104. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
R ynn
I hurry to my cabin, slap my hand on the palm plate to close the door behind me, and stand with my back to the cool metal door. I’m not surprised to find myself rhythmically banging the back of my head against it.
My behavior should surprise me. I’m almost 3,000 annums old. I’ve lived lifetimes, learned more knowledge than can fit into a cherribyte hard drive, and supped with kings and presidents. Here I am, reduced to childish head-banging behavior.
Captain Shadow was kind enough to leave a bottle of the finest Sillerian whiskey on the table of my room. I thought it was generous, considering he thinks I killed his best friend. I’ve never been a fan of imbibing spirits. It muddles the brain, and keeping my thoughts straight is the highest purpose of my life. Or at least it was .
I sit down, grab the glass, and pour the whiskey to the top. I’ve already had one singularly humiliating first today—an unwanted erection. Perhaps I should work my way to the second. Like every other being in the galaxy, perhaps I should find out what it’s like to be roaring drunk.
I toss back half the glass, then set it down with a clink. Before I drink myself into a coma, maybe I should check out what’s going on beneath my trousers.
An emotion courses through me like I’ve been shot with an arrow. I’ve experienced more feelings in the last few days than I have in several lifetimes. Sitting here, with my trousers tented in my lap, I scour my internal databases for the correct identifier of this shimmering energy flowing along my synapses.
Fear.
I need to walk into the refresher, pull down my pants, and conduct an examination of my new equipment. It’s terrifying.
I’ve been the male gender in 100% of my lifetimes. I’ve always had a penis. It’s always been a utilitarian gray Boklorn penis. All 56 of them urinated upon command. Well, except for numbers 28, 36, and 51. At a certain age, there was a little dribbling that accompanied end-of-life issues.
Boklorn hosts were chosen for many qualities, one of which was their placid nature and commitment to celibacy both prior to and after the melding. All of my hosts were virgins. I did not absorb any memories anywhere near as… intimate as those I observed in Zar’s memory banks.
After what happened in Anya’s room, and my inability to control my male appendage, I need to get a handle on what this body is capable of and how to control it.
I walk into the refresher. Well, this body doesn’t walk so much as it stalks. It’s full of swagger and bravado. Truth be told, it deserves to be used that way. It’s magnificent. I pull off my shirt, pull down my pants and close the refresher door so I can get a good look in the floor-length mirror.
I’ve spent my entire life repressing my feelings. I have the ability to examine things dispassionately. That part of me can look at the golden-furred male in the mirror and admire what I see. Not only are there bulging muscles, but the male I saw in his memories had a strength of character that couldn’t be denied.
Now that I inhabit the body, some of the swagger is gone, but there are still echoes of what once was.
The face, initially so foreign, is growing more familiar. I doubt I’ll ever become accustomed to the sharp fangs or the look I project when I snarl. I lean in until my face is a hand’s breadth from the mirror, then snarl, surprising myself at the effect. Anyone with half a brain would be an idiot to challenge a male who looks like this.
I cup my chin in my palm. It’s a new habit I’ve developed. I like to stroke the soft tuft of fur that grows there. If I were a vain person, I might adorn it with beads and feathers as Anya did last time the pair visited Paragon. They had just had… relations on the grass in a secluded meadow and Anya took the beads from the bracelet that had become unstrung in the couple’s passion and braided them into his hair and beard-tuft.
I haven’t worked up the nerve to examine the cock still jutting from my hips, but looking at this memory causes it to kick. I allow myself just a moment more to watch Zar’s memories. Not the intercourse they engaged in, but the look in his female’s eyes afterward. What would it feel like, I wonder, to be the recipient of that look? To actually feel deep love from an adoring, worthy female?
Zar’s feelings leak through the memory to give me the answer. It made him feel like a god. I snatch a sliver of that feeling even though if I were still a Recepticon it would be forbidden. I slide in and experience just the tiniest fragment of what it was like to live in his skin, under this fur, and have Anya look at me like that. I now understand why people kill for this. Why wars are fought for it.
I shake my head, needing to come up for air from this heady feeling. I have more urgent things to do, I think as I look down at my cock. It’s looking up at me. This is certainly the first time I’ve seen a sight like this in my own body—an erect cock standing tall and proud and pointing to the ceiling.
