a shade of brown darker than my own, her hair thin black curls. She almost looks like she could be one of ours.

  It takes hours to get everyone off the Klang Zenzee, and by then, there are no signs of life left within her. We try to get our Zenzee to let theirs go, but no matter what commands are given, no matter how hard we manipulate the control nodes sunk deep in our Zenzee’s brain, they remain locked together in their caring embrace. It makes me wonder if we really have control over her at all. Eventually, we send a team to decouple them physically, with blowtorches and light saws. It is a grisly scene, but I cannot look away. Our Zenzee struggles, pulling back the severed pieces of the Klang’s Zenzee and tucking them into little nooks in her underflesh. It hurts to see our Zenzee in such distress, however, we can’t risk having her act out in this way. After a brief debate, Doka orders to have her sedated for everyone’s safety. Though our plan is successful in the end, the look of defeat in his eyes chills me.

  Twenty-eight hours later, all the Klang are accounted for after a thorough sweep of their Zenzee to make sure no one was left behind. Thankfully, they’d found someone who’d been overlooked during the exodus, a man on the verge of death, clinging on to the last traces of breathable air. With him finally aboard, it’s time for us to continue our journey. It feels wrong to leave the dead Zenzee behind, a wilting corpse drifting in the cold of space without mourning her, but everyone is still in crisis mode, rationing food and water and other supplies. The ERI is busy recalculating the effects these additional souls will have long term on our environment. The Senate is busy drafting new covenants to deal with the refugees.

  So I mourn the Zenzee alone from the control room, lighting a single candle and watching as the corpse grows smaller and smaller. Though I guess I’m not really alone in my grief. It surrounds me. I live within it. Breathe it. I suppose that should bring me some comfort, but it does the opposite.

  The corpse is nearly completely out of sight when it flashes magenta, so bright I shield my eyes. It was the exact same shade as the star in my vision. Not crimson or pink, or mothers forbid, fuchsia. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed, but with all the chaos happening within our Zenzee, no one is paying attention to what is going on without.

  I look back at the Zenzee as the flash fades back to nothingness, and soon after that, I can’t distinguish her dark, dead flesh from the darkness of space. It hits me hard, and I wipe tears away. I know she is not the first Zenzee by far to die at human hands, but she is the first dead Zenzee I’ve seen with my own eyes, and I get the sinking feeling she won’t be my last.

  Part II

  Commensalism

  Even if our aim was to do no harm, we would have set ourselves up for failure. We are entwined. Entangled. We always have been and always will be.

  Queen of the Dead

  Doka

  Of Shallow Roots and Deep Conversations

  “You’ve seen the camps,” Tesaryn Wen says to me, the venom in her voice even more cruel and calculating than usual. I seem to have struck a particularly deep nerve with this request. “On several occasions, in fact. But if you would like me to take time out of my busy schedule to arrange another visit, then so be it.”

  “There is no need to arrange anything,” I say, trying to mitigate her concerns of having to do extra work on my behalf. “I just want to go and look around and meet people.”

  “You were provided a detailed report of every single individual we’ve taken into our care, and a scaled map of the holding facility was also included in Appendix D.”

  “I was given that report, and I’m thankful for it. But nothing within those many pages told me of their happiness. Of their challenges. I’m worried that—”

  “There is nothing to be worried about. Yes, we had some incidents during the first few weeks they were here, but things have largely calmed down. Everyone is happy, and even if they’re not, they’re much better off than they were living on their Zenzee.”

  I bite my lip and let the issue die. The Senate is growing more restless with my rogue questions and far-fetched ideas. I keep insisting that we begin integrating the Klang’s culture with our own, tearing down some of the boundaries we’ve instituted, but they say it is still too soon. I know we were thrown into this emergency situation without much time to prepare, but it’s been three months, and things should have progressed by now.

  “It is not your job to concern yourself with the details,” says Tesaryn Wen. “Therein lies madness for a matriarch. Accept our reports and base your conclusions on those. Keep your eyes on the big picture. We need your guidance focused there. And though I hate to say it, the Klang . . . they can be confrontational. Aggressive. Dangerous.”

