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  Skynan is the one to interrupt it. She approaches slowly and carefully from the side, reaching up for my hands which are held up at Simmi, claws spread. She takes my fingers in her few-fingered grasp. “Erreck?”

  “Yes, Skynan?”

  She smiles for me, but it’s a reluctant, sad thing. “Simmi has a point.”

  Before I can gently sweep her safely to the side and mercilessly rip the throat from my coworker and closest companion—a baffling response, because even if I’m not nearly as germ-phobic as Simmi, I still wouldn’t reach into another being’s throat cavity without sterile gloves at least. Wait, wait, this isn’t right—this is Simmi. I have no cause to attack Simmi. I have no cause—or desire! to attack anyone! What is WRONG with me?

  Eyes flickering to each of mine, studying me, Skynan says gently, “My airship is hidden here.”

  My cardiac muscle seizes pulsating.

  She must see panic on my face because she squeezes my hands in a surprisingly strong grip. Her voice pleads with me to understand. “You guys have been wonderful.” She swallows, her gaze nearly electric, trying to impart something to me, I’m certain of it. I simply don’t know what. “You’ve made me… I really…” She drops her eyes to our hands, her mouth making a rueful-looking line. “I really enjoy spending time with you.” Her lips firm as her gaze meets mine again. “But Simmi’s right. We should figure out how to replicate my blood. Someday, I’m going to return home.”

  I run my grasp to her wrists, then her arms. “Please don’t go,” I beg, echoing the sentiment she imparted to me the darkcycle we met, with the same cardiac clenching intensity. Now it’s me who suddenly can’t bear for her to leave. “Can’t you stay?”

  Simmi snorts, gaze moving between the pair of us. “Of course she can’t stay. She’d be in hiding here forever otherwise.”

  Okay, I think.

  Skynan’s lips quirk as if she knows what I just barely stopped myself from saying aloud. Her smile a still-sad thing, agreeing with Simmi’s statement even as her eyes desperately search mine, like she can’t bear the thought of parting from me either. “For the Lʊʊnjaɠ patients and—” her eyes skitter away for a moment, before, almost bashful, she glances at me from under her lashes and adds, “And for you, Erreck. I’ll stay a little longer. Until we can—”

  I give up holding her by the arms and drag her into an enthusiastic pressing of sternums. Which she is not tall enough for. I haul her up in an embrace that more effectively facilitates this touching. “I am unspeakably enthused!”

  Simmi sits down with a minuscule tray of ğurk, unabashedly watching us like we’ve become an exhibition.

  I don’t even care; yet when Simmi’s gaze drops to the region of Skynan’s lower back—clinically, I note, but it makes no difference to my instincts—my lips peel back again and my throat begins to vibrate. “Look away from her,” I warn.

  Simmi’s antennae sit straight up.

  My thoughts are snarling, a red haze surrounding them as they circle and shout logic that goes something like this: That lower back belongs to Skynan and Skynan is MINE, therefore—

  She laughs, and sternum-presses me back. When we pull away from each other though, she adds softly, “Erreck…” her eyes are searching mine again, “you understand that someday, I will be leaving for home?”

  Her words are gentle, but they impact me with the force of a tailslap. To the face. Without Simmi’s prophylactic tail sheathing.

  I may as well be struck and have germs.

  My cardiac muscle sinks to the level of my toes. Bravely, I manage an agreeable nod. “Of course.” I swallow thickly. “Thank you for the time we’ve had, and for as long as you can manage to give me more with you. I… Nancy, I can’t tell you how much you’ve come to mean to me.”

  Her eyes shine, as if the surface of them is filling up with glimmer. To my utter shock, they spill over, causing her skin to turn shiny in streaks. “Me too, Erreck. You’ve come to mean a lot to me too.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Cycles later...

  Human blood is rich in phosphorus, potassium, and nitrogen. These are not found in large amounts in our soil, and for parsecs, we’ve been feeding a blended worm-meal to our cultured plants. These three key ingredients were present in the meal, but not nearly in the amounts the Morsuflos evidently needs for true production. The Morsuflos thrives by digesting decomposed molecules, and the plant has enzymes that break down the organic matter fed into the bloom itself. Once we identified the makeup of Skynan’s blood, we identified what caused the growth and potency response in the Morsuflos. Then it became less a matter of creating an exact replica of Skynan’s lifeforce than to mix a compound that fructifies the Morsuflos.

