Symbiosis

by Nicky Drayden

  Extra kettleworms. Too strong. Just the way Kallum makes it.

  I tense up, close my eyes.

  “I just came to let you know that breakfast is ready,” Kallum says, his voice nearly lifeless.

  Seske wakes at the sound of his voice, and I feel her scrambling as she fumbles for her clothes, cursing every heart-father there ever was. “Sorry,” she finally whispers to me. “But you’re going to have to face the Senate alone.” Footsteps splash through the tea puddle, and then she’s gone.

  Bold of her to think I’ll live to see the Senate. I open my eyes and turn to Kallum, who’s holding his silver serving tray down at his side. “I’m—”

  “Don’t apologize,” Kallum says sternly. He takes several harsh breaths, nostrils flaring in an unsettling rhythm. “You won’t mean it. This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve always wanted. I’m not going to tell the Senate. Not to spare you punishment, but because I won’t allow you to destroy this family. I just want to know if it was worth it.”

  There is no answer that will quell his heart, or that will soothe his hurt, so I remain quiet. But I need to know myself: Was it worth it? It’s scary to admit that some sort of sleep-deprived lack of judgment had caused us to shatter our lives and those of our spouses, and our whole family. It’s even scarier to admit that, if given the chance, I’d do the same all over again. And again.

  And again.

  Part III

  Mutualism

  In your desire to control and dominate, you have forced us to better ourselves.

  Now it is time to let us return the favor.

  Queen of the Dead

  Seske

  Of Closed Hearts and Open Space

  I’ve made a mistake. An awful, terrible mistake. And all it took was a moment.

  But what else did I expect from a relationship riddled with awkward tension and guilt? Maybe we could have found a way to work through it, but now everything is gone, broken, ruined, and the rest of my life with it—and for what? Some weird, mediocre sex?

  When I kissed him, it was as if his lips had become like those of a frog, prehensile and trying to pull me into him. It was like he had a dozen arms, each groping at me, none of them knowing what they were doing. Tongue all over the place, too, licking all but the right crevices. I’d yelled his name, urging him to slow down. To take his time. To allow ourselves space in that moment, but he was spent before we’d even gotten started.

  I don’t know if I’d even call it sex.

  And then, he’d just laid there, pulling me close, still tethered together by that rope of limp flesh. I didn’t want to move, because once we were free of each other, the shock would wear off and the regret would come crashing down on me. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore my poor, sore nipples, my confused humble bits, and the stick of his skin against mine.

  He snored right in my ear, eye movement rapid behind his lids. Dreaming.

  Then I heard footsteps, and I knew we were done for. I opened my eyes and saw Kallum staring back at me, holding a tea service for three. I’d never seen such pain in anyone’s eyes before. It was like watching someone die—the light fading, the soul collapsing, the body going slack, then eventually rigid. He died there, right before me, but remained standing. Breathing. Staring.

  Minutes passed, ten, maybe twenty. Maybe it had only been seconds. Not a word was spoken between us. Barely a blink. Finally, his arms went slack, the tea fell to the ground with a shatter. I flinched and pressed my face into Doka’s chest. Finally, he woke.

  All I could think about was getting out of there, so I grabbed my clothes and ran back upstairs. I cleaned up the best I could. I filled the wash basin with warm water, ran an entire bar of soap over my skin until nothing was left but a sliver, but no amount of washing could rid me of the stains that plagued me the most.

  I find Bakti, Charrelle, and the baby, and two of our heart-wives, Jesphara and Ida, sitting around the kitchen table, with Adalla at the stove putting the finishing touches on a pan of egg loaf. I greet them with a hearty, over-the-top good morning, then sneak up behind Adalla and wrap my arms around her, press my nose to the back of her neck. Breathe her in. We’re so close, I can feel the raised scars on her back through the layers of fabric that separate us. I cringe, thinking of the pain I have inflicted upon her in the distant past.

  And the not-so-distant past.

