by Amanda Milo
“I wonder if he suspects.”
“Why put your precious society at risk at all?” I say, unable to stop myself from throwing up finger quotes, which has her attention brightening yet again as her gaze zooms in on this ‘alien’ gesture. I know for a fact she’s aware of it since she watches footage of people, but she’s curious. They’re all so curious—evidenced by fifteen hobs also watching my hands in fascination.
Geez.
Simply, so simply, she finally answers me. “They needed love.”
Well that wasn’t what I expected her to say.
“They both desperately needed to find love.” Her wings lift a bit. “I had the means to give them the best chance, and I tried to raise my fledgling with a heavy lean on the importance of the greater whole over a single individual’s wishes. If it wasn’t in his nature naturally, I hoped it could be taught.”
“Nature versus nurture,” I murmur.
“Precisely.”
“You let Nine harass the shite out of him,” I accuse.
Father Nine—whose name is Stelen—angles his head away, and I’m not sure what to make of it.
Dohartaigh shows her fangs, but not in a snarl—it’s in a pained, regretful grimace. “Stelen’s dam hatched two offspring in her time. The first had no aptitude for sharing. Stelen hoped it was an aberrant gene, because unlike his older sibling, Stelen’s scores gained him a perch at the Academy. Yet much to his dismay and distress, tolerating other hobs spending their time with me doesn’t come effortlessly like it should for him. It’s a constant struggle.” Her wings shrug, so much like Dohrein’s that I blink. “He didn’t want his offspring to suffer the same.”
“So he made his kid’s life hell instead? And what do you mean ‘suffer?’”
The skin around her eyes tightens almost imperceptibly at my first statement. At my question, she locks her gaze with mine once more. “If you took another male today, what internal conflict would Rein experience?”
‘What internal conflict?’ Fucking robot family. “He’d be fucked up about it.”
Her gaze moves off, and I follow to see Stelen is staring at the ground, his strong jaw—the jaw I know so well because I see it on his son every day—ticking and working overtime.
Then I gaze around at the other fourteen. Fourteen males he has to share his woman with—has to, if he wants to keep her.
Yep. That’d be tough. “Why didn’t you wait to add Stelen to your service?”
He’s her ninth husband. If she was cognizantly selecting mates with the best potential, why not wait and make him, oh, say, fifteen?
Now it’s her turn to stare at the ground. “I was young. I made many decisions with my hearts that, in the end, served us as much happiness as they did heartsache.”
This stalls me because it might cover my real question: why get pregnant with Stelen’s kid? Eight other husbands, why procreate with the one that had a family history and a personal problem with the whole sharing deal?
But you do stupid things when you’re young. And shite happens: maybe she used Gryfala birth control, but it failed. This is probably a touchy subject, and I’m trying to be diplomatic today, so I test my teeth on my tongue again to bite back the question.
This is a painful exercise—I can see why I’ve never practiced restraint before. If Cricket weren’t a cute kid, I’d tell her where she could stuff her conscience.
Dohartaigh motions for the severed heads. Carefully, she arranges them on a flat platter. Because they look pretty, or maybe to dry them so they can eat them later; I don’t know, but she’s fun to watch as she continues her story. “Stelen hoped for a daughter. As you know, in a Gryfala, possessiveness over one’s mate would be expected, even welcome.”
Gender norms in alien society. Don’t even get me started. “Let me get this straight. Your society works because you’ve selected males that respond well to harem life. But you’re letting your ‘unfit’ hobs play house with humans, procreating with all those undesirable traits in the pool. You’re going to end up with ultra-possessive little hobhumans.” I snort. “Ha. Hohums.”
Dohartaigh doesn’t look like she knows what to make of me, but she moves to the flower bed directly beside the one we’ve been pruning. In this one, there are fiery honey, star-shaped petaled plants. “Hobs keep excellent genealogy records, just like Rakhii. If we don’t want to cross lineage with the families that contain hohums, then we won’t.” She delicately presses her nose to the petals, smiling slightly, before she pinches off a flower and hands it to me. “Meanwhile, look how many spare hobs have found contentment and happiness with an alien species.”
