Symbiosis, Page 2

  “Time to bump humble bits with that boneworker friend of hers is more like it,” Baradonna mumbles under her breath.

  “That boneworker saved every one of our lives too,” I snap at her. I know my anger is misplaced. Baradonna has done nothing but support me, albeit in her own way.

  Baradonna grunts. “Well, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive Seske for the embarrassment she put you through on your wedding night.”

  “Can we talk about something else?” I ask, trying to divert my thoughts to avoid the retelling of that night, but it’s too late. I’d shook so hard as I recounted what I remembered to the Senate and hundreds of onlookers. I couldn’t recall much from that horrid moment—my wife had made sure I was drunk enough not to realize what I (or she) was doing. But the next day, I’d woken up, a groggy smile on my face despite the pounding in my head. I’d slipped my hand across Seske’s clammy skin, snuggled myself into the crook of her neck, and whispered sweet nothings into her ear.

  Waking up next to Seske the morning after our wedding had been the best moment of my life. I was the husband to the heir of the matriarchy, and even beyond the weight of that title, I was still so enamored with the idea of life with her and eager to start our journey in matrimony. I dared to gently cup my wife’s breast, rubbed my thumb over her nipple . . . and the nipple, it balled up and rolled away off to the side. I sat up and saw that I was not sleeping next to my wife in our wedding bed, but a life-size doll made of puppet gel. It was half-melted now, its entire face slipping off to one side.

  And if the insult of me having fully and thoroughly romanced a lump of gel the night before weren’t enough, I heard snoring coming from down on the floor. When I looked over, I saw Seske naked and cradled in the arms of another man—Wheytt, one of my best friends.

  I’d stood there, nearly a whole hour, watching them sleep, wondering what I should do. What were my options? Confrontation? Forgiveness? Slip back into bed and pretend to sleep until they’d had time to cover up whatever plot they’d orchestrated to trick me? Then I’d just have to live forever with a sour pit in my stomach, playing the part of the perfect husband to our clan’s future matriarch . . .

  That seemed like the best plan of action to protect the reputation of both our Lines, but before another moment passed, my best friend’s eyes cracked open, and the look . . . the look on his face wasn’t of shock or remorse. It was the same look I had on my face when I’d woken. It was satisfaction, longing, and the face of a man so hopelessly in love. My fists balled, and I stumbled toward him and took my first swing.

  It was hardly a fair fight. Despite his elite guard training, I wailed upon him with solid blow after solid blow. I was poised to become the victor, but then we were interrupted with news that Matris was deathly ill, and suddenly it was not only my world that was crumbling down around me, but that of our entire clan.

  “You still love her, don’t you?” Baradonna asks, shaking me from the bitter memory. “You can tell me. I won’t say a peep to no one.”

  “She wants the annulment, and I intend to give it to her,” I mumble. I shiver at the thought of Seske and Wheytt taking their connection even further, tied together through our Zenzee, tentacles tucked into every nook and crevice, communicating like the Zenzee do—without barriers, completely exposed. I would never be able to compete with such intimacy, even if she did give me a chance. I turn my attention back to the throttle fish, trapped in the jar. Its little fists beat futilely against the glass, eyes angry and a big frown on its pudgy, moss-pocked face. An hour from now, it will have the full attention of every member of the environmental research initiative—on display and being poked and prodded and humiliated in front of everyone.

  And right about then I’ll be standing in front of the Senate, going through the exact same thing.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Baradonna says.

  “How I feel doesn’t matter. Seske made it very clear. She doesn’t want to be married to me, and if I don’t let her go, she’ll set her sights at tearing down the whole institution of marriage. We can’t risk that right now. Not when everything’s so tender.” Not even the threat of the Senate taking away my title had been enough to convince her to stay with me. I didn’t dare mention the tear in my heart. “Seske can’t be contained. Resistance burns too brightly in her soul. I know we both want what’s best for our people, but this is something I’ll have to learn to do alone.”