  “Good morning, love,” she says. She lays her knife down and turns to me, looks me over. I hold my breath, wondering if she can smell Doka on me. Or sense it somehow. But she pulls my chin close to her and kisses me. Pure. Simple. I nearly cry with how beautiful it is. “Are you okay?” she asks. Rubbing a tear from the corner of my eye.

  I nod. “Just the peppers,” I say, pointing at her cutting board. “They’re a little strong.”

  “Oh! Should I use less next time?”

  “No. I like the way you make them. Don’t change. Anything.”

  Adalla smiles, kisses me again, deeper this time. A length of saliva links us when we’re done, then snaps. My whole heart snaps as well. I muster a smile, then kiss Bakti on the cheek, and he leans his head on my shoulder, resting there for a few seconds, before he turns back to Charrelle, who he’s caught in conversation with.

  Feeling like an interloper, a ghost, I take my seat.

  They all talk, they all laugh. They take turns with a very fussy baby. But it all washes past me, as if I’m not really here at all. Minique, our other heart-wife, joins us too.

  “What’s taking Doka and Kallum so long?” Adalla asks—me presumably, since I was the last to see them. I shrug and pull a string loose from the frayed end of a cloth napkin as she sets the loaf in the center of the table.

  “You know them. Probably fucking in a pile of ancient papers,” says Minique.

  “Language!” cries Charrelle, putting her hands over Kenzah’s ears. “If there’s one thing this baby knows, it’s how much his fathers love each other. Some of you could probably learn from their example.”

  Minique gets flustered and grabs the serving spoon, then digs out a chunk of the egg loaf and plops it into her bowl. She doesn’t wait for us to acknowledge the favors that went into preparing this meal, and starts shoving egg loaf into her mouth, not even bothering to cut around the gristle. Minique and her wives are the most intelligent people I know, and their unrivaled beauty makes for a very nice family portrait. They came to our family as a bonded unit, as heart-wives often do. They’d been married ten years already, and it was clear from what we’d observed that Minique was often on the outs with the Jesphara and Ida.

  “’Dalla,” I say gently as soon as she’s taken a seat next to me. “Take me with you to the heart today. Maybe I can help out? I’ve been practicing my slicing skills.” I take an imaginary swing in front of me, nearly knocking over my cup of beetle milk.

  “Not today,” Adalla says grimly. “We’ve had a few slight arrhythmias spread over the last couple days. Nothing major, hopefully nothing to worry about. But we need everyone on their best game, betcha, and that means no distractions. Even if they’re very cute distractions.” She nudges me in the shoulder, then kisses me on the cheek. “In fact, I probably should be on duty now, but I wanted to squeeze in breakfast with you at least. It’s going to be a long day. Don’t stay up waiting for me, okay?”

  “Maybe I can bring you a lunch, then?” I say, knowing how important it is that she keeps up her energy. Besides, if I keep my mouth moving, my mind moving, I can keep my guilt at bay. “Something fast and nutritious?”

  “It’s the dessert I’m worried about,” Adalla says with a saucy grin. She cranes her neck, peeking out into the hallway. “Where are those boys?”

  “Maybe we should eat without them,” I suggest, a knot in my throat.

  Minique stops chewing long enough for us to acknowledge the favors from our ancestors. It is Kallum’s turn to lead the prayer, but in his absence, it falls on Charrelle.

  She stretches one hand out toward the middle
of the table, balancing Kenzah with the other as he perches on her knee. “Ancestors across the great divide, we give thanks for your favor in providing us with this bounty. May it fill our bellies. May it nourish our bodies. May it clear our sinuses . . .”

  Adalla laughs, a delicate flutter that echoes in my heart. It spurs my denial into anger. She’s been gone so much lately, pouring herself into her job. Was it any wonder my heart had started to wander?

  “Let us all come together,” Charrelle continues. “The bond of our family forever strengthening, the ties between us, honorable and true. Please do us this favor.”

  On this cue, we are to link hands, but mine stay buried in my lap. Adalla nudges me, already locking fingers with Bakti on her other side. Charrelle reaches to me with her free hand. Normally, it would be Doka who I’d locked with, but we’d done quite enough of that for the day, hadn’t we? My stomach roils. Vomit kicks at the back of my throat, and I run out into the hall, spewing thin, acidic vomit all over the wall.