She… cares about ‘spare’ hobs’ happiness. Huh. Who knew. “Why keep us ‘alien species’ here at all? Why not send us and our undesirable hobs away?”
Her wings shrug again, all matter-of-fact. “Where would you go?”
Great question.
“You were reaped from your oblivious home planet. No sanctuary there.” She inspects the petals on a massive flower. “I’ve heard some of the humans chafe at being ‘kept’ here, but what if I told you that you could leave any time you wanted?”
I decide I need to sit down before I fall down. I was bored of standing anyway. “You’re not joking.”
Her lips curve and she darts a look at me as if I am. “No, of course I’m not.”
“You’d let us leave.”
She brings me another flower, with the entire stem this time. “You may have noticed we don’t keep long-term prisoners here. We behead and burn them.”
I wiggle one of the flower heads. “Reassuring.”
Dohartaigh snickers. If I wasn’t already sitting, this definitely would make me fall down in shock.
I wave to her, to the sky, to the tower—the world in general, basically. “What was with the whole ‘you agree to be studied’ deal then?”
She tilts her head at me. “Why wouldn’t we study you? If we came to Earth, attracted your males, caused an uproar, added them to our service, would your people sequester and study us?”
Without a doubt. And… well, we’d definitely cram them in cages and keep them like prisoners. Decidedly a lot more prisoner than what we’ve experienced here.
It’s doubtful that humans back home would encourage aliens to settle down, marry, and be all excited to see alien-human hybrid babies.
And if humans possessed the fleet of ships and the technology for deep space travel, I can’t see us footing the bill for a drive to an alien’s home planet to pick up some of their favorite stuff.
With the way these aliens have been carefully customizing our little habitats, I’m getting the impression that maybe… maybe we’ve been held in a slightly higher esteem than mere laboratory animals like some of us might have thought.
Dohartaigh hands me two more flowers with stems. “The issue with you leaving this planet—” she extends her fingers, a bloom cupped at the apex of them, her claws lending this picture a surreal view. “Do you find this flower pleasing?”
It’s so pleasing that it’s continued to draw my attention. “I’ve never seen a black flower before. With azure streaks, it…” a laugh escapes me. “It looks like Dohrein.”
Dohartaigh smiles. “It does.”
She carefully selects a handful of stemmed flowers—but this time, she’s not singling out the culls. She’s picking the cream of her crop.
So when she holds them out to me, I’m… touched.
“As I was saying, this planet provides your kind with sanctuary. Those of the humans that were not involved in the study have continued to be attracted here—”
She means Beth and Tara and some of the other humans whose aliens got away from the gathering before we got busted by the hob cops.
“It seems if we provide a pleasant range for your colony, that you will thrive and flock to each other. We will continue to monitor you. You provide a rather addictive form of entertainment.”
Good stars in heaven. We’re not just their reality TV
: we’re their conservation project. If she’s anything like Dohrein, she probably keeps a journal too and her entries read something like:
‘A formerly undiscovered territory has recently been plundered. Unethical treatment to the native sentient creatures that identify themselves as humans has caused an ecological debate. We’re providing simulated habitats to see if we can successfully rear a protected herd of them here. They appear to be settling in well: offspring are due within a measure of time the humans refer to as a months. Exceedingly proud of our success cultivating our collection thus far.
Signing off until the next update,
Dohartaigh’
“The issue with going offplanet is going to be the same for humans and their males as it is for Gryfala. Gryfala rarely travel: when we do, we can take a dozen or more hobs, a Rakhii, and a well-equipped ship and it’s still dangerous. I’ve received the impression that you believe I’m the enemy, but I’m not keeping you prisoner against your will. I’ve funded the set-up of your preserve because this is the safest planet for you—even safer than your own homeplanet. As you’re well aware, humans are enough like Gryfala that they caused cases of mistaken identity, and other races were tempted to take on the risk of acquiring them. If you leave, I can guarantee you’ll be set upon.”
