CHAPTER 6
Becky takes a short shower, and emerges in a cream gown that starts high on her neck and falls to her knees and looks very soft. She moves for the bedroom and I follow her.
Once inside, Becky’s brain activity is buzzing bright yellow in areas associated with nervousness. Meanwhile, the rest of her skull contents are a dark, wounded purple. She glances back over her shoulder at me, inhales sharply, then faces forward and slaps at the switch on the wall to abruptly turn off the lights. Next she paces to the bed, where she turns on a bedside lamp. But with a very quick look at me, she turns it back off.
I’m confused. I can see perfectly well in the dark, but it’s my understanding that humans require a light source to utilize their sense of visibility.
I decide to confirm this. “Don’t you need the light to see?”
She attempts a reply, but her esophagus must be dry—no doubt from her shedding so many tears—because she reaches for a glass of water that’s on the nightstand, hand bumping it. With a curse, she snaps the light on again before she grabs the cup up and gulps it down.
Since she’s busying herself with hydration, I turn to the chest of drawers that typically hold a human’s clothing. I open the left side’s drawers, which I understand is usually claimed by the male in a relationship, and find neatly folded male clothing.
It all smells like her dead mate, Joel. I select the garments identified as underpants, or boxers. And then I locate pajama pants.
“What are you…” Becky starts to ask, but she trails off strangely .
I turn, displaying the items I’ve found. “You said I should wear these, correct?”
Eyes locked on the clothes in my hand, she nods mutely.
I set the items on top of the chest, close the drawers I opened, and unbuckle my belt.
The quiet behind me becomes very loud. And as I remove my gunbelt and unbutton my chaps, I open my senses and consider Becky’s brain.
Strangely, although she’s not making a sound, her mind is in total riot. Panic, fear, sadness, surprise.
I have to wonder what I'm doing to surprise her.
I peel off my boots, drop my chaps, and efficiently do the same to my jeans. During the removal of this last item of clothing, something strange happens in the region for fear in Becky’s brain. It turns orange, bright as the center of a flame.
Without warning, the light in the room she’s been controlling clicks off, plunging the room into darkness.
I turn a puzzled frown on her that she obviously can’t see. Curious why she’s exhibiting such erratic, puzzling behavior, I swiftly pull on the boxers and pajama pants. That done, I step toward the bed, fingers going to the buttons of my shirt, and she reacts—dropping into the bed and dragging every layer of the bed’s multiple covers over herself.
“The wolf spider does that,” I point out absently, puzzling over her behavior.
The activity in her mind scrambles. “A spider—?!” she exclaims. She begins scrambling from the bed as quickly as a pregnant human can move. But almost as fast, the area for processing words activates and her motions slow. Her words, when she speaks, have slowed too, somewhat. “A spider… does… what?”
I gesture, then pause, experiencing something akin to frustration—exasperation, maybe—remembering that she can’t see me. “You burrowed into the bed and shrouded yourself in layers of covers. There is a spider that was inadvertently introduced to the planet of Traxia—it’s believed that the eggs or spiderlings clung to people’s personal possessions when they arrived here—and both spider genders in this non-native species hunt their prey by building and hiding behind trap doors. Your furtive appropriation on the barrier made of blankets reminded me of this species’ movements when they’re preparing to spring on prey.”
As I speak, I watch her brain. At first confusion areas light up, then interest and engagement, followed by disbelief, and what I am somewhat certain is horror. “I’m not planning to spring on you!”
“You experience a significant amount of emotion,” I observe. “Every emotion. It must be exhausting.”
She quiets, and oddly, I think I pick up on an expectancy in the air. As if she’s waiting for me to act following my statement.
“Speaking of exhaustion, I believe I’m feeling it myself. I find I’m growing weary of parsing—or attempting to parse—your reactions and brain activity. Therefore, I’m looking forward to doing what humans do in beds.” Rest.
She shrinks away from me, and I frown at her in the dark, drawing back the portion of covers closest to me, which has the unintentional side-effect of releasing more scent receptors of her recently deceased mate. It’s odd, smelling the male as I bed down. Actually, it’s odd to scent a female too. My kind tend to keep a healthy distance from one another unless we seek to be old fashioned and take mates. “Good night,” I say politely.