  “Sweetie,” comes Adalla’s voice. “Are you okay?” Her hand strokes my back. I can’t look anywhere in her direction.

  “I don’t know,” I choke out.

  “Do you need me to stay—?”

  “No. I’m fine,” I say.

  “I can take care of her,” Bakti says, on my other side now. He’s easier to look at. The betrayal doesn’t run nearly as deeply. “Why don’t you finish eating and get to work.”

  “Mmmm,” Adalla says. I can tell from her voice that the thought of food right now isn’t at all appetizing. “I’ll pick up a snack on shift,” she says. “Promise you’ll take good care of her.”

  Bakti nods, then Adalla kisses us both on the cheek and is off. I want to shrivel up into a ball. I want to dive headfirst into the Wall and let it digest me alive. I push the thoughts away. What good would that do for my family? For my people? I know what’s done is done, but maybe if I can be the perfect wife from here on out, maybe that will absolve me? Some at least.

  I look to Bakti, now the distraction falls upon him. I drink his body in with my eyes, desiring for nothing more than to have him wash away the aftertaste of Doka from my mouth. From everywhere.

  “Bakti, have you ever been to the aperture?” I ask.

  “No! That’s not something that was allowed on Adhosh. But I’ve heard the view is spectacular.”

  “We should go,” I say.

  We haven’t been together for long, but the hesitation on his face is easy to read. He fusses with the trim on the deep V cut on his blouse, then finally mutters, “Isn’t it dangerous? Especially if you’re feeling—”

  “I’m fine. We should go now. It think the war lilies are still in bloom. You have to see it.”

  “Um, okay. If you’re sure.”

  I tug his arm and he follows behind me reluctantly. “Shouldn’t I get properly dressed first?”

  “Oh, we won’t be needing clothes.”

  We travel the whole length of the gut, then hike through the rugged terrain of an inactive esophagus, getting as far away from civilization as you can upon our Zenzee without being banished. It takes us nearly two hours walking at a brisk pace, but the sights and smells offer a welcome distraction. To our left and right, the walls are covered with overgrown patches of lichen and slick mucous spots, and glow lice the size of my hand skitter around, burring into the flesh of the wall when we get too near. The brush ivy gets so thick, we get pricked by the bristles as we squeeze through, leaving tiny scratches across my arms. I barely feel them.

  We must be getting close.

  Finally, we arrive at the airlock. It’s attended by three dour-looking guards who act as if they haven’t seen another human besides themselves in weeks. Even with our pedigrees, they protest letting us through. They know the reputation of the couples who tend to come here, and frivolous travel to vital environments such as this have been banned. But after offering a very generous donation of cowries and a promise that I will have Doka suggest longer shift breaks for outpost workers, they allow us to pass, escorting Bakti and I to a room with a large barrel of protective gel.

  “We’ll have to cover our skin with a heavy coating,” I tell him. “It’ll dry and provide protection against the void of space.” I strip down in front of him, then take a handful of the golden gel, guiding it sensually around my breasts. I hold intimate eye contact with Bakti as I do so, waiting for signs of his arousal.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, trying and failing to hide his concern.

  “Putting on the gel.”

  “Yeah, but why are you being all weird about it?”

  “I’m not being weird,” I say, tilting my chin up and rubbing my neck, up and down. Up and down. “Just thorough. You know, I can help you, if you want. Don’t want to miss any spots.”

  “Aren’t there suits we could use?”

  “Yes, but what’s the fun in that? You can’t really know space until you’ve felt it all over your body. Maybe we could venture toward the mouth tentacles. Press your back down against one of the suction cups so it holds you in place, and you know . . .”

  “No, what?”

  “Fuck,” I whisper into his ear, then nibble his lobe. “You know, Jesphara and Ida have done it. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a year. It could be our moment, just the two of us. Do you know what they call it? ‘Riding the Deep Silence.’” I rub a handful of gel down his chest. Down farther, rake my fingers through his pubis, hold the bulk of his manhood in my gelled fist, then slide right over the tip. “Don’t want to miss a spot,” I say again.