  I wince. Even Bella Roshaad, one of the biggest proponents of taking in the refugees, has turned to Tesaryn Wen’s side when it comes down to the matter of integrating them. They don’t like that I sit in on their meetings so often, and especially don’t like it when I interrupt their proceedings to give my opinions. But how can I not be concerned with the details? How can I not wonder how 3,300 people are living in a section of the Ides that would be grossly overcrowded with half that many? And yet, each time I visit, I am greeted by a small group of smiling faces, living in a home that is crowded, yes, but not so much more than my own. They are clean and nicely clothed, with plump cheeks and friendly faces. But I do not trust their smiles. There is something hidden behind them that makes each and every visit feel like a manipulation. A carefully crafted lie. I need to see the truth for myself, and there’s no way I can do so as long as Tesaryn Wen is involved.

  “You are right, Senator Wen,” I say. “I do have other matters that need my attention, but please, keep me updated on any changes. I want the Klang to feel at ease here—this is their home now.”

  The entire Senate chamber bristles at the last part of my statement. Good. They can minimize my power, but they can’t minimize the truth. No matter how much they wish they could.

  “Of course, Matris Kaleigh,” Tesaryn Wen says to me. The tension in the room halves as soon as I take my first step toward the exit.

  I rush home and find Kallum and Charrelle cuddling in bed. I snuggle up behind Charrelle and place my hand on her belly. Our baby has been kicking like mad lately, and each time it fills me with joy. Charrelle jokes that our daughter will be as great a fighter as Matris Armage who, when being ousted from power in the middle of the night, had kicked a hole clean through an accountancy guard’s torso while wearing her royal slippers. Or so the story goes.

  “Is this a new favor lure?” I say, tracing my finger around the symbol painted under Charrelle’s navel in naxshi ink.

  “From a few days ago,” she says. “I’m getting another tomorrow. Here.” She points to her right breast, already starting to swell in anticipation of our child coming forth into the world. “To ask a favor from our ancestors to nourish my milk.”

  I nod. It is not uncommon to get a few of these lures during pregnancy, but Charrelle seems obsessed with them. She’s gotten twenty-four so far, and we still have three months of pregnancy left. Plus, there are so many spirit amulets in our room that we’ve had to rearrange the furniture to accommodate them all.

  “And has Dr. Yadilla come to visit yet?” I ask.

  Charrelle turns away from me and tucks into Kallum’s arms.

  “I sent her away. I already have Vonne. I don’t see why I need both.” Charrelle blinks her wide eyes at me, daring me to reply.

  I know I shouldn’t. I should leave it up to Charrelle, to trust in her instincts and allow Seske to guide her toward sound decisions, but I’m under such pressure to produce a healthy heir, I can’t bring myself to leave this unchallenged. “Vonne just feels your stomach and paints designs on it! Dr. Yadilla has medical devices that can look inside and make sure our daughter is growing properly.”

  “Vonne can feel those things as well. She says everything is normal.”


  “But—”

  “Doka,” Kallum says. “Perhaps there is a better time that we can discuss this. Charrelle says she feels comfortable. That’s what’s most important.”

  I take a deep breath and try hard to tamp my feelings down all the way to my feet. I know Kallum has Charrelle’s best interests at heart, just like I do, but it’s tough that everywhere in my life, I’m constantly feeling outnumbered. “Whatever makes you feel most comfortable,” I say to Charrelle. And while I am willing to go along with their decision a little longer, I do not intend to sit idly by another day when it comes to other matters. “Can I borrow Kallum from you for a bit, though? I’ll send for Vonne to stay with you for a few hours this evening.”

  Charrelle perks up. “And I can get another favor lure? A small one?”

  “If Vonne says it’s all right, sure,” I say. “Kallum?”

  Kallum rolls out of bed, stretches his wiry frame, fingertips touching our not-so-high ceiling, then slips into his robes. We set off to the uncommon gardens, an out-of-the-way sanctuary for plants on the verge of extinction. Flora exchange programs have bolstered some of the species populations, but they are not yet thriving enough to reintroduce them into the other gardens.