I know what happened to Crispin when pirates took over their ship. Maybe if they’d had a whole ‘service’ of hobs, they’d have made it out without damage.
Maybe not.
In this light, from this angle… this planet becomes less like a Her Majesty’s Prison Wakefield we’re sprucing up and, well, like she said: a sanctuary—one I intend to deck out. And originally, I came here intending to wheedle, cajole, and use this female’s future grandchildren to barter for the right layout.
Hey. Don’t judge. You work what you’ve got.
What I thought I had. The playing field looks a bit different all of a sudden.
“The setup we have now,” I start. “We could benefit from some changes.”
“Such as?”
“Think less compound, more human-village. I showed up here today to ask your permission to design—”
Her wings bob. “Whatever you require.”
I lose my momentum. “Just like… just like that?”
She clicks her tongue and I recognize the sound, the pattern—this is a Rakhii habit. She’s picked up a… Rakhiism.
“Have I denied you for anything?”
I almost blurt, ‘You made us go through all those stupid tests!’—but had anyone actually asked her to opt out of participating?
Zadeon had told her that Callie was exempt. He didn’t ask—and yet, Dohartaigh capitulated without hesitation.
Cheese and crackers. This whole time… we’ve been pets.
She studies me as I stare back at her. “If you have need of a different habitat, then make your changes.” She glances at her now-empty hands, absently running her index finger’s claw along the side of her thumb. “I would like for you to be comfortable. I would dearly welcome yours and Dohrein’s offspring.”
I’d hoped she’d say this. I’d had a hard time imagining it, but I’d hoped. I mean, she looks nothing like a grandmother. She looks like she’s modeling a futuristic scientist’s costume and she’s even got that whole hot-runway-model’s expression: inside, I’m sub-zero Celsius. I’m having trouble trying to picture her cuddling a baby.
Studying one, sure. But cuddling? “You want grandbabies.”
Her wings shift, not too different from someone settling back and crossing their legs to get comfortable. “I’ve never made that a secret.”
“I just thought… I thought it was more of a theoretical interest for you.”
I cringe. I sound like I thought the worst of her. I sort of did. I’m kind of a dick.
“I come from a very broody line of Gryfala. Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful at hatching offspring.”
“You managed to hatch—” I still can’t get over that he came from an egg. Eggs make chickens, not men, “—Dohrein.”
Wait, wait: there’s a joke in there. Eggs hatch cocks. Ha! Eggs hatch dicks. Dammit, I need to drop this within his earshot.
Her smile is bittersweet. “The credit for Dohrein’s hatching goes to the endless patience of a Rakhii. I never could—and never have I since—been able to simply sit idle and wait for an egg to reach maturity.”
I’ve heard a little about this. Gryfala get so compulsive they can’t stop themselves from over-checking their egg. Too much movement, too much temperature fluctuation, too much hands-on fussing kills the embryo. But how does it go from a female who can’t leave her egg alone to a Rakhii taking over long enough to get it to hatch?
Hmm. Actually, that sounds about right. Rakhii are the type to shove their way in and save the day. They know how to get shite done right. Do they out-boss a broody Gryfala? Right off her own nest? This must be what Dohrein feels like, because all I can think is I want to see that. I have so many questions.
My neck’s getting a crick from looking up at her, so I brace a hand on the walkway to lever myself up—and startle when Dohartaigh’s wing talon appears in front of me.
Slowly—watching her face for any change in expression—I take it. I’m careful to grip only the talon itself, and not touch her wing. There’s no fear of powder transference from a Gryfala, but Gryfala don’t like other females. That this one talks to me instead of using my intestines to make necklaces is kind of a big deal.