And why is it weeping? Is this ejaculate? Have I ejaculated? I’ve read about these things. Shouldn’t I have experienced more pleasure than what surged through me when Anya was feeding me sawdust cake?
I have to touch it, I decide. Hesitantly, I reach for it, swipe a dab of the fluid onto the pad of my index finger, then bring it slowly to my face and sniff. It smells harmless enough, although the consistency is sticky. I poke out my tongue, this burred tongue that still feels so foreign in my mouth, then I dip the tip into the shiny puddle on my finger.
My head kicks back to get away from the taste. I keep my tongue out of my mouth for a moment so I don’t bring the contaminant inside myself.
I play a few of Zar’s memories. I know it’s intrusive and I’m breaking every rule I’ve ever lived by, but I watch not one but two interludes between the two mates. Anya seemed to genuinely enjoy placing her mouth on him. Perhaps that’s why she enjoyed the sawdust cake. Perhaps human taste buds are different from other species. Certainly no one could go back for a second helping of this .
My sac is growing heavy, and a feeling of urgency courses through me. I’m not na?ve. I know the mating habits of millions of species—sentient and not. The biological imperative is powerful. The growing unpleasant feeling in my testicles is nature’s way of encouraging me to mate.
That will not be happening today. Nor will the usual alternative—masturbation. A lifetime, well, 56 lifetimes of observing the non-masturbation prohibition, will not fall to my prurient urges after a few days in this body.
I riffle through my database and find an acceptable alternative. I flick the offending appendage with my finger. Ooph, that is unpleasant. When that doesn’t do the job, I keep flicking it until the engorged rod of flesh recedes.
There. This just proves there are civilized ways to handle baser drives.
Anya
I’ve gotten soft over the past three years, soft and lazy. That’s not true. I work as hard as anyone else on this ship. In addition to being Zar’s advisor, I help everyone on the ship. I decided to cross-train on every post. I have a passing ability to do almost everything except mechanical. That’s Savannah’s province and is above my paygrade.
Otherwise, I even have a passable knowledge of cooking, hydroponics, piloting and navigation. That I’m good at none of them isn’t the point. If pressed, I could perform them all.
Even more important, I see myself as a den mother. Not only do the women come to me for advice and a shoulder to lean on, some of the males do too.
But the drive I felt after my abduction, the burning need to do something extraordinary at any cost—even my own life—I haven’t experienced that in years.
I feel it now.
I awoke with a purpose long before my alarm woke me with ever brightening artificial lights and the sound of birds chirping. This den mother is going to recruit the help of every person on this ship.
No one is more beloved than Zar. There isn’t a soul here who wouldn’t do anything for him. I’m going to organize a conspiracy. We’re all going to try to bring Zar to the forefront in whatever way possible.
By the time most of the crew is in the dining room for breakfast, I’ve come up with a plan. Moving from table to table, I enlist everyone even as I make a note of who’s absent. I’ll catch up with them later.
I’ve completed my task and am taking my first bite of a breakfast casserole made from the last of the pren eggs we brought on board after our last trip to Sanctuary. The room grows silent so quickly you’d think we were a choir and the choral director just put up a fist to tell us to shut up on cue. Before I turn around, I know Zar-Rynn has entered the double doors.
I made many decisions last night and this morning. One is to call him by the name he requested. Thing was disrespectful and not very nice. If I’m trying to connect with him, to make him let his guard down, to gain his trust, I can’t think of him as Thing , or the enemy. So Zar-Rynn it is.
Besides, even his naming convention suggests Zar is in there somewhere. Otherwise, why keep the “host’s” name? Why not just assimilate him like the Borg?
I join him at the buffet table and greet him.
“How did you sleep last night?” I ask sweetly as I dish myself seconds I have no interest in eating.
His head tips back in surprise, as if he didn’t anticipate me being pleasant. If that’s the case, I need to try harder to be nice.
“Fine,” he says, his voice clipped, jaw clenched.
What I want to do next is ask what crawled up his butt. What I do , though, is point out the items on the table. Usually when I do this, I’m introducing a human to space food and make comparisons (it tastes like chicken) or recommendations (this one tastes the least like ass). It’s hard with someone like Zar-Rynn since I don’t know his frame of reference.
“Which do you like the most?” he asks.
When I tell him, he pointedly spoons up the other dishes. I wonder what that’s all about.