  Baradonna purses her lips, then starts rowing again. She’s been my personal guard long enough that she knows when I’m lying. “Don’t you worry, you won’t ever be alone. Not with me by your side. Day in. Day out. Watching over you while you eat. While you sleep. While you empty your—”

  “Please, Baradonna. Can I have a moment of silence?”

  Baradonna stares at me, as if she’s trying to unearth something deeper than my unease of an annulment. In truth, I’ve lost countless nights of sleep, knowing that things are going so right, but fearing how fast they could go wrong. I hold my face tight, refusing to let her pry further at my worries. Finally, Baradonna turns away and sets her sight on the choppy water ahead.

  Part I

  Parasitism

  Even the most heroic among us are still parasites—mouths always open, minds never so.

  Now is the time to open your minds.

  Queen of the Dead

  Seske

  Of Desolate Dreams and Fertile Grounds

  Darkness creeps up behind us as Adalla and I venture farther into the abandoned heart fissure. Ichor-slickened flesh presses all around me, as if I’m sealed in a womb. Or a tomb. I keep one hand on Adalla’s shoulder and keep my eyes trained on the half-dimmed light she holds out in front of her, even though it fails to illuminate anything beyond her next step.

  “I’m not sure about this,” I whisper to Adalla. If we get caught here, we could get into so much trouble. Adalla should know that more than anyone. Even after she’d single-handedly saved our Zenzee’s massive heart from failing three years ago now, it’d taken months and months and months before she was trusted anywhere near the organ again. She’s worked her way up to being indispensable now, and her knife skills are renowned . . . and I’m proud of that, I am. But really it just means that Adalla’s been in such high demand at work that she’s completely wiped by the time she comes home to me. Which is why I’m here, sneaking through this nauseating crawl space, hoping to steal back a little bit of her time and attention during her lunch break, despite the risks involved.

  “Don’t be nervous,” she says, her gait sure and steady. “This section of the heart is closed off and repairs won’t begin until tomorrow. It’s safe, betcha. Just you and me.”

  I wish I shared her confidence, but the anticipation of the bone-rattling heartbeat keeps me from fully appreciating the mischief we’re about to get into. I’m mindful of where I tread, stepping over the bulging capillaries threatening to trip me and avoiding the trickles of phosphorescent ooze meandering down the walls. Finally, the fissure opens into a small chamber the size of our bedroom. The warmth here is a welcome change from the chilly temperatures we pretend we’ve gotten used to since our near exodus. This is far from being the perfect getaway, but it’s cozy and quiet, and most important, private. However, as we venture inside, I hear a panicked squeal from somewhere in the shadows—something startled by our presence.

  “Oh no,” Adalla says, shoving her lamp at me, as if I’m not already burdened by the load of our neatly packed lunches. She moves slowly in the direction of the noise. “The heart murmurs were supposed to be relocated. They must have missed one. Let me just—”

  I sigh. Loudly. Even on her break, Adalla can’t tear herself from her work.

  “You know, it’s fine. It’s fine. I’ll let someone know about it when I get back . . .” She points to the mound of dry flesh in the middle of the room—a little island that rises above the ichor-drenched floor. “This seems like as good a place as any.”

  The long, wavering sha
dows the lamp casts upon Adalla’s face are both beautiful and mysterious. A wry smile plays at her lips. My defenses fall, and suddenly I’m a giddy mess, bumbling all over the place, laying out our blanket and the special feast I prepared. I can hardly keep the saliva in my mouth. There’re the teal eggs I’ve been fermenting for over a month. Spicy cheese balls, whose secret family recipe was gifted to us by Adalla’s tin uncle on our first wedding anniversary. Battered woodlice I’d spent all morning deveining, plucking away at least a thousand little legs. All her favorites. Adalla looks at me as though she’s ravenous, but her eyes have yet to even flick in the direction of the food. I flush at that look and hold up the cheese, almost like a shield, intending to ask if she wants the honor of shucking the thorns off the first piece, but before I can speak a word, her mouth is upon mine.

