Grown Men (2011)

by Damon Suede

  The adult bee-moths hung quiet along the dim walls, glowing softly, resting for tonight’s duties. The best of two species. Rather than pollen, they harvested pests and samples which they fed to their computerized “queen” to analyze so she could assign tasks. Runt inspected the long pupal trays where a few new caterpillars munched on their bamboo salad; most already lay cocooned in silky pods. They’d hatch in the next day or so.

  The only thing: Runt couldn’t decide if his experiment had succeeded or failed.

  At the very least, he owed Ox a great supper for the miracle he’d worked in here. Corporate citizenship and comfort had never seemed closer.

  If he doesn’t get tired of outfarming his partner and murder me in my sleep.

  Back in the cook-space, Runt outdid himself, stir frying pilaf mealpaks. Ox hovered for a while, curious, until Runt tossed him a mango and a knife and pointed at the bench by way of an order.

  Runt watched Ox’s rough paws vivisect the mango swiftly. The giant returned with a bright pile of shreds, and at a nod from Runt, plunked them in the hissing digi-wok. The fruit seared quickly; the juice would disguise the multivitamin tang of the mealpak paste.

  Teamwork.

  After supper, Ox fell asleep on the bench again while Runt sat through a fantasy holo-vid plugging HardCell cosmetics while elves cast spells and raped each other. A few times, the dozing giant’s pheromones spiked, which meant Runt’s boner came and went without harm.

  He was grateful to have the sleep-space to himself again.

  Enjoy it while you can.

  Runt lay awake in his big bed. Even alone there, he felt keenly aware of the gigantic predator breathing deeply and near-silently a few meters away . . . death in his hands and his head full of secrets.

  What did Ox expect? Why had he come to this place? What did he have planned?

  In the clock-lit darkness, sleep came slow. Runt curled toward the wall, as if his back could do a better job of watching Ox, as if his eyes could see a way forward.

  The next day, Ox ducked outside at the first sunrise, making almost no sound.

  The moment he was gone, Runt rolled to his feet and cracked his neck. He’d slept wrong and his muscles felt like wet sand. He washed, wanked, and waited to eat breakfast with his cofarmer before getting to work.

  As soon as Ox returned from the sea, he dressed quickly. His boots were twenty-threes, as it happened.

  Runt had been wrong about that too.

  Let’s just see . . .

  As Ox wolfed down the steamy protein scramble, Runt leaned forward on his elbows as though an idea had sprouted just then: a test. “Are you mechanical then? I mean, you like to twiddle with machines and that?”

  Ox shrugged and smiled, showing his white choppers. He flexed his big fingers like a magician and waggled his eyebrows.

  “Can you have a look at the soybeaner today?” The gabbled question sounded planned and anxious even to Runt’s ears.

  Ox nodded firmly and rapped the table with his knuckles in agreement.

  Smug bugger.

  “I’ve been able to do fuck-all by way of repairs.” A bald lie. Runt had given the appliance a wide berth since it fucked itself up somehow nine weeks ago. He could pick any lock in the galaxy if need be, but tech scared him shitless. He hadn’t wanted to notify HardCell or spend the money for a replacement.

  After breakfast, Runt walked the big bastard up the rise to the stepped crop terraces, giving the tour he hadn’t offered the day before: fields, mango orchard, silos, greenhouse. On the sandy footpath, his trail of size eight-wide bootprints trotted beside those twenty-threes. What of it? Whether Ox was a spy or an ally, he should know just how much Runt had managed even with his shortcomings.

  Ox scrutinized the layout.

  Runt paused on a rise to point down to the eelbeds in the cove. The soft glare of both suns bounced off the waves and made them both squint the rest of the way up. Ox fidgeted as they reached the lush green rows.

  The automated soy-mill sat notched into the hill about fifteen meters from the fields where the beans grew. Drones fed the harvest straight into the silo beside the processors which broke the raw produce into nutrient liquids and solids.

  Runt kicked the power and tapped the panel to bring it online. A low drone rose in pitch until he had to raise his voice to be heard. The soybeaner began to hiccup, its hum dipping and straining.

  “It’s run hot for four months. Piece of junk. No idea what in hell’s wrong.”

