by Damon Suede
C’mon, c’mon.
Hitting it a line at a time, Runt dug through the legal-speak for any kernels of info. Former occupation: unknown. Training: unknown. Associates: unknown. Vitals: anomalous. Duh. His physiognomy every bit as superhuman as it seemed, yet no cause or clarification given. No diseases. No parasites. No allergies.
No assets.
But the receipts were attached. As soon as he’d signed, Ox had spent half that fat bonus up front, buying the overstuffed container of bleeding-edge biodesign.
A peace offering? A bribe? Bait?
No details on the erotic pheromone splice. No mention of the damaged voice. No explanation of his wealth. No note about the bleeding-edge assassin gear stashed in the hive wall.
Runt flicked his eyes to the door and raced to reread the digital document once more before Ox walked in and caught him prying into his private life. Every question Runt thought he’d quelled branched and tangled in his imagination.
No criminal record. A witness? A refugee?
Growling in frustration, Runt scanned the rows of dates and numbers on the terminal’s screen, trying to intuit his partner’s story between the stats.
Was Ox in hiding? Had he run from something or toward this? Why buy so much equipment? What drove him to maroon himself here as a laborer rather than work as a brood-stud or a high-performance bounty hunter? Had HardCell demoted him from skilled services to employee? Who sent the deadly retirement package and for what possible purpose? And what the fuck could make a pre-citizen that enhanced into a fugitive?
Ox might have been born on that beach the day Runt almost killed him.
Hsssssst.
The front door whisked open and daylight sliced across the habitat’s molded plasticrete interior.
Blinded, Runt almost bit through his tongue in panic. He closed the digital contract with a nervous jerk that made his heart thump and his stomach turn inside out.
Ox stepped through the doorway covered in grease, with no suspicions or questions other than lunch. A deep scratch on one beefy forearm needed disinfecting.
Runt would never ask, but he wondered: what had Ox escaped?
Something fuck-awful.
Feeling stupid and guilty, Runt winked a hello and sent HardCell the request for harvest pickup. Two weeks early! With Ox on board, they had beaten the executives and saved both their lives.
As Ox went to the cook-space to start the digi-wok, the bigger man nodded.
Runt nodded back automatically, though as he did, he wondered if he might have just agreed to something he couldn’t understand.
Ox astonished Runt constantly.
The fifth week, in the middle of a scorched morning when the beach blinded and the waves churned soupy hot, Ox waded out to the sandbar and strangled a four meter eel with his big bare hands. His mighty body shone in the water like a statue . . . Laocoön wrapped in serpents. Impossibly primal and potent, the way advertainments tried to make men seem.
If Runt hadn’t witnessed the kill with his own eyes, he might have doubted it was even possible, and Ox did it as a present for Runt.
Midmorning, while they were baling bamboo, Runt complained about wanting fresh meat instead of paste and freeze-dried kibble; forty minutes later, when they were headed down to the greenhouse, Ox bolted before Runt could react.
Without warning, the larger man took off at a jog and dove into the surf.
Luck’s fuckery, I wasn’t serious.
Ox cut through the waves like a spear and then, arcing up a moment for momentum, plunged below the surface.
Shitwit.
Runt knew his cofarmer could swim. They’d done plenty of undersea repairs together. But without his gear, even seaboots, Ox could be mauled badly. The adult eels got aggressively territorial and they could take a finger or worse. And eel blood could be deadly. Runt had only harvested full-grown eels with equipment. And this herd had remained too small to consider regular harvest.
A queasy feeling in the pit of his gut, Runt walked straight down to the water expecting the worst. Whoosh! A spray of water and Ox popped to the surface wrestling with a pissed-off male, its mandibles chewing the air. These conger hybrids could weigh up to fifty kilos, but Ox lifted it like a data cable in the churning water. He pulled it to the shallows and got his feet under him, two predators knotted together.
Ox managed to loop part of the iridescent body around one superhuman triceps. Blood ran from his hands and arms, smearing his torso.
“Crazy . . . That’s crazy.” Runt whispered to himself. “Impossible.”