  This took time. This took collaboration. And working side-by-side with Skynan daycycle after daycycle was—is nothing like working beside Simmi at all. I’m aware of her on a constant, humming level—and then we close out each darkcycle together.

  Sharing my resting pad.

  It’s really no wonder that my mind turns to reproduction on a near-constant basis.

  Specifically, human reproduction.

  More specifically: the possibility of human reproductive compatibility, with say… a Genneӝt.

  Skynan bumps her shoulder into my rib plating. “What’s got you so quiet over here? Simmi had a meltdown because I coughed and you didn’t even jump in to save me. He sprayed me down with disinfectant. He didn’t even warn me that he was going to spray me—I got some in my mouth, Erreck.”

  My brows crash together. “You coughed? Oh no—Skynan, are you ill?”

  Skynan tosses her head back and laughs.

  I watch her too intently, for too long, and only partly because she might be ill.

  Before I can look away, Skynan’s eyes open, and she catches me staring. She sobers, and straightens. Wiping under one eye, she smiles slightly. “I promise it was a very normal tickle in my throat; nothing more. I wasn’t sure if I should admit this, but I think it was one of my hairs.” She carelessly grabs a handful of her long, strangely-attractive hairs as if to show me that they move, and shed, and float into one’s mouth.

  This I knew. I’ve found them everywhere.

  So has Simmi.

  It’s been an... issue.

  However, unlike some less tolerant individuals, I don’t find Skynan’s hairs cause for alarm, or concern. In fact… I rather like them. If I’m honest with myself, I’m attracted to her—erm, to them, on her—the way they look on her.

  Seeing her hold out her hairs for me to inspect...

  My fingers flex in some sort of strange reaction, and I realize: I want to touch her.

  Erm—her hairs. I want to touch her hairs.

  Instead, I make a fist, and clear my throat. “I’m glad you’re not ill.”

  Skynan peers up at me curiously. Without warning, she throws her body into mine again—lightly. Evidently a human way of seeking the attention of a coworker. “Seriously. What’s on your mind, Erreck?”

  I exhale quietly, glancing away.

  Skynan bumps herself into me again, more insistent this time. And it’s strange, but I enjoy the sensation so much, I wonder if I should keep quiet simply to see if she’ll bump herself into me with more force. Perhaps she’ll increase her contact area with my body in a rising effort to gain my attention.

  That—that seems wrong somehow, doesn’t it? I clear my throat, and gaze down at her solemnly. “I’m curious beyond quantifiable measure about something,” I admit. “May I ask you a question?”

  Skynan’s teeth glint with her large, teasing smile. “A probing question?”

  I consider this. “I suppose so.” I peer down at her. “Would you be opposed?”

  One side of Skynan’s mouth quirks, but her eyes are locked on mine, searching me. “With you, Erreck? Not at all.”

  Surprised, I straighten a little. “You mean you wouldn’t respond to Simmi if he probed you for answers?”

  Behind us, working on tabulation,
Simmi groans. Then he grumbles something under his breath, but I don’t hardly catch it. It sounds somewhat garbled, like, “For stars’ sake, Erreck, she’s not interested in my probe.”

  Feeling extremely pleased that Skynan holds a special place for me, I flick my antennae forward. “Excellent,” I say to Skyto, and clear my throat. “How does your kind reproduce?”

  Skynan’s head jerks back the smallest increment, and she nictates three times in rapid succession.

  I bring two of my fingers to my forehead, scratching my chitin lightly. Unfortunately, the sensation does nothing to alleviate my itching discomfort. “You see, your human form is nothing like anything I’m—I mean, we—are familiar with, therefore on a scientific level—”

  Simmi mutters something.

  “—I suppose I have curiosities about you—that is, your people, of course…”

  Simmi scoffs.

  Skynan’s gazing up at me, her eyes clear, intent. So, so focused. Her pupils seem larger than normal and something about this is making my cardiac muscle beat erratically.