  Runt tapped the controls again. The pitch climbed again and the thumping and squelching sped up—flap-thwlap-flap—as something caught in the machine’s innards struggled to break loose or die trying.

  Ox winced as if watching a mangled dog. He shook his head once, sharply.

  “Agh!” Runt killed the power and stood a little apart. The thumping and groaning wheezed into silence. Even the bugs in the brush had no comment. The sun had crept higher and Runt could smell Ox again.

  Ox ran his wide hands over the appliance as if stroking a lion, feeling for a wound. He looked for something with his eyes and his fingertips.

  “How do you know so much about equipment and that? You raised by mechanics? Engineers?”

  Ox snorted silently and shook his head. He squinted and turned his head, reaching for something further under the soybeaner’s belly.

  “So . . . what? Your ma was a welder and your father humped pipe?”

  Ox tugged his arm out and wrote in demi-Arabic on the dusty ground: “MINERS.”

  “Oh.” Runt pursed his lips to keep his opinions trapped.

  Mining killed employees young in shitty backbreaking contracts. The real money came from sub-terrain work, and some of those kids grew up and died without ever seeing even one sun. No wonder Ox loved their beach.

  Tink.

  Runt turned.

  Again, Ox tapped the machine’s case with his fingers as he squatted and felt underneath with one arm, straining for purchase.

  “Find something?” Runt came a little closer.

  Ox nodded once and slid his torso underneath the tofu unit. His massive ribcage pressed against the frame and his arms had to wriggle in by centimeters.

  Runt stood shifting his weight for five minutes while Ox’s colossal legs twitched and bent as he squirmed under the equipment. Runt felt strange watching his oversized lower half, the knotted muscle, the packed groin pushing at the suit’s closure, as if Ox’s whole body lived under a magnifying glass.

  So easy to kill him under there. Right now.

  Staring down, Runt felt huge for a moment, or Ox seemed small.

  Maybe he’s small for a miner. Yeah. Maybe he picked this shithole for the weather.

  The rattles and clinks from the underside stopped, and the husky oaf wriggled back out covered in soy mash and holding a length of hose. He presented the tubing for Runt’s inspection. Chance’s pants. A blockage had been wasting raw soybeans as they were processed.

  Runt snapped his fingers and took off, calling over his shoulder. “Hang on, hang on! I have more of those!”

  He trotted back with the replacement and watched Ox dismantling the mill, shaking his head at such obvious technical aptitude.

  At least I can heat mealpaks and pick locks.

  Runt stood shifting his weight a moment, but the big freak waved him away, as if to say, “Go do your own work, midget.”

  While Ox dealt with the soybeaner for the better part of six hours, Runt soldiered through his regular chores, checking in at the soy-mill occasionally. Seeing the components dismantled and laid out in rows made Runt’s gut knot and his eyes glaze over, but Ox seemed to have a handle on it with his big mitts.

  Runt’s cock rolled inside his suit as it plumped and hardened. Pheromones again.

  “Be in the orchard if you need me.”

  Without waiting for Ox to open his eyes or nod, Runt spun and strode away from the hive straight for the beach, letting his stiffness lead the way toward the twin suns climbing
the sky.

  Once I have a wank and a wash, I can be normal again.

  But even after swimming out and swiftly masturbating, Runt’s balls stayed full, hugging the base of his joint without reprieve. His nipples were stiff nubs, his mouth felt wet and sensitive, and his spongy cock dribbled tracks inside his worksuit. He did go to the orchard to collect mangos and to check for fungus. And stayed erect the entire, embarrassing time.

  That evening, Ox reappeared at the habitat covered in rancid pulp and clots of soy curd, laughing at the mess.

  Runt glared and held up a hand to stop him entering.

  “All done, then?”

  Ox nodded once.

  “Well, no way all of you’ll fit in my little shower wearing that much muck.” Runt laughed to take the chill out of the air between them. The custardy glop started to drip onto the sand beside Ox’s size twenty-three boots.

  “Thanks.” Runt crossed the doorway and made a joke out of it. “Oi! You go rinse off in your big bathtub so I don’t squirt in your supper.”

  Drip-drip. Ox grinned.

