Gemina

by Amie Kaufman

  Yeah, I started getting a bad feeling at this point, too.

  Nik returns with a large hypodermic needle—the thing’s nearly half a meter long, loaded with a clear solution. Mike takes it off him, shows it to the camera. The lens focuses on a tiny parcel floating in the liquid, a couple of centimeters in length—if you’ve ever seen a baby squid, it kinda looks like that. A little wormthing. No eyes. Translucent. Enclosed in a thin membrane.

  It trembles when Mike brings the needle closer to the cow. There’s something obscene about the motion. Something hungry. Makes me feel sick every time I see it.

  “Ah, Madonna…,” Nik groans. “This is ****ed up.”

  “Stop your whining and hold her still,” Mike says.

  “…****, I dunno if I can, Uncle Mike.”

  “Nikky, you’re such a sweetie,” Soraya laughs off camera. “Angel ink at your throat, and here you are, fretting over a cow.”

  Nik shakes his head. “It’s just dust when I sell it. Never really thought about where it comes from, yeah?”

  Soraya pulls the camera goggs off her face. “Hold the camera, Sweet.”

  Nik gratefully takes the cam goggles, puts them on as his uncle scowls at him. Soraya (also stripped to her unmentionables and sporting serious ink) replaces him at Lucy’s side. She’s tall, brunette, looks hard as reinforced titanium. Holding Lucy’s head steady, she runs one tattooed hand down the cow’s cheek and sings some song in Old Rus’. Nice voice.

  “You want to get your baby as close to the thalamus as you can,” Handsome Mike says to the camera, lining the syringe up behind poor Lucy’s ear. “You can go in with X-rays if you need to, but the best do it by feel. This is an art as well as a science, chums. And I am an artiste.”

  Uncle Mike frowns in concentration, lining up his shot.

  Lucy starts looking worried.

  The wormthing in the syringe is wriggling harder now.

  “Your babies should already be secreting their toxin, so your host will go docile almost immediately if you hit the right spot.” The big man laughs. “If not, step the **** out of the way.”

  Little Nikky curses beneath his breath. The camera shakes a little. And with no more ceremony, Mike pushes the needle into the flesh behind Lucy’s ear and depresses the plunger.

  Lucy stiffens, nostrils flaring. But almost immediately, her eyelids slacken and her head droops. Handsome Mike and Soraya step back, but the cow’s not going anywhere—swaying on her feet, tail drifting slow from side to side. Mike inspects the needle wound with narrowed eyes. He swabs it with some disinfectant handed to him by Soraya, nods as if satisfied.

  “Michel-****ing-angelo, me.”

  Lucy the cow moos softly. Her pupils are dilated. Jaw hanging loose.

  Drool spattering on the floor.

  Little Nikky rips the camera off his head. Throws it aside. Stumbling footsteps.

  “****,” he says. “Think I’m gonna be sick.”

  I hear you, kid.

  And you’re not the only one.

  Lanima

  Lanima are a species of parasitic linguastata, native to the planet Pangaea III, characterized by a serpentine body, two long forelimbs, and four sucking mouths, similar to Terran lamprey eels. Each jawless mouth is equipped with an elongated prehensile tongue. Lanima feed on electromagnetic frequencies emanating from brainwave activity, typically by attaching one or more mouths to the cranial region of their victims and inserting the tongue through available orifices (ears, eyes, mouth, etc.). Their name derives from the Latin lambere (to lick) and anima (soul).

  Lanima secrete a psychoactive venom, which they use to immobilize prey. Lanima will feed on brainwave activity until their victims are reduced to a permanent vegetative state, but the act of feeding itself often fails to kill the victim. (Neo-Davidian colonists of Pangaea III who first discovered the species referred to victims as being rendered “soulless,” hence the overly poetic name.[1]) They rank #4 on celebrity xenobiologist Patrick “Danger” O’Duffy’s “10 Reasons Why Whoever Created the Universe Is an Absolute *****” list, right behind Elevator Music.