  Very erratically.

  I glance at my sternum, concerned. Tapping myself on the chestplate until it settles into a normal rhythm, I glance back at Skynan, who is smiling at me slightly.

  My cardiac muscle starts pattering faster, as if her expressions control my body.

  Shaking myself, I think better of speaking further about any of my specific curiosities, and say instead, “Our neighbors on either side of us, according to our dated literature, are said to be similar in structure to my planet’s people. They reproduce by way of a host though, and offspring are birthed rather violently.”

  “Messy business,” Simmi sniffs.

  “We’ve never actually seen them ourselves of course,” I explain. “As you know, when word of our disease spread, we were locked out of commerce, and lost contact with… well, everyone.”

  Skynan’s lips are pressed together, and she shifts on her feet. “I think,” she says, and glances up at me from under her lashes, “I’d like to answer any curiosities you have.”

  I drop the writing instrument I’d been about to try to pick up. “Oh, good—ah, very good. Thank you.”

  Skynan circles me slowly, which causes the strangest tingle of—of almost alarm to race up my spine—but it feels more pleasantly exciting than mere alarm. Confused, discomfited in an impossibly pleasurable-feeling way, I retreat from her under the guise of retrieving a host of note-taking implements. When my arms are full—too full to write, actually, I have to set items down—I croak, “Well… ah, I believe I’m ready when you are, Skynan.”

  “Goood,” Skynan says, drawing out the word in such a way that it sort of… purrs from her.

  My eyes have gone wide.

  Behind Skynan, I see Simmi’s eyes have gone wide. He’s watching Skynan—specifically, he’s watching Skynan’s swaying hips. My (Skynan’s) swaying hips!

  Without thought—and without any delay—I bare my teeth at him, and my protuberances flatten—a warning of impending combat, or it used to be. Genneӝt are no longer combative about anything; we’re too civilized.

  Startled, I glance down at Skynan to see if I’ve frightened her, but her eyes have lowered, and she’s slightly smiling, so she must have missed my act of strangeness.

  Thankfully.

  I wrestle control of myself.

  Simmi watches me with an assessing, keen stare.

  “Let’s see…” Skynan starts, voice slow at first. “Generally speaking, at the most basic model, the male arouses the female with touches—”

  “What touches?” I interject. Too loudly, I realize. I swallow and add, quieter, “Specifically?”

  The corner of Skynan’s mouth twitches, and her facial pits are very deep all of a sudden. Her eyes are still lowered, and she places her hands behind her back. This has the accidental effect of shoving her cushioned sternum upwards. And very oddly, my eyes focus there, drawn for some reason. Of course, Skynan doesn’t notice this; she’s sweeping the toe-area of her strange outerfoot across the floor absently. “Well, he’ll often start with brushes of his mouth against hers.”

  I try to imagine that. At first, I see a Genneӝt pair, and can’t imagine any sort of benefit to this. But then I picture Skynan’s lips that are so pliable, so soft—and I’m suddenly focused entirely on her mouth as she speaks.

  “And his hands will touch her everywhere—human skin has so many nerve receptors. Humans love to be touched.”

  My breathing has deepened for no reason at all. My fingers have also tightened around my writing instrument until I feel the internal components creak. I ease off from squeezing it.

  “When she’s sufficiently aroused, the male climbs on top of the female and inserts—”

  “On top?” Simmi says in horror, just as I’m saying, “Shush!”

  I slam my pen nib on my writing surface, ready to take note of every divulged detail.

  I should be just as horrified as Simmi at this idea.

  But somehow, I’m not deterred at all to hear this is how Skynan would receive a mating—er, not Skynan specifically. Simply a female of Skynan’s kind. This is how a female, who looked like Skynan, would copulate.

  I try to drag my eyes from her and can’t.

  Especially with the way her gaze captures mine.

  Very handily, I don’t need to glance at my writing surface to write notes.

  “That’s beastly!” Simmi sputters. Then he makes a flicking motion with his auxiliary fingers, urging her to continue. “Go on—what else?”