  There’s still concern on his face, all right, but at least now he’s a little intrigued. “Maybe,” he squeaks out. “Just for a bit.”

  I smile. He smiles back, then relaxes some and we cover each other in gel. We grab our re-breathers when we’re done, and meet at the airlock, where we’re given brief instructions, including a warning to stay away from the forward section of the aperture. That’s where the tentacles begin. That’s where things can get dangerous. We both nod, grinning, then head through the airlock.

  Dark surrounds us, so thick at first it’s nearly impossible to tell where the mouth ends and space begins, but then our eyes adjust to the low light. Only a few bare patches of war lilies remain, but the aperture is still amazing, boasting blue streaks that lead from each throat to the tentacles, like hundreds of cobblestone paths spread all around this immense open maw. Each path is bordered by fields of knee-high pink nodules. Some of them shudder and squirm, others pucker open at the top taking a deep gasp, then closing again. Still others jiggle violently, then go flat, expelling their contents into a throat. Slowly, very slowly, nebula dust and gasses are collected to nourish the parasites living within the Zenzee’s gut. It is a harsh reminder of all the work that goes into the garden that our Zenzee has cultivated within herself. It is balance she has maintained for centuries. It is deliberate, not the random placement of plants we’d assumed. She benefits from the nutrients the parasites release in a beautiful act of symbiosis.

  Then we came along, the invasive and toxic weeds in her garden.

  “Seske, look,” Bakti says, pointing outside the mouth. I can just make it out now, the nebula we’re in. Roiling, puffy clouds of blue and pink with a crown of golden yellow. I feel as though we are among interstellar royalty.

  “Daide’s bells,” I mutter.

  His hand slips into mine. Neither of us find the courage to venture out toward the tentacles, but we fuck anyway, off in the field, mostly hidden among the curious nodules that nibble at us, wibbling, wobbling, then deflating in exasperation. Bakti works diligently—vigorous and fitful at first, but then he falls into a steady rhythm, our re-breathers rubbing against each other. Pressed against each other, the cold of space cannot wick away the heat of the gel on our skin, and we become like a furnace, the awkward smolder that had always existed between us now fully aflame. I let my mind clear, head tilted slightly back so I can see the stars.

  I feel insi
gnificant. A small blip in this universe. And as someone so insignificant, not even my biggest, most monumental fuckup would cause a noteworthy ripple within the great unknown. One of the stars flickers, seeming to hang closer than all the others. I blink, then it’s even closer still. I blink again and start to panic as the star takes up more and more of the sky. I’m hallucinating, I know it. Or maybe my re-breather has run out of oxygen, and now I’m dying. Upon my next blink, I realize that it’s the same sun from my vision.

  Seske . . .

  It calls out to me, and a shiver runs down my spine. That voice.

  Seske . . .

  Come for me . . .

  It’s nothing more than a whisper in my mind, but it screams out to my very soul. It disconnects me from my body, and the rhythm of Bakti’s thrusting fades away to nothingness. It’s as if I’m floating, out there in space, a primal urge to reach that sun. To reach that voice, even though it has hurt and betrayed me so many times.

  Sisterkin’s voice.

  She’d been banished and forgotten, but I still feel her. Her siren song is sweet, tempting . . . and most of all, dangerous.

  I shake my head, until I’m back in Bakti’s embrace. I concentrate on the heat of the gel between us, on the feeling of the Zenzee’s mouth flesh pressing upon my skin. I concentrate on the medicinal taste of my re-breather and the rasp of my own breath moving in and out until the hallucination fades completely.

  I’ve spent the last four years trying to forget Sisterkin. She needs to learn how to stay forgotten.

  Doka

  Of Sharp Knives and Dull Testimony

  I feel like a giant. Massive. As if I’m larger than life. In my arms, I clench my evidence to my chest, a binder filled with genetic reports and family trees and citations directly pointing to the genocide of over ten thousand children. Finally, I have hard evidence and the confidence I need to face these women. The Senate will listen to what I have to say. I cannot fail another child.