  I topple over at the force she comes at me with, kicking the plate of woodlice over too, but on the next breath, all those other cravings fade into the back of my mind. All I can taste is Adalla. The ichor splashes as we roll back down the hill into a shallow puddle. Adalla’s body is tense beneath mine, a well-tuned muscle that has saved our entire people on more than one occasion: firm biceps, rippled abs, thighs that could launch a ship into space if they wanted. And yet when I trace my finger along her collarbone, then down, tugging at the neckline of her heartworker’s dress, she practically becomes the puddle she’s lying in. What does that make me, the sole person who knows exactly how to cause all that tension to melt away? Powerful. Confident. Adept.

  Very adept.

  I leave no part of her unexplored, untasted, unloved. The heart shudders as Adalla does the same, though I am unable to determine which tremor is stronger. It is an unfair comparison, anyway—the heart merely an organ and Adalla’s body my whole world. I realize that maybe I am good at working to the beat, too, deepening into our connection until I find the perfect tempo. Each and every three minutes and forty-seven and a half seconds that come and go bring more quakes and shivers. And then finally, we lie in each other’s arms, comforted in a nest of ichor-soaked petticoats and moss shawls, nothing of our special meal salvageable. Our hunger, however, has been more than satiated.

  “Daide’s bells,” I say, struggling to catch my breath.

  Adalla looks at me, grin so sloppy on her face it nearly sits sideways. “That was—”

  “Amazing,” I offer.

  “Perfect, I was going to say. You’ve really got a bad habit of putting words in my—”

  I press my mouth against hers, and in an instant, she’s a puddle again. My heart knocks hard, as if it’s trying to break through my ribs. Pounds hard against my eardrums, I think they’re going to rupture. Today marks three years. Three years to the day since we kissed in zero gee, and unlike our wedding anniversary, it’s a date that Adalla and I share alone.

  I smile at that, the thought of us being alone. No sudden intrusions by a nosey head-wife who “forgot” to knock or the bickering of our heart-wives during dinner. No slobbery kisses shared between our head-husbands who enjoy flaunting their affection a little too much. And it’s nice to escape the general annoyance of knowing that we’re all breathing one another’s air. Frustration curls my toes, and I tamp it back down like I usually do, but I’m left wondering if agreeing to remain in this marriage had been a mistake.

  The annulment proceedings hadn’t gone as we’d hoped. Or at least how Doka had hoped. The Senate had been too eager to strip away his power, salivating at the promise of annulling his position as Matris as well if we would have pressed through with dissolving the marriage. They didn’t care if his policies and quick thinking had saved us from ourselves. They just saw the threat his manhood posed to the centuries-old Matriarchy, which deserved to crumble as far as I was concerned. And I was willing to let it. But something broke in Doka’s eyes when they read their ruling, and I . . .

  I couldn’t let them take away his hopes and dreams like that.

  I’d interrupted the annulment right before the decision was made final. I’ve never seen eyes cut so hard as those of the Senators in that room, and I can still feel that coldness arching through my spine, even years removed from it. It took time, but after hours of arguing, we came to a solution that would work for everyone . . . well, at least one that angered everyone equally: Doka and I would remain married in title alone, him retaining the position of head-husband in our family unit, and me moving to the position of will-wife, and as such, no romantic relationship could ever exist between us. He’d be free to marry according to his heart, as would I. I laugh at how naive we’d been to believe such a thing was actually possible for us, but I got to marry Adalla and Doka got to keep the crown, and in exchange, the Senate asked for a diminished capacity for his role as Matriarch, their first power grab of many. It wasn’t ideal, but then again, nothing about life aboard the Parados I has ever been ideal since our people abandoned Earth.

  But in these few short years, Doka has still managed to guide us in building a near paradise that’s perfectly in tune with our Zenzee. Every organ is operating at peak performance. We’ve sourced renewable building materials from carefully cultivated gardens. No one among us has gone hungry or unwashed or neglected. The balance is delicate, and we still have many people locked away in stasis in order to maintain it, but we now sit upon the brink of utopia. And all I had to do to get us here was to extinguish the fire of resistance burning in my heart and allow myself to become domesticated.

  “We have no right to be this happy,” Adalla whispers to me as I twirl the end of one of her braids. The Lines of my ancestors’ knots frame her face perfectly.