Since he’s in a contrary mood, I don’t invite him to my table. I simply wait for him to take a seat—he chooses an empty table at the far end, just as I assumed he would—then I grab my plate and slide in across from him. I try not to get my feelings hurt when the corners of his mouth turn down.
“What did you have planned for today?” I ask.
If I can read him right, he looks surprised, as if he’d never pondered such a question before.
“I…” He looks like a robot that seized up. Finally, “I’ve never had to answer that question before. My whole life, almost three thousand annums , I’ve had one thing and one thing only to do with every waking hoara . The accumulation of knowledge.”
He looks forlorn. No, he looks lost. For a moment, he allows me a glimpse of the sheer turbulence of his emotions.
“I read or watched vids and soaked up information for the first half of my day, then stored and organized my internal files until the body demanded sleep. At some points during the day, acolytes brought the body sustenance. That was my life.”
I want to hate this male, at least the non-Zar parts, but right this moment that’s not easy to do. His life doesn’t sound fun. Purpose is great, but it has to be tempered with… living. For three millennia, he’s only had purpose and nothing else.
Why this question pops into my mind over the ten thousand other, better questions I should ask I have no idea, but I blurt, “That cake last night, had you tasted cake before?”
He looks offended, then answers, “Of course not.”
“Of course not?”
“Each host’s life is precious. The melding is taxing for both the host and the symbiont. It is imperative to keep the host body in good condition for as long as possible. It eats only balanced, nutritious food from the moment it is placed into the pool of potential hosts. No cakes or cookies or non-healthy foods have ever invaded a host body.”
Invaded?
I get little flashes, glimpses of what his life must have been like. Yes, he was cosseted away and honored every minute of his life, but at what cost? He’s never had sex, never been kissed, never even had ice cream, for fuck’s sake.
I make another vow, equally serious as the one I made this morning when I decided I needed to remind him exactly who Zar is. I vow to show the Rynn half of the Zar-Rynn duet every wonderful thing he can do with that body of his.
“You don’t know what to do with yourself today? I’ve now taken control of your agenda until we arrive at your destination. Shadow told me you’re researching where you want to live. We have a few days until you need to make up your mind, then a few more until we transport you there. You’re scheduled to spar with him this morning. Later, we’re going to make ice cream.”
He hikes an eyebrow toward his hairline.
“And buddy, you’re going to enjoy it.”
Rynn
I think I offended her when I didn’t take any of the items she recommended for breakfast. I can’t blame myself, though. Anyone who would willingly taste ejaculate a second time? I don’t believe anything their palate enjoys is something I want to put into my mouth.
This morning, I awoke in a gooey mess of a puddle. At first, I wondered if this body urinated on the bed. It didn’t take me long, though, to realize it was a nocturnal emission. Some species do this, of course. I’ve read about it. Boklorns don’t, or at least none whose bodies I’ve inhabited.
I guess the biological urge is strong in this one. When I denied it last night upon my inspection in the refresher, it found another way to meet its needs. It overtook me in my sleep. I had to strip and make my bed by myself with the extra sheets from the top of the closet.
Ugh, physical bodies can be disgusting. I’ve never done laundry before, so I put them in the hamper in my closet. At least one other person on this vessel is going to know my shame.
As an Arclite, my gaseous form would be so much more pleasant with none of these humanoid needs, desires, or urges. Yet, when I entered into my first joining, I made a lifetime decision. Once joined into a physical body, I can never return to my original state. I can only survive outside of a body for ten minimas before I perish.
Becoming a Recepticon was an act of altruism. I thought I would be doing important work for the universe. I never believed I would be cast out by my peers in such an ignominious manner.
I glance at my table companion. Anya’s different today. Where before I felt her clear dislike, now I feel a genuine interest. Without this change in her attitude, I would have refused her suggestions of what to do today. I would have eaten my breakfast and returned to my room to ponder what to do with the rest of my life. However, since I have nothing better to do, I’ll see what she has in store for me.
I avoid looking at her pretty mouth, or her pretty face for that matter, and make it through the meal without my body doing anything embarrassing.
“Okay,” she says brightly when I’ve finished breakfast. “We’re off to the ludus .”
Ludus , another word for a gymnasium, commonly used for gladiatorial training. Although I’m not supposed to have opinions on any subject, I privately do not approve of slavery and especially despise forcing sentient beings to fight to the death. Looking around at all the former gladiators onboard the ship, I imagine all of them agree with that sentiment.