  “The eel pups love soy. And spunk.” Runt grinned back. He pointed at the ocean. “They could use fattening up. Careful they don’t nibble your knob.”

  Ox bobbed his head and peeled out of his slimy worksuit right there, then lumbered naked toward the waves.

  “And mind your burns.” Runt called after him.

  After supper, Runt tried to let Ox pick a holo-vid, but the big man didn’t want to choose. He shrugged and jerked his dimpled chin at Runt instead. Already, the sun had lightened the heavy stubble on his jaw.

  Runt squinted at him in disbelief. “D’you not like adverts?”

  Ox sat on the floor in front of the bench and thrust his fingers at Runt to make him pick.

  Runt grunted and rummaged through his favorites, looking for a little mindless advertainment that even a mutant could love: some girls, some gore, a couple cool products, maybe a little adventure or a crime. Guy friendly. Nothing too sad or too sexy.

  A cheeseball story where things turned out the way they ought. “When I was a kid I wanted to try my luck in showbiz. Huh? Dreaming up adverts . . . banging modded models in my mansion . . . red carpet product launches.”

  His enthusiasm proved infectious. Ox snorted and crossed his arms, already amused, apparently.

  “Besides, everybody knows showbiz is where the short people shine.”

  Ox smiled at that, a big slice of teeth in his sunburned face.

  “Hey . . .” Runt pulled up a big-budget heist-comedy advertising HardCell’s security division and theme parks.

  Here we go! This one featured a long cross-promotional car chase that always made his palms itch for a steering wheel. “You’ll love this one. Promise!”

  Runt sat down on the bench and squeezed Ox’s shoulder to let him know to get comfortable.

  Ox bumped a little closer so his side pressed against Runt’s calf through their clothing.

  As soon as the projection started, their habitat became a theme park strip-joint full of seedy characters. One of HardCell’s A-list spokestars fuzzed into three-dimensional life where the cook-space had been. Suddenly around Runt and Ox, a ring of crooks planned a jewel robbery of a rival corporation that had it coming. A one-eyed felon nodded at Runt and “spat” at Ox’s feet.

  Ox flinched, then relaxed once he tried to touch the holographic loogey and touched the bare floor. Ox’s Neanderthal forehead wrinkled as the flashy advert unfurled around them, making them part of the gang and part of the caper.

  Runt smiled. It felt good to vegetate after a day of hot work. He’d grown up stealing, but nothing this plush. HardCell sure knew how to plug their brands. The locations were glamorous, the ladies seductive, and the product placement inspired.

  Real entertainment.

  Ox took a while to relax, but pretty soon he was anticipating sneak attacks. He laughed with Runt and tensed with Runt, at one point pounding the bench so hard that the villains turned in surprise. He kept rubbing his sunburned back on the bench, almost like a cat marking territory. The rubbing seemed to calm him, especially with the holographic criminals clustered around them.

  Definitely distracting. Runt watched him fidget, not sure what to do.

  Ox apologized with a slow blink, but couldn’t get at the spot easily.

  In the end, Runt gave in and started scratching Ox’s shoulder blades for him, almost absently. Each time, Ox calmed instantly, absorbed again by the action.

  Fair enough. A little scratch for blissful vegetation seemed an even swap.

  In the end, the HardCell heroes cleaned out their competitors, of course, and the projection ended.

  The habitat’s pearly lights faded up, and Ox insisted on the bench again, pointing Runt toward his sleep-space.

  Runt felt too tired to argue. He fetched a polyblanket and left it on the hard seat.

  Ox stripped down with his back turned. Squeezed on the firm plastic, he passed out almost instantly, breathing softly and smoothly.

  Runt didn’t fall asleep for hours.

  On day three, Runt stopped testing Ox and decided to stick with him and take his measure from up close. Overestimating his partner seemed as stupid as underestimating him.

  Just what is this freak made of?

  They left the habitat in the first dawn and trudged up the island’s little mountain without needing to talk.

  At the work-shed, Ox used canvas scraps to fashion two saddlebags to truck seeds, and as they stepped back outside, he slung one over his shoulder.

  Before the giant could squat and hoist the other, Runt scooped it up himself without even grunting. “I won’t break.”

  Ox shook his head and let Runt steer him toward the right crop terrace.