She stops breathing as I settle into the bed, arranging the covers over my cybernetic legs, and generally adjusting to the strange presence of an overactive brain in such close proximity. I lie back, placing my head on the pillow, and close my eyes.
Her bioframework is so bright beside me I may as well be wide-eyed as I stare at the sun .
Frowning, I open my eyes and look over at her. “Why is your brain dumping fear chemicals into your system?”
She looks at me in what appears to be confusion. “What?”
I prop myself up on an elbow, and I can only assume that she must feel the movement ripple through the mattress since she likely has few visual clues—yet she scoots farther away from me, her brain contents flaring. My eyes scan her whole body, and I see her hand clutching at the distended ball of her stomach that houses her tadpole. “Does your stomach hurt?” I ask.
She swallows loudly, and there’s a strange length of time that stretches on in silence after I’ve asked my question, as if she has to weigh her answer. “Why?” she asks.
I flick my fingers at her midsection. “You’re clutching your belly.”
She glances down, her fingers spasming tighter over her bulge of human-in-progress. “Look,” she says on an oddly shaky exhale. “I’m never going to get to sleep if you’re planning to drag this out. If you’re going to do it—do it now,” she orders, and her whole body stiffens like she’s bracing herself.
I blink at her, trying to comprehend her words. “Explain.”
She throws me a look I can’t interpret. “Are you going to want your—your husbandly dues tonight?”
I frown at her, sitting up, and frown harder when she shrinks back from me even more. “What are husbands due, exactly?”
Silence.
“Becky?”
“SEX!” she explodes, startling me.
I consider her carefully. “Is… performing sexual acts something a husband must do for his wife?”
Becky opens her mouth, then closes it, nostrils flaring.
I feel my forehead bunch in disappointment. “When I asked earlier what responsibilities a husband has, you failed to mention this. I didn’t realize what I was agreeing to. I believed that because you are already gravid, you wouldn’t have reproductive needs.”
Becky’s eyelids flutter rapidly. “Are you saying you don’t want sex?”
I shake my head, but knowing she’s unlikely to see it, I add aloud, “Civilized Yonderin have no sexual contact.”
Becky is staring at me. “Then how do your people make babies?”
I try not to scoff. “My civilization is quite advanced—we duplicate ourselves through the sterile and highly refined process of pairing genetic material in laboratories. Save for the occasional deviant living in the outer reaches of the ocean, we turned away from primitive mating habits a long time ago.”
Becky’s jaw muscles slacken at my words, leaving her mouth gaping open in a human expression of disbelief. “Are you serious?”
I give her a firm look she can’t see. “Yes. Now will our agreement to be married stand without this clause being added, or will you require me to service you at your biological whims?”
“N-no!” Her hands flap between us, and then she falls still. “Thank you.”
My brows rise, but I keep the tone of my voice level, not wanting to offend her. “I believe I should be thanking you. I’ve seen human mating vids. I have no interest in rooting around with my pissing organ, trying to hump it into a female human.”
Becky makes a choked sputter.
I glance over to her quickly. “Was that rude to say?”
“No!”
I watch her for a moment to judge her sincerity, but I find I can’t read her. Her expressions don’t quite match the ones I’ve been studying in the entertainment vids. There are nuances I’m completely at a loss to read. “Well then,” I tell her. “Good night. I appreciate that you won’t need to devote our sleeping hours to fruitless matings. ”
“You’re welcome,” Becky says hoarsely. And curiously her eyes emit water, leaking more tears. Different ones than the grieving ones, if I can claim to spot a difference.
I lie down on my back, and to my relief her brain’s activity has soothed. It’s still racing, but the activity no longer agitates me; it must be the fear processes that were inhibiting my ability to find rest. I make a note to ensure she doesn’t feel fear, if possible.
As I drift off, I wonder why she was fearing—or dreading, more likely—a breeding if it’s an expected event. Perhaps it is uncomfortable for humans if they aren’t pairbonded before mating takes place. In the breeding vids I’ve witnessed, the females always appear enthusiastic for their partners—sometimes multiple partners—but I obviously can’t read brainwaves from a recording.
I’m relieved that I don’t have to understand the primal drives of Becky’s species in order to be married to her. I’m afraid I would have had to renege on our deal, and if I do that, I’ll surely not be allowed to keep Joel’s horse.