The creature managed to flip loose, then arched up and snapped close.
Runt winced and almost shouted a warning.
Just in time, Ox’s skull jerked back and his face hardened into a savage mask Runt had never seen before. His tremendous sinews braced with brutal purpose.
Fuck me.
Muscle coiling, the creature put up a fierce struggle as it lunged at Ox with a buzzsaw mouth, frantic to get back under the waves where it could breathe. The tail whipped the greenish water and Ox’s abdomen, leaving raw stripes.
Ox froze; he seemed to be waiting for a signal from the slithering beast. Abruptly, he caught its other end behind the skull, snapping its neck clean in one pitiless mitt.
The thrashing stopped.
Ox stood breathing hard in the breakers about fifteen meters out. That terrible mask melted from him with every lungful until he beamed in triumph.
Runt cheered and whooped on the shore, his voice echoing off the endless hot surf.
Ox strode back through the shallows with the eel’s silvered length draped over his shoulders like a rubbery mantle.
Watching his cofarmer return to the cove, Runt had the strangest sensation: a kind of foreknowing, as if he and Ox were immortal and ancient in this alien place. The suns hammered down on them both, beating their skin into identical bronze. At this distance they even seemed the same size, perfectly matched, the entire horizon bookended between them equally.
Runt knew something then, but exactly what he couldn’t say . . . something about here and now, about Ox plowing through the surf on his huge sturdy legs, the water glittering on all his hair, his wide sunburned grin aimed at his partner and the shore.
For an endless moment, Runt imagined the crooked corporation had folded and they’d been forgotten, laughing and living together under these perfect suns, waiting for wives that would never come, happily hunting fresh meat at the sharp edge of the galaxy.
While Ox swam back dragging his quarry ashore, Runt cleared the sunken fire pit he’d only used when he first arrived. It had sat scorched and cold since he’d realized grilling for one seemed like a waste of wood.
Ox strode naked across the sand, his tread slapping from the shore to the fire. Drops of water hung in his chest hair and his hair was gold in the sun. The eel was so long that even draped over his shoulder, its tail still trailed the ground, drawing a thin stripe beside his enormous footprints.
Runt felt like he’d stepped into an adventure holo-vid. He’d split bamboo into spits and soaked them in seawater by the time Ox reached the edge of the fire pit. Runt looked up with a grateful smile.
Ox coiled the eel like heavy rope and deposited it on a flat rock and nodded, just once, though no question had been asked. Veins stood visible along his throat and arms. He sat in the sand breathing hard.
Using his work blades, Runt butchered the fatty meat right on the beach. He had already managed to get a fire going. He skewered the pale flesh with chunks of raw mango. In a matter of minutes, Ox’s prize was dressed and sizzling on the grill.
“You should star in advertainments, ya big bastard.” Runt gathered the bones and scraps and tossed them into the eelbeds for chum. Nothing wasted. “Chance’s pants! We’d make ten fortunes.”
Ox grinned but shook his head and patted the ground as if he liked it just fine.
“Their blood’s poisonous, y’know. Ya gotta be careful.”
Whil
e the meat and fruit seared slowly, Runt massaged those tremendous arms and shoulders with antibiotic ointment and bandaged Ox’s raw hands.
Eating their own livestock was a miraculous step for their farmstead, and they both knew it. For the first few years, terraformers purchased supplies on credit from HardCell, borrowing against their future output. Eventually, cofarmers were able to live off the eels and soy and other products they harvested; ’til then, each crate pushed the profit point further away. For Runt, this impromptu lunch seemed like the future pushing into the sunlight.
When lunch was ready, Ox opened his hands to accept a kebab, but his blunt fingers looked too lacerated to eat.
Runt didn’t blink. Pulling a buttery bite from the skewer, he fed Ox with his hands like a slave. “Open up.”
Ox squinted in confusion, but did as told, allowing his partner to place the perfect smoky flesh on his tongue. Hungry as ever, he sucked the steaming eel out of Runt’s grip, then licked the calloused fingers clean. A cat’s grin.