  Here we have a bit of solitude, surrounded by a thicket of awkward dill plants and carnivorous war lilies, with the shrill mating calls of blue-hatted palms drowning out our whispers. The silk cloak fungus looks pregnant with spores, their heads peaking from the mushroom cap in rows, like the buttons running down the front of a fancy coat. The spores are too big to cause humans problems, but they infect the gall worms, our primary source of meat. The worms go rogue, their minds falling under control of the fungus, causing them to burrow into the lining of the gut, right near a wash hoglet colony, and then die there. It’s weird, and doesn’t benefit us in any way, but we’re fighting against our tendencies to place value on nature based on how it can serve us. In any case, the silk cloaks are pretty to look at, and we’re far enough from the gall worm farms for them not to cause any problems.

  We sit together at the edge of a pond, thighs pressing together, legs dipped into the waters. The throttle fish below tug at our toes, then swim around in the chase game they like to play when they realize we haven’t brought them any food. Two of them come close to the shore to wrestle, their flipping and flopping getting Kallum and me all wet. I shoo them away, with no success. Kallum picks up a piece of shiny shell and tosses it out into the middle of the pond. That gets their attention, and they dive off to retrieve it.

  “Have you gotten any more news from the Klang camp?” I ask him. “Details? Like how people are really doing?”

  Kallum stares at me. “You haven’t been getting the reports?”

  “I’ve read them. Over and over. They always say the same thing. Everything is fine. The people are happy and fed and taken care of. And yet, they keep them locked up and separated from the rest of us. There has to be a better way.”

  Kallum raises a brow. “Ah, so you’re volunteering to bring one of them into our home?”

  “No! I mean, I don’t know. Maybe.” I frown, thinking of shoving one more person around our already cramped dining table. “It just seems wrong, keeping them cordoned off like that. And the few times I’ve been allowed to visit, everything seemed fine.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “No, too fine. Too perfect. Like everything’s been—”

  “Staged,” Kallum says, nodding his head. “I wouldn’t put anything past Tesaryn Wen. Well, I’ve still got my diplomatic status. I can take you along with me for an impromptu visit.”

  “I’m sure Tesaryn Wen’s accountancy guards would tattle to her as soon as I was within sight. They’ll do anything to hide the truth. Even from me.” Especially from me. They’ve done their best to minimize my power, but if the transgressions against our guests are egregious enough, the Senate would have no choice but to question them.

  “They don’t have to know it’s you,” Kallum says, mischief in his voice. It’s the same look he’d given me when we were kids, when we’d freed a feisty gall beetle from the slaughterhouse and then rode it bareback through the central market. There was also that time we’d raided the tea bank and randomly swapped everyone’s family teas around into different bins. We’d thought it would be a prank that would have the entire Contour class up in arms, complaining how their heirloom teas, the ones they took such pride in, had been thoroughly ruined. But sadly, no one had even noticed the difference. It was our first lesson in how the pretentious airs of the Contour class was a bunch of beetleshit.

  The hairs on my arms stand up, thinking about the trouble we’ve gotten into over the years, and all the trouble we could get into now.

  “What are we conspiring, dear husband?” I say to Kallum, leaning in close so that he has no choice but to whisper into my ear. I shiver as I think that maybe his lips don’t have to brush against my earlobe the way they do, but secrecy is important.

  “Security in and out is tight, but I’ve built up enough rapport with the Klang’s environmental research team that I could propose a visit and no one would think twice of it.”

  “Even Tesaryn Wen?” I ask.

  “If she opposes, I’ll agree that it was a bad idea, and compliment her on her judiciousness. And just when she’s thawed out from my kind words, I’m mention how I’d love for her to be my mentor and suggest that she keep me apprised of any upcoming vacancies in the Senate.” Kallum winks at me. “Diplomacy is my secret weapon.”

  I laugh. “The thought of having another man in the Senate chamber would keep Tesaryn Wen up all night for sure.”