  Contents [hide]

  1. Characteristics

  2. Life cycle

  3. Taxonomy

  4. Cultivation and uses

  5. Secondary conflict

  6. References

  CHARACTERISTICS ►

  Lanima (colloquially called “lickers”) are apex-level predators, known for their hostile temperaments and aggressive territoriality. Specimens have reached recorded lengths of three meters,[2] with individual mouth circumferences of over 30 cm. The creatures are apparently sightless, sensing vibration by “licking” the air around them. They become extremely agitated in the presence of noise exceeding 100dB—xenobiologists postulate it may interfere with their aural network, the way rapidly strobing light might agitate a human.

  Lickers are covered in a moist dermis, which produces a kaleidoscopic pattern when exposed to visible light. They secrete a thick, oily fluid from subdermal glands—the secretion reacts in the presence of CO2 to produce an airborne psychoactive, used to disorient and disable prey. Lanima are ambush predators, typically roaming their territory in spiral patterns and coating available surfaces with…

  …more

  LIFE CYCLE ►

  Lanima reproduce via asexual methods but will not seed larvae unless they sense an abundance of electromagnetic activity in the surrounding area. They prefer tropical environments and are repelled by frigid temperatures (their secretions coagulate below 10° Celsius, making movement difficult). Lickers can grow extremely rapidly—the more one can feed, the faster its cells will replicate. They possess at least canine-level intelligence[3]…

  …more

  TAXONOMY ►

  CULTIVATION AND USES

  Of course, where there’s a hallucinogen involved, you can bet the space farm there’s an illicit drug trade close by, and lanima secretions are no exception.[7] When dried and processed, these secretions produce a powdered substance known as tetraphenetrithylamine (colloquially referred to as dust). Addictive, peerlessly potent[8] and relatively side-effect-free,[9][10] dust is a highly desired narcotic in both Core and fringe systems.

  Lickers begin secreting venom almost immediately after conception—larvae are laid inside living hosts, kept blissfully paralyzed by the toxin. Most dust farms typically incubate larvae inside bovines or other large mammals and raise the lanima infants until they reach problematic length (two meters is generally considered unmanageable).[11] Due to lanima life cycles, farms are typically situated in densely populated areas, the surrounding brainwave activity promoting rapid growth (and thus secretions) in the infants.

  Now, if you’re thinking the idea of raising a litter of psychic, brain-eating alien snake-things in the middle of a crowded city sounds like a ****ing dangerous way to make a living, you’d be correct. Most Core planetary governments and the United Terran Authority have outlawed the breeding and keeping of lanima without…

  …more

  HEIMDALL CHAT: HANNA DONNELLY

  Donnelly, H: I have a question, Nik.

  Guest591: Whatever it was, I didn’t do it.

  Donnelly, H: Never mind.

  Guest591: That was a joke, Highness.

  Guest591: …you all right?

  Donnelly, H: I’m fine.

  Donnelly, H: I’m not even sure what I’m trying to ask.

  Guest591: Um. Okay.

  Donnelly, H: Just…

  Donnelly, H: If nothing was ever going to happen with us—and I know in what passes for reality for you that’s obviously not true, but just pretend—if nothing was ever going to happen, would you want to be my friend?

  Donnelly, H: Would you even be talking to me?

  Guest591: Wait.

  Guest591: So I have to pretend you’re not totally desperate to dive into my slims for a second, and make like I have no chance whatsoever at the crown?

  Guest591: ****, Highness. I’m not sure my imaginat
ion goes that high.

  Donnelly, H: Mmm, you’re right. It was a silly question.

  Donnelly, H: So, how’s crime?

  Guest591: No, hey. Wait up, wait up.

  Guest591: It’s not a stupid question.

  Guest591: Yeah, sure. Of course I’d talk to you. You’re chill, I like you.

  Donnelly, H: Mmmm-hmmmmm.

  Guest591: I do!

  Donnelly, H: Sure.

  Guest591: …Where’s this coming from anyway?

  Donnelly, H: Just feeling philosophical.

  Guest591: Is that code for “drunk”?