Runt laughed. “Oi! If you bite me, I’ll grill your fat knob.”
Eyes closed, Ox nodded again, chewing in bliss.
So Runt fed him, hamming it up. He didn’t pause to eat himself until the big man made him.
Then Runt took his first bite of the livestock he’d raised for a year and a half.
Oh.
He knew the succulent white meat had been biodesigned for nutrition, but the buttery sweetness exploded in his mouth. Real food! And the charred mango . . . He hadn’t realized how hungry he was for a meal that didn’t come pre-chewed out of a bag.
Ox reached for another skewer, but Runt stopped him. “Hey! Don’t hurt yourself. I won’t let you starve.”
The giant rolled his eyes.
“Spokestars shouldn’t have to feed themselves.” Runt alternated between them, enjoying the food and sharing it, serving and smearing a greasy, hilarious mess that covered them both chest to chin. They filled themselves to bursting and belches.
By the time they’d finished, Ox had consumed three times the amount Runt could, and even so, enough barbecued protein remained to feed them for days.
Odd’s Gods, I’m blessed.
Runt almost dozed off right there in the sunny sand beside his cofarmer when he was suddenly smothered in hairy muscle. “Agh!”
Ox had tackled Runt like a depraved goon. Scooping up his undersized partner, he ignored all squirms, cackles, and protests and dragged them both into the warm waves to wash.
Runt’s body reacted immediately to skin contact and the slippery churn of the water and he made sure to stay a little apart. No need to embarrass either of them with the rammer he’d gotten from breathing Ox’s pheromones and ingesting all that fresh flesh like a barbarian.
But Ox wanted to play, splashing and grunting like a happy sea monster and then dragging them both back to the gleaming beach to dry, rubbing Runt’s full belly in gratitude as they dozed off under twin suns on an ivory scimitar of sand.
When Runt’s lids drifted open, the sand had cooled and blue-black night had crept up on them; he still felt sleepy and pleasantly unhungry.
About two meters away, Ox had built another small fire out of dry bamboo. The giant sat cross-legged beside him, looking up at the sky and smiling at something secret. He half-reclined, braced on his heavy arms, his face tipped back to see the sky. One powerful thigh lay pressed against Runt’s ribs.
“Stars seem all wrong here.” Runt spoke softly as he rolled over, so Ox wouldn’t be startled. But of course, Ox never got startled; he just turned and shook his head once, wrinkling his brow into a question.
“Not bad-wrong, but I mean, I forgot about stars back when HardCell shipped me out. Nothing was where I’m used to it. Because we’re so far from the system where I grew up.” Runt looked back at the spark-spattered black overhead.
“If I was home, y’know . . . the solar system I come from, I’d point toward here—” Runt patted the creamy sand as he’d pat a horse. “—and call this patch of the sky Andromeda ’cause of some old character, but it’s only Andromeda when I’m back there looking up at here.”
Out before them, the black water and the black night glittered and shifted. None of the moons had risen. The only sound was the murmur of the breakers licking the manmade sand.
“But living in Andromeda, everything’s different. Not a story. We aren’t, I mean, which seems stupid because we’re the jamhandles living here.”
Behind thick lashes, Ox’s eyes stayed on Runt’s mouth making the words.
“What does Andromeda have to do with eels or farming or anything? Nothing. Plus the constellations are all different anyhow.”
Ox shook his head and took a breath that filled his massive chest, a half smile on his lips.
Runt shifted into a crouch by the smoky fire and rubbed his hands on his thighs. He sat back, planting his butt in the chilly sand between the snapping flames and Ox’s solid warmth.
“Do you know the story, then? The Andromeda one.”
Behind him, Ox pressed his broad palm to Runt’s back. A few glowing bee-moths hovered near the fire, tracking mauve streaks.
“In this old advert, a Greek company. Like—” Runt squinted at the stars again trying to remember. He knew he was stalling so they could stay out a bit longer, muttering old nonsense between the sea and sky. “Andromeda was this executive’s daughter and they made her marry a sea monster. Just shipped her off like a crate of soy. See? Sounds pretty crap to me. But then she might’ve been a cheap clone and didn’t know any better. Dunno. You tired?”