  “Don’t we though?” I say. “We’ve been working so hard. We’ve given up so much. Why can’t we enjoy this?” I grin thinly at Adalla, but she sees through it. She knows when something is bothering me.

  “What’s wrong? Is it the nightmares again?”

  I’m struck frozen for a moment, then I nod. It’s not a complete lie. The nightmares have been back, but that’s not what’s bothering me right now. Adalla has plowed forward, making great strides in her career, which has left her in charge of our most precious organ. I’m proud of her for that and for pouring her whole self into healing the Zenzee’s heart. Late nights. Early mornings. And for a long time, zero breaks. We’ve all sacrificed to get to where we are now. It’s just that I feel I sacrificed all the wrong things, and I’m not sure how to tell her that.

  Adalla takes me into her arms and cradles me to her chest like a babe. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t keep living in the past. It’s going to continue to haunt you.”

  “I can’t forget everything we went through, ’Dalla. I’ve tried.”

  “Don’t forget. Just forgive.”

  I let loose a tight, bitter laugh. “Where would I even start? My mother for never seeing me fit to be her heir? My ancestors for getting us into this mess in the first place?” I purse my lips, still unable to get them to form anything close to Sisterkin’s name. “Her?”

  Adalla presses her hand firmly to my chest, right over my heart. “Start here, Seske. With yourself. Life is messy. Let it be messy. And make peace with that.” Adalla looks at me, and I catch something hidden deep behind her eyes. It scares me to think what it had taken to forgive me for the pain I’d inflicted upon her. My intentions have always been honorable, but like Adalla’s ama had once told me, better to step in a dent pan full of shit than to be subjected to a heart full of good intentions.

  I sigh, then nod. Adalla is right, but some hurts take longer to forgive than others. I catch myself wondering if the Zenzee will ever forgive us for the centuries we spent butchering them, but then Adalla’s lips press against mine, and I lose track of every single thought in my head.

  Not ten seconds later, I hear muttering coming from the fissure’s entrance, and I flinch so hard that my teeth knock against Adalla’s. Panic sets in. To be caught.

  Like this.

  In the heart.

  Adalla’s career could be in jeopa
rdy. Our Line could be dishonored. I try not to think about the ramifications of our flippant lovemaking and instead hurriedly pick through the clothes scattered beneath us. Everything is so tangled up and matted I can’t make heads or tails of any one garment. Finally, I give up and grab our blanket and pull it up to my chin.

  A hand holding a lamp enters the room first, a full-on bright light that causes me to squint. Right as my eyes adjust, Doka emerges through the fissure’s slit, dressed in thick leathers and a docker’s cap, looking as nauseated and unsure as the first settlers to set foot inside a Zenzee.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says, his naxshi flushing so hard against his cheeks that they nearly become white. “I hope I haven’t interrupted something.”

  I nudge Adalla in the ribs, her body still bare and on full display. Even being this far removed from living with boneworkers hasn’t undone the comfort of moving in her skin. She’s got the scar of her pet heart murmur, Bepok, on her left breast, its tail curling around her nipple. Several other scars adorn her skin, too, like the one of the clock face on her shoulder. She’s never been willing to talk about it though, so I stopped asking.

  “Not at all,” Addala says, rising out of our nest. She turns away from me to wring the ichor from her heartworker’s dress, and I wince at the other scars—those on her back. There are five sets of raised welts from her shoulder blades down to the small of her back, forming delicate and organic patterns, almost like a tapestry. I’d think they were beautiful if I didn’t know how much pain had accompanied their creation. I wonder if she really has forgiven me for putting those scars there. I know she hasn’t forgotten.

  Adalla slips into her dress, then rolls her eyes when she sees me still huddled up. She bends down to whisper into my ear. “He’s our husband, Seske. And it’s just skin.”

  I bite my lip. Husband, yes . . . but Adalla and I are will-wives and Doka is a head-husband, and if consorting across those intimate boundaries of our family unit is forbidden, then I certainly don’t have to be okay with him seeing me naked.