  Donnelly, H: Thing is, Nik, you don’t know the first thing about me. I mean, you know my name. You know my favorite flower. And you know not to try and touch me unless you want your arm broken.

  Donnelly, H: Which, weirdly, seems to be some kind of turn-on for you.

  Donnelly, H: That aside, whatever has you chasing me, it’s nothing to do with who I am.

  Donnelly, H: Because you have no idea who I am.

  Donnelly, H: Or am I wrong?

  Guest591: …

  Guest591: You didn’t break it.

  Guest591: It was only sprained.

  Donnelly, H: Sigh.

  Donnelly, H: Good night, Nik.

  Footage commences at 09:45 (station time) on 08/11/75. Hanna Donnelly enters the restricted-access section of the Heimdall Station bridge, sauntering on in as though she owns the place. To be fair, her daddy more or less does.

  As it happens, with Terra Day coming up, the station’s on skeleton crew, and the good commander is out scaring the shorts off some unsuspecting junior staff in Engineering (four fuel rods in the wormhole’s interchange system are overdue for replacement, and Lexi Blue is still licking lollipops in his elevators), leaving the bridge occupied by just one man: Communications Officer Sam Wheaton.

  Sam’s leaning over his monitor as though he’s trying to protect it from the cold hard truths of the world, but as he registers Hanna’s presence, he comes to his feet, blinking rapidly, drying his palms off against his regulation-gray trousers. Gaze flicking up and down her in a way she definitely doesn’t miss.

  “The bridge is a restricted area,” he informs her in his most official tone.

  She tucks her hands in the pockets of her bright red jumpsuit. “I know, I don’t mean to interrupt.” There’s that smile that melts the boys, that cheery tone. “I sent through a few messages and I didn’t get any response, so I thought maybe the comms team was stretched, what with Terra Day coming up. So I hoped maybe you wouldn’t mind if I just popped up to see you for a moment?” Bat-bat go the lashes.

  “You need to leave, and put any communications requests through the proper channels,” he replies, pausing to swallow hard and blinking again. “They’ll be dealt with according to priority. The bridge is a restricted area.”

  “You said that,” she agrees mildly. “Where’s my father?”

  “You can make an appointment with the commander via his assistant, Miss Donnelly,” he replies, and she huffs a soft laugh, taking a few steps closer.

  “Don’t I know it,” she agrees. “But I’m asking because I was hoping you could give me a hand before he gets back? I really have sent half a dozen messages, and I know the next step is to lodge a service complaint, but I don’t want my father to hear about it and get anyone in trouble—all I need is my whisperNET looked at.”

  “I don’t—Are you suggesting I—What are you suggesting?” He scowls. “That we don’t do our jobs? I’m in the middle of something, and you’re not authorized to be here. Please leave.”

  “Or what?” She sounds put out now, but as her hands push into her pockets a little deeper, she regains her calm.

  “Or I’ll be forced to remove you.” He draws himself up a little straighter—she looks fitter than him, slender and tall, but he has bulk on his side.

  “I just need my unit fixed. I’d really appreciate it if you could take a look at it for a moment. Are you sure you can’t squeeze me in?”

  They watch each other in silence for several long moments before he presumably decides that it’s going to be quicker to help her than get rid of her. “Well, now that you’re here, I suppose we may as well.”

  “You’re too kind,” she replies with a smile and no detectable sarcasm. “I was just trying to talk to the guys at the dojo, and it’s rendering everything in all caps. It looks like I’m shouting at everyone I talk to.”

  “You? That’s hard to imagine,” he mutters. “You’re probably subvocalizing incorrectly. Do you understand how the system works?”

  “Yes,” she says, now striving a little more visibly for politeness. “I’ve been using it for months.” She looks even less impressed a moment later, when he continues as though he didn’t hear her.

  “Your whisperNET device consists of two parts. The contact lens in your eye projects the screen for you. The display shows your chats, your diary reminders, whatever else you’ve selected. It’s designed to be transparent, so it’s overlaid on whatever you’re actually seeing.”