Ox shook his head and patted Runt’s thigh with an eel-torn hand, inviting him to sit closer against the cold.
“Then this boy-wonder from a rival company sees her. He’s coming back from some headhunting interview-whatsit. He sees this daughter chained up, retires the family monster. Like that!” Runt snapped his fingers. “Steals her contract and marries her. Crazy. Then he becomes an executive.”
Runt leaned against that shoulder, their weight pleasantly teepeed together, then turned to nod, as if Ox had asked a question.
Ox seemed to be holding his breath; his damp lips parted as if ready to agree.
The smoky mango and eel grease on them both still smelled starchy-delicious in the salt air.
“You imagine! Some slave-wife? All she did was get transported and shackled to some rock by the sea and they named a whole pile of stars after her. Hundreds of suns. Yeah? Corporate propaganda, probably. Or someone’s mistress.” Runt chuckled. “Andromeda didn’t even build anything or manage anything or terminate anything. Seems like a shite reason to label all these solar systems. Or this place.”
Behind him, he felt Ox nod once, like always. Felt the breath swell Ox’s ribcage where it pressed against his own.
“And she’s got nothing to do with us, has she? Like maybe she was the old-time sponsor of clone wives or something . . . Or crates . . . Or monsters.” He bumped Ox’s big shoulder lightly with his own, making them both grin. “But only if you’re near Earth. They aren’t her stars really.”
Ox chuffed in agreement or pleasure or interest.
Runt felt a huge smile split his face before he knew it was coming. He nodded to himself, eyes on the sky.
“Then again, Andromeda only owns the stars if you’re standing in one place in the whole universe, otherwise she’s not here at all, is she? Except in our heads, yeah? Everything belongs somewhere else ’cause the place is different. No maps. New dragons.”
Something big splashed in the dark waves about a half-kilometer out. Eel romance, probably. The dome of stars shimmered overhead as if a breeze were stirring a field of bright blossoms with midnight leaves.
“Nothing lost.” Runt sighed and hunted for patterns in the unfamiliar skyscape. New constellations. “Ox . . . What do you reckon clone wives dream about?”
Ox shrugged and shook his head, once.
Runt thought about the family he’d be able to have once they’d tamed
this place. “Fresh food probably. No fists.” He smiled to himself, and imagined Ox was too. “Free stars.”
As if in response, Ox lifted his hand, slowly pointing, and Runt turned to look—Asteroid? Lightning?—only he wasn’t pointing. His hulking cofarmer held very still, his muscular arm extended, as a velvety bee-moth walked along his scarred finger.
Runt smiled at the almost paternal affection on Ox’s bulldog face and kept silent and still so he wouldn’t startle their luminous visitor.
The pollination moth’s furry mauve body paced in jerky steps on the back of the giant hand like a curious mutt scenting prey. HardCell’s redesign showed clearly. The insect seemed sturdier up close, its back broader, its wingspan wider, its phosphorescence brighter.
Ox lifted his cut knuckles carefully for a better look, his lips just barely twitching in involuntary pleasure. This critter featured the intricate Greek markings of the newest brood, the sharp black letters identifying its batch and lab of origin. The date of Ox’s arrival.
How did I ever think he was a murderer?
Slowly, slowly, Ox rolled his hand so it could investigate the cuts and the sweet grease there. Its head bobbed along Ox’s lifeline, tapped the mound of his enormous thumb. The lettered wings pumped the air experimentally, but it didn’t lift off. Ox’s face glowed with protective pride; these new bee-moths worked as hard as he did. They would change this world.
We will.
It took wing, floating on the hot air above the bamboo fire and then hooking back toward the orchards to busy itself.
They both turned to watch it, but only Ox made a sound then: a low happy rumble like his night-singing.
The little blaze had died to papery embers, the wood too soft to burn long. The sand felt hard against Runt’s rear, and Ox soft beside him.
Ox turned to ask a silent question by raising his eyebrows.