“Why are we—”
“Detour. You can’t fight in those pants. Let’s go to Shadow’s and he’ll loan you a loincloth for today. I’ll bring Zar’s to your cabin later.”
Loincloth. My bodies have always been clothed in soft, white robes, unless I travel out of the monastery to accumulate knowledge. I was on one such mission the day of the unfortunate rockslide. There were one-of-a-kind books the monks allowed me to read in a small, dark antechamber of their temple. I never did have a chance to slot that information into its proper category. Breathing deeply, I realize it isn’t important now. No one will ever have access to my internal files.
Anya stays outside of Shadow’s room when he ushers me inside.
Shadow holds up a strip of beige cloth. When I don’t take it immediately, he steps closer with it. Reluctantly, I take it, then shrug.
“You’ll need to shuck your pants,” he says.
I should have stayed in my cabin. Everyone on this ship has reason to hate me, although I entered Zar’s body believing I’d been invited. In my distilled form, I’m a gas. A sightless wisp of air. How was I to know the being who breathed in my essence was not a willing host?
Anya and Shadow have the most reason to hate me, though. I imagine they feel I’ve stolen someone they care about. I get the feeling Shadow would rather not be sharing his room with me right now.
I pull down my pants, then reach for the piece of cloth.
“I haven’t a clue,” I admit with a shrug, the loincloth hanging limp from my hand.
His face hardens for a moment as his nostrils flare.
“Say it,” I encourage. Perhaps if he yells at me, it will get the anger out of his system.
“Say it? You want me to tell you how bizarre it is that a male who wore one of these every day of his life doesn’t know what to do with it? The body retains some memories, doesn’t it? Hold it in your hands, male. Shut off the… Rynn part of your brain and let Zar’s hands wrap this around his waist.”
Ahh. I understand. Perhaps this explains Anya’s apparent change of heart this morning. They believe they can coax Zar out, bring him to the front. I have thousands of annums of experience. Don’t they understand? It doesn’t work this way.
Since all my protests and explanations didn’t convince them, I’ll try to do what they ask. They’ll only be able to watch me fail so many times before they realize the truth of it. Their friend is never coming back. He’s gone for good.
I close my eyes and open my mind. Perhaps there are fragments of Zar inside. I’ve had 56 Boklorn bodies in the past, never a Ton’arr. Opening my mind, I beckon Zar through. When I feel nothing, I move my arms in front of my body, loosening my muscles, watching, waiting to see if this flesh and blood and fur knows what to do.
“Nothing.”
When I open my eyes, expecting to see anger, I watch as Shadow’s face crumples. For a male not used to emotions, I have a visceral reaction to this display. I watch as blood rushes into his skin, changing its color. His jaws tighten and he swallows. His eyes, at least his humanoid eye, the one that’s not prosthetic, waters.
As if by magic, I find myself feeling some of this male’s emotions. He’s in agony. I feel an echo of it in my own viscera.
“He’s really not in there, is he?” Shadow backs to the bed and sags onto it as if, for the first time, he believes his friend is gone.
“He’s here in memory,” I say. It’s my way of trying to soothe this giant, muscular gladiator who is using every fiber of his strength not to cry.
“Yeah. Memory,” he says as he stands. His face is back in the tight, angry visage he usually wears. “Here’s how to put it on.”
He removes his loincloth, then, with his back to me so I can follow his movements, he walks me through the complicated routine of twists and turns to fasten it to his body.
After only two tries, my loincloth properly covers my genitals and we walk out the door. Moments later, with Anya at my side, the three of us enter the ludus .
All the males are here except the doctor and one of the pilots who must be doing his job on the bridge. They all watch as Shadow spars with me. Each of them is eager to see their captain fight. I’m told he sparred almost every day with at least one of them. I assume that’s how he kept his body in peak condition.
During the course of my sparring, I watch as, one by one, their excitement dims and hope fades from their eyes. Just as with the loincloth, this body remembers none of it.
“That’s enough for today,” Shadow announces through gritted teeth after an agonizing series of moves where I’ve been thrown to the ground repeatedly.
When I turn to leave, I see Anya sitting near the door. I don’t need to wonder if she’s been in that shadowy spot the whole time. The tears streaming down her face announce it quite clearly. It would be so much easier on her if she’d believed me from the start. Zar is dead.