  Kallum laughs too, but there’s a flatness to it that rubs me the wrong way. I know he loves his job, and he’s damned good at it, but sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if he’d taken the unchosen path. “Do you wish we would have pressed harder for a Senate seat?” I ask him.

  “I don’t know. Kind of? We fought so hard for me to keep my Line, and I feel like I’m obligated to use it to further men’s rights. But I can’t help but feeling like no matter what I do, how much I accomplish, I’ll always be an asterisk.”

  “An asterisk?” I ask, leaning into him.

  “You know . . . like I’m living life as an exception to the rules. Two married men, and hardly no one bats an eye anymore. Flying between Zenzee and charged with bettering our worlds instead of being someone’s househusband. And there are so many of our people who wish they had even a slice of what I’ve stolen.”

  I nod as if I understand, but I don’t. Those all sound like good things. “I don’t think you’ve stolen anything,” I say softly. “You deserve everything you have.”

  “Mmm . . . ,” he says, turning from me ever so slightly. It hurts to see him like this and not know what to do about it. He clears his throat, then straightens up. “So, consider us good to go. I’ll put in for a short-notice visit, and of course, I’ll need my own personal accountancy guard as an escort.” He stares at me with his signature smirk. All traces of his melancholy whisked away.

  “An accountancy guard? You want me to wear a disguise?”

  “A very convincing one. It’ll take me a couple days to get everything sorted. And I feel like I should mention, if we get caught, Tesaryn Wen is going to come after you with a renewed vengeance. I don’t think we’ve seen her worst yet.”

  “Well, then we’d better not get caught,” I say.

  I keep looking down at my accountancy guard silks to make sure I’m still fully dressed. Their uniforms are so light and sheer that it feels as though I’m wearing absolutely nothing. Oversize goggles block most of my face, my eyebrows have been thoroughly trimmed, and I’ve got my hair done in thin, straight plaits, pulled so tight they threaten the integrity of every single hair follicle on my head. I channel my inner Baradonna and emulate her precise gait, and the way she surveys her surroundings, head sweeping back and forth, as if she’s working to the beat of a drum.

  “Do you t
hink this is too revealing?” I whisper to Kallum as we make our way to the Ides. “I think I could have used a bigger size. It’s a bit . . . clingy.”

  “It fits fine. Just like everyone else’s.”

  “I get that . . . it’s just that, you know. We’ve been keeping the temperatures cold, and it doesn’t help with first impressions, you know?”

  Kallum stops. “Doka, are you saying you want to go back to torturing our Zenzee by tricking them into staying in a constant state of fever so we’ll be nice and toasty and people won’t notice you’ve got a little shrinkage going on in your pants?”

  “No, no, no . . .”

  “I swear, that’s something your will-mother would come up with,” Kallum teases, then looks around, making sure no one is watching before cupping my crotch. I’m so taken aback, I forget all about him insulting my mother, even though I know he’s right, because in about half a minute, I’m going to have a-whole-nother problem going on in my pants.

  My will-mother. I focus on thinking about how she’d looked when she’d been released from the stasis pod half a year ago—thin, pale, and slippery, like an overgrown throttle fish. I’d stalled on the approval of her release, knowing she wouldn’t handle the changes well. She was particular to enjoying the spoils of the Contour class without the slightest bit of remorse for their cost. I would have put her release off another year if I could have, but I’d felt the pressure from my other mothers to free her, and in truth, I missed her, too. Eventually, we’ll have to release the rest of the people still stuck in stasis, though with the added strain of the Klang on our resources, who knows when that’ll be.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as my arousal abates. We press through to the Ides, the area of town that traditionally was inhabited by beastworkers, though now there is some mixing of classes. A large section near the intestines was evacuated in order to accommodate the Klang’s people. Warty brown domes rise up all over the place, and without interior walls, there isn’t much privacy to be had. It’s not the worst place we could have housed them. There were some calls to put them in the second ass, in the abandoned waif housing, but thankfully that idea was shot down without my intervention.