  Runt made sure they went side by side for some reason, not leading or straggling. They each carried eighteen kilos of new kudzu-lentil hybrid seed that had arrived with Ox. Half a meter a day it would grow. The packs felt light at first, but grew heavier under the red dwarf’s broiling light.

  Runt stole glances at Ox as they climbed, making sure he didn’t slack or shorten his stride for Runt’s benefit.

  How had Ox shopped for the supplies? Had he just flicked through the holographic catalog and pointed at seeds and tools and holo-porn? The worker bee-moths shipped standard with every terraformer, but cutting-edge biodesigns like the kudzu-lentils and the smart-net cost a fortune.

  New farmsteads like Runt’s never got hands on the shiny toys. Seemed Ox had splurged like an A-list advertainer with an expense account.

  The big man paused beside him and shifted the strap to his other shoulder. Runt did the same. Might as well be symmetrically chafed.

  Some niggle in Runt’s animal brain still waited for Ox to throw his extraordinary bulk around so Runt could show off moves he’d picked up as a sub-terrain soldier or a spaceport runaway—

  —Can’t fuck with this runt—

  But Ox’s temper and past stayed hidden.

  Upslope, the two men divided the work side by side in silence. Programming the equipment and placing the posts proved easier with Ox’s brawn and brain thrown into the mix. Setting the racks and field layout required improvisation and Runt’s ability to wedge into small spaces. After lunching, they came together to sow the rows and string high netting above them. By the time the bigger sun nudged the horizon, the designer sprouts were already poking through the wet loam. HardCell means business!

  Work. Eat. Sleep. Runt managed to do all three seamlessly for once.

  Of course, the next couple nights took some navigation.

  Ox refused to share the bed and crowd Runt in the wide sleep-space. Either out of caution or diplomacy, he insisted on sleeping on the opposite side of the habitat.

  In truth, Runt was relieved; proximity would have made for all kinds of unintended erections and embarrassment. He didn’t need a bloody lip or worse because this brawny bastard had a hormone spike.

  Instead, as soon as th
ey finished their evening food and entertainment, Ox curled himself onto the holo-vid bench under a spare blanket and—click—conked out like a cub.

  The questions continued to pester Runt . . . not during the day, but lying alone in bed in the clock-lit dark, Runt pondered the giant’s buried past. His questions scrabbled inside his head like mice on wires: who was Ox? Had Ox originally intended to murder him? What had HardCell promised? Why share the farmstead with Runt at all? Why couldn’t the giant speak? How could he afford all that fancy gear? What had he fled? Who had he been?

  Probably wonders the same thing about me.

  While Runt stared at the blue numbers on the ceiling, he tallied the disasters that could strangle a man’s life, the advantages of starting over in a new star system, the perks of corporate citizenship or whatever the fuck might have lured Ox to this rock.

  Doubt sprouts wherever you let it.

  Drawing on every high budget advertainment he’d ever seen, Runt scripted freaky adventures that might drive a superhuman mutant into hiding or exile or retirement. Ox was a commercial soldier gone AWOL because of an adulterous affair with a general’s wife. Ox was a disgraced spokestar whose voice box had been cut as part of a noncompetition agreement. Ox was a cock-docker hiding from a rival sex resort fearing a hormonal jihad.

  Like his dad always said, “Bullshit is fertile ground.”

  No. Ox had been straight from square one. He had come looking for a fresh start, and he had more than earned one.

  And then the third night, Runt heard his partner’s voice.

  Runt woke in the small hours to a soft sound from the other side of the dark habitat, a low thrumming like a subsonic lullaby heard through limestone.

  Is it outside?

  Runt rolled on top of the throb coming through the bed and the floor. He could feel it more in his skeleton than his eardrums, the vibration nearly but not quite a sound. It couldn’t be a machine because the rumble had a slow melody. He tried to make his eyes and brain focus on the source.

  Oh.

  Ox lay stretched out on the bench, singing under his breath, a bass rumble just above purring. It was the first vocal sound he’d made since arriving on their island. Until that moment, Runt had assumed that a brood farm had cut Ox’s voice box, or that some prison had mutilated him as a punishment. Silence was his only handicap, if it could be called so.