  “Yes,” she agrees, staring right at him, the veneer of diplomacy finally wearing thin. “Right now I’m seeing a guy giving me a lesson in something I already know.”

  Wheaton huffs. “You’re hearing me give the lesson, not seeing it,” he points out snarkily. “Anyway, the second component is your tooth implant. It picks up your subvocalizations and renders them into chat, saving us all from having to listen to you talking to your little friends about your latest manicure.”

  “You’ve got to be—”

  “So when there’s an issue with the way the text is rendering, it’s almost always user error. A little delicacy works wonders.”

  “You’re saying I’m pushing it too hard?” One brow’s lifted now.

  “I’m saying you clearly don’t know any other way to operate. So I’d suggest you try coming at it a little more gently, and in the meantime, get off the bridge.”

  “I’ve never had a problem with the way it renders before,” she points out. “Isn’t there a diagnostic you can—”

  “Get off the bridge,” he repeats, shifting his weight to square up with her. “It’s a restricted area and I’m working on a priority job. Do I need to call someone to escort you?”

  “No, you condescending—”

  She gets no further before he reaches out to grab her upper arm, grip tightening as her mouth falls open. Then her hand leaves her pocket just about too fast to track, and the hold she gets on his wrist has him wincing sharply and freezing in place. As he falls perfectly, precisely still, she leans in to speak in his ear. The audio doesn’t pick up what she says, but surprisingly, it turns out Officer Sam Wheaton can look more uncomfortable than she’s already made him.

  Just what might have happened next, we’re left to wonder. Chief of Engineering Isaac Grant makes what is—for Sam, at least—a very timely appearance, halting at the bridge’s entrance to take in the scene and raising both brows.

  “Ms. Donnelly, can I help you?” A little cautious, his tone. “Mr. Wheaton?”

  “I think we’re fine,” she replies, body tense, tone neutral. “Aren’t we fine, Sam?”

  Wheaton finally loosens his grip, and in turn, she releases him. “No problem, sir,” he says, eyes down.

  “Sam was just taking a look at my whisperNET,” she says, turning away from him to look across at Grant and finding her smile once more. “But he doesn’t seem to be able to understand the problem.”

  “Is that what was happening?” Grant asks, still stern.

  “More or less,” she replies, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  Grant stares at Wheaton a moment longer. Turns at last to Hanna.

  “God forbid you ever meet my daughter,” he mutters. “Well, we’d better get that sorted out. Come down to Engineering with me, and we’ll leave Sam to his work.”

  They exit the view of the bridge camera at 09:49 (station time), leaving Wheaton in sole possession
of the bridge once more.

  FROM: Director Frobisher, BEITECH HEADQUARTERS, JIA III

  TO: RAPIER OPERATIVE

  INCEPT: 08/11/75

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: Good morning, Sam.

  RAPIER: Director Taylor?

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: I’m afraid not.

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: My name is Leanne Frobisher. I’m now leading the BeiTech Acquisitions Division. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

  RAPIER: …What happened to Taylor?

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: David Taylor is no longer an employee of BeiTech Industries.

  RAPIER: Are you KIDDING? he bailed mid operation? We’re in a world of **** OUT HERE.

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: Yes, I read your latest communiqué with great interest.

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: As did the BeiTech Executive Board. And the Oversight Committee.

  RAPIER: …oh ****.

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: Quite.

  RAPIER: Listen, I was just following orders. I did what Taylor told me.

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: I know, Sam. Director Taylor spoke at length before he left us.

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: But take me through your side of things. Just so I’m clear.

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: And, Sam?

  FROBISHER, L, DIR: If you’re a religious man, pray your story matches up with the one Taylor sang as he died.

  RAPIER: …

  RAPIER: I’ve been aboard Heimdall about a year. Deep cover. Monitoring all comms aboard the station. Nothing gets past without my say-so.

  RAPIER: Original plan was to erase all communications from the Kerenza Sector so no word of the colony attack could get through to the Core. Taylor figured by the time WUC worked out we’d attacked the hermium mine, it’d already be in our hands. And the mine was illegal, so it’s not like WUC could go squealing to the UTA about it.