to the door and raced to reread the digital document once more before Ox walked in and caught him prying into his private life. Every question Runt thought he’d quelled branched and tangled in his imagination.
No criminal record. A witness? A refugee?
Growling in frustration, Runt scanned the rows of dates and numbers on the terminal’s screen, trying to intuit his partner’s story between the stats.
Was Ox in hiding? Had he run from something or toward this? Why buy so much equipment? What drove him to maroon himself here as a laborer rather than work as a brood-stud or a high-performance bounty hunter? Had HardCell demoted him from skilled services to employee ? Who sent the deadly retirement package and for what possible purpose? And what the fuck could make a pre-citizen that enhanced into a fugitive?
Ox might have been born on that beach the day Runt almost killed him.
Hsssssst.
The front door whisked open and daylight sliced across the habitat’s molded plasticrete interior.
Blinded, Runt almost bit through his tongue in panic. He closed the digital contract with a nervous jerk that made his heart thump and his stomach turn inside out.
Ox stepped through the doorway covered in grease, with no suspicions or questions other than lunch. A deep scratch on one beefy forearm needed disinfecting.
Runt would never ask, but he wondered: what had Ox escaped?
Something fuck-awful.
Feeling stupid and guilty, Runt winked a hello and sent HardCell the request for harvest pickup. Two weeks early! With Ox on board, they had beaten the executives and saved both their lives.
As Ox went to the cook-space to start the digi-wok, the bigger man nodded.
Runt nodded back automatically, though as he did, he wondered if he might have just agreed to something he couldn’t understand.
Ox astonished Runt constantly.
The fifth week, in the middle of a scorched morning when the beach blinded and the waves churned soupy hot, Ox waded out to the sandbar and strangled a four meter eel with his big bare hands. His mighty body shone in the water like a statue . . . Laocoön wrapped in serpents. Impossibly primal and potent, the way advertainments tried to make men seem.
If Runt hadn’t witnessed the kill with his own eyes, he might have doubted it was even possible, and Ox did it as a present for Runt.
Midmorning, while they were baling bamboo, Runt complained about wanting fresh meat instead of paste and freeze-dried kibble; forty minutes later, when they were headed down to the greenhouse, Ox bolted before Runt could react.
Without warning, the larger man took off at a jog and dove into the surf.
Luck’s fuckery, I wasn’t serious.
Ox cut through the waves like a spear and then, arcing up a moment for momentum, plunged below the surface.
Shitwit.
Runt knew his cofarmer could swim. They’d done plenty of undersea repairs together. But without his gear, even seaboots, Ox could be mauled badly. The adult eels got aggressively territorial and they could take a finger or worse. And eel blood could be deadly. Runt had only harvested full-grown eels with equipment. And this herd had remained too small to consider regular harvest.
A queasy feeling in the pit of his gut, Runt walked straight down to the water expecting the worst. Whoosh! A spray of water and Ox popped to the surface wrestling with a pissed-off male, its mandibles chewing the air. These conger hybrids could weigh up to fifty kilos, but Ox lifted it like a data cable in the churning water. He pulled it to the shallows and got his feet under him, two predators knotted together.
Ox managed to loop part of the iridescent body around one superhuman triceps. Blood ran from his hands and arms, smearing his torso.
“Crazy . . . That’s crazy.” Runt whispered to himself. “Impossible.”
The creature managed to flip loose, then arched up and snapped close.
Runt winced and almost shouted a warning.
Just in time, Ox’s skull jerked back and his face
No criminal record. A witness? A refugee?
Growling in frustration, Runt scanned the rows of dates and numbers on the terminal’s screen, trying to intuit his partner’s story between the stats.
Was Ox in hiding? Had he run from something or toward this? Why buy so much equipment? What drove him to maroon himself here as a laborer rather than work as a brood-stud or a high-performance bounty hunter? Had HardCell demoted him from skilled services to employee ? Who sent the deadly retirement package and for what possible purpose? And what the fuck could make a pre-citizen that enhanced into a fugitive?
Ox might have been born on that beach the day Runt almost killed him.
Hsssssst.
The front door whisked open and daylight sliced across the habitat’s molded plasticrete interior.
Blinded, Runt almost bit through his tongue in panic. He closed the digital contract with a nervous jerk that made his heart thump and his stomach turn inside out.
Ox stepped through the doorway covered in grease, with no suspicions or questions other than lunch. A deep scratch on one beefy forearm needed disinfecting.
Runt would never ask, but he wondered: what had Ox escaped?
Something fuck-awful.
Feeling stupid and guilty, Runt winked a hello and sent HardCell the request for harvest pickup. Two weeks early! With Ox on board, they had beaten the executives and saved both their lives.
As Ox went to the cook-space to start the digi-wok, the bigger man nodded.
Runt nodded back automatically, though as he did, he wondered if he might have just agreed to something he couldn’t understand.
Ox astonished Runt constantly.
The fifth week, in the middle of a scorched morning when the beach blinded and the waves churned soupy hot, Ox waded out to the sandbar and strangled a four meter eel with his big bare hands. His mighty body shone in the water like a statue . . . Laocoön wrapped in serpents. Impossibly primal and potent, the way advertainments tried to make men seem.
If Runt hadn’t witnessed the kill with his own eyes, he might have doubted it was even possible, and Ox did it as a present for Runt.
Midmorning, while they were baling bamboo, Runt complained about wanting fresh meat instead of paste and freeze-dried kibble; forty minutes later, when they were headed down to the greenhouse, Ox bolted before Runt could react.
Without warning, the larger man took off at a jog and dove into the surf.
Luck’s fuckery, I wasn’t serious.
Ox cut through the waves like a spear and then, arcing up a moment for momentum, plunged below the surface.
Shitwit.
Runt knew his cofarmer could swim. They’d done plenty of undersea repairs together. But without his gear, even seaboots, Ox could be mauled badly. The adult eels got aggressively territorial and they could take a finger or worse. And eel blood could be deadly. Runt had only harvested full-grown eels with equipment. And this herd had remained too small to consider regular harvest.
A queasy feeling in the pit of his gut, Runt walked straight down to the water expecting the worst. Whoosh! A spray of water and Ox popped to the surface wrestling with a pissed-off male, its mandibles chewing the air. These conger hybrids could weigh up to fifty kilos, but Ox lifted it like a data cable in the churning water. He pulled it to the shallows and got his feet under him, two predators knotted together.
Ox managed to loop part of the iridescent body around one superhuman triceps. Blood ran from his hands and arms, smearing his torso.
“Crazy . . . That’s crazy.” Runt whispered to himself. “Impossible.”
The creature managed to flip loose, then arched up and snapped close.
Runt winced and almost shouted a warning.
Just in time, Ox’s skull jerked back and his face
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