I dust myself off, and I’m at a loss for how to wrap this up. I worked so hard at going over how to get what I wanted, I never actually got around to making a plan for what I’d do if I got my way. I move to a topic I’ve been mulling over. “Hey, by the way, we’re going to need schools for our little hohums. Who teaches all the wee hobs who don’t make it into the Academy?”
She answers like it should be a given. “Rakhii.”
It all comes back to the fire breathing aliens. You’d think they’d treat these guys like kings. They’re the backbone of their society.
I have thirty-two teeth in my mouth, which means my tongue’s going to have sixteen holes in it by the time I’m done biting back all my words this visit, but thou shalt not forget Diplomacy 101: avoid topics that will end in war with your mother-in-law, who pushed out the egg you’re mated to and who also pays for all your fellow humans to live on this alien planet currently harboring you.
And on the bright side, I can get all those piercings I never knew I wanted.
I settle for a genuine, “Thanks for going out on a limb and saving us by the way. That was super.”
“Do you see the beauty in this flower?”
“Yeah…” It’s a bit different, but it’s still a flower. Still pretty. It’s a reverse flower though, blooming upside down so it’s not facing the light. I like the sharp petals—kinda cool. “It’s nice.”
She passes it to me, and when I see where it came from, it doesn’t escape my notice that the soil in this bed is a darker purple than the others. If I had to guess, I’d say these have been recently planted.
What did escape my notice until just now, is the fact that the petals on this flower are green. And it strikes me that it’s a very odd green. Sort of slate-hazel.
Just like the color of my eyes.
I look down at my lap. All the stemmed flowers she gave me are blue with black like Dohrein, and now, green like me.
They’re raising flowers with our colors.
“I’m not altruistic: as I said, your kind are of great interest to us. Satisfying curiosity is one of life’s pleasures.” She strides to the tower wall, to a neat little cubby fountain where she washes her hands.
Stelen—Stelen of all (alien)people—fetches her a beaker and a rag. She wets the rag, and hands it to me. “Waterless washing solution.”
I’m too stunned to thank her before she returns to the topic. “Though, I might have agreed with the council. Their consensus was to keep the humans and kill the lawbreakers. Exam
ples must be set in order to motivate the populace to follow.”
All those mates killed. I’ll tell anyone that my heart’s made of stone, but this rock in my chest crumbles and drops through my stomach at the memory of all those guys in chains, facing the axe. “What changed your mind?”
Her perfectly sculpted brows rise a fraction. “You mean who. Who do you think?”
And just like that, I know exactly who. “Dohrein.”
She nods.
Dohrein had been so wound up that night, and adamant that he speak to his dam that morning before the trial started. We knew he was championing for us, but that grouchy bastard—my grouchy bastard—saved us all.
Why didn’t he ever say anything? Maybe he thinks I knew. I wonder if Angie knows; in light of this information, she’s made some references that I’m starting to string together. She probably assumed that Dohrein bragged about saving our arses.
But Dohrein isn’t like that.
He’s a pompous prick, don’t get me wrong—but he’s a humble pompous prick… which doesn’t seem like it should make sense, but there you go.
I’m so shocked I can’t even speak. For me, that’s like… dude, I don’t even know because this never happens.
Except for like once with Dohrein.
If it happens again, I’m gonna start thinking this family has a special ability.
She smiles at one of her hobs when he hands her a length of ribbon. To me, she holds out her elegant fingers, a shiny, holographic-painted razor claw tipping each one. “If you’ll relinquish those? Only temporarily,” she promises.
I’m still processing everything when I pass her the flowers I was clutching.
She begins neatening them. “It has warmed my hearts to see Dohrein happy. He was right—you two matched well.”
She presses the flowers back into my hands. With the ribbon tying them together, she’s made a pretty bouquet. The last thing she says to me is, “For Callie. We wish her, Zadeon, and their offspring well.”