  Air pushes through Skynan’s nose in tiny puffs of laughter, but then she continues. “Uh, the man inserts his sexual member—which swells up and turns rigid for intercourse—into the woman’s vagina, and he thrusts his—it’s called a penis—into her body until he deposits semen—”

  “Tell me the semen is in a clean packet form and not a fluid—tell me there’s no fluids involved,” Simmi chants, grimacing.

  “It’s sort of a gel, actually,” Skynan says thoughtfully. “And there are lots of fluids,” she adds, tossing him a prankish grin that somehow hits me like a punch. “Lots.”

  Simmi gags. “A gel?”

  I’m forced to alter my stance, shifting uncomfortably to accommodate the suddenly swelling sexual member behind my groin plate.

  “Ummhmm, and you can’t wash it off for anything because it’s super sticky too,” Skynan confirms. “Especially if gets in your hair.”

  Simmi’s eyes could not grow larger. “You’d best be making this up to frighten me.” Without warning, he wildly slaps at his mouth.

  He keeps slapping.

  “Ah,” I say in understanding at the same time Skynan bites her lips. Not half a cycle ago, Simmi complained that he had one of Skynan’s hairs land on his tongue.

  He was quite upset.

  Now he lunges for his hand sanitizer, swallowing the contents he frantically pumps out.

  “You probably shouldn’t ingest that…” I warn him.

  “Shove it down your tube, Erreck! You insisted we couldn’t shave her; this is all your fault!”

  “Anyway,” Skynan says over him, “the male’s semen travels towards an internal storing center where the female’s eggs are held. The sperm meets up with the egg on an internal, enclosed highway—”

  Simmi’s eyes squint and his mouth gapes open as he tries to picture this. I imagine I look much the same.

  “—and then the sperm fertilizes the egg and nine months later, you get a reproduction of the couple.” She glances at us—and then she’s shaking with a fit of chortles. “Don’t look so horrified, Simmi!”

  Simmi’s still holding his sanitizer aloft, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth from where he was scrubbing it earlier. He’s leaning as far away from Skynan as he can possibly manage without lifting a foot to flee—and he’s staring at Skynan in the same kind of fascinated horror a small Genneӝt experiences when their parents share darkcycle tales meant to scare them to
their beds. “Where exactly is a human female’s,” I swallow, and use her term, “vagina placed?”

  “Between her legs,” Skynan answers matter-of-factly.

  Simmi and I both glance down at the area between Skynan’s legs.

  Skynan gasps a laugh and drops both of her hands to block herself from view.

  I straighten. “Sorry!”

  Simmi shudders and doesn’t apologize. “What does a human female’s egg-storing center look like?” He covers his eyes with one of his hands, and I see that it’s shaking slightly. “I’m envisioning a warehouse, one egg stacked on a level above another and another.” He drops his hand. “What happens if they aren’t fertilized?”

  Skynan shrugs. “They die. They’re shed out. How do Genneӝt reproduce?”

  Simmi’s clutching his sternum, looking like whatever he ate previous to this conversation is no longer agreeing with him. Perhaps it’s the sanitizer. “It’s a process nothing as close to horrifying as yours.”

  Ours isn’t really terribly different from hers.

  “Is the act of reproduction pleasurable for you?” I ask—and my voice is abnormally husky.

  Simmi gives me a sharp look, eyes narrowing.

  Skynan’s cheeks rouge. “Um, conception can be very pleasurable—the initial implantation is actually practiced as a frequent sort of bonding pastime. And a stress reliever.”

  That sounds lovely. I feel stress. I feel stressed right now.

  “Sometimes to scratch an itch.”

  “Your reproductive equipment itches?” Simmi is positively beside himself with disrelish.

  Skynan’s cheek creases. “Not literally. It’s more like a tickling desire to—to commit the act.” Skynan’s eyes dart to mine, before skittering quickly away. I’m not sure who’s cheeks have swelled more, mine or hers. “The delivery,” she adds, “is a whole different story.”

  I know Simmi’s asking for clinical reasons, but in this discussion, I’m finding it more and more difficult to remove Skynan from the front and center example. All I can see is her in a variety of incredibly pleasurable scenarios, her stack of stored eggs eagerly awaiting the chance to be filled with sperm, or they’ll die. “Are you sad when your unfertilized eggs perish?”