A Friendly Little Space

Feral brain slugs are classified as extraterrestrial biological threats in most jurisdictions. An unknown number are present in the wild; most die, a few survive long enough to attach themselves to local wildlife—dogs, cats, deer, raccoons—remaining sub-sentient and often failing to reproduce thanks to biological limitations and difficulty in integrating with animal social patterns. This has made them ideal targets for illegal research and smuggling. A case study of the Tokyo Ramen incident in 2049 will give some idea of the complexities involved.
—Anaïs Nineveh, The Exodus: A History, Chapter 7

"How do you even know she's a reporter!?"

Mel flinched at Béibhinn's tone. The ghola was aghast. He wasn't used to an extraterrestrial that was so . . . emotive.

When Jordan, Jenny, and Mel had arrived home, they had found it subtly changed. A screen beside the door was connected to a series of small cameras, and now showed not just the hallway outside the door, but both ends of the hallway and the interior of the elevator in a quadripartite screen. There was what looked like a steel pipe with a rubber handle in a charging station right by the door; Béibhinn had explained that this was a decoy, and anyone who grabbed it would find out would be a fritter.

The ghola was dressed in a pair of multi-pocketed pants that looked like someone had washed the camouflage out of a military battle dress uniform, leaving them an odd, colorless off-white, overbuilt black sneakers, and a brown backless shirt that left the ghola's pale real body exposed to the air. Her pale hair, in a pixie cut, was slightly green; Mel had seen that happen once, when a girl at the orphanage had bleached her hair herself and then gone swimming in a chlorinated pool. She had been, it seemed, quite busy during the day.

Subtle changes filled the apartment like accents. A half-spherical mirror that was mounted where the ceiling and wall met so that Béibhinn could see basically the entire apartment from her own room. There were utensil organizers in the kitchen doors. Plastic containers in the fridge were clearly marked B and contained what looked like jellied eels, dried crickets, tubes of hummus and soy paste, and protein powder. Toothbrushes now occupied a small black carbon-fiber holder screwed into the wall. Béibhinn's room was filled not only with a single mattress, now dressed in grey sheets, but flat-pack drawers and shelves, the kind that you put together with a hex driver. Neatly folded clothes, small plastic cases of what might have been power tools or guns for all that Mel knew.

He had been impressed, and said so. The ghola had grinned. It was all going pleasantly until Béibhinn asked how their day went. That was when Mel told her about Kayce O'Bannon and the interview.

"For fuck's sake, Arkwright, this is basic operational security: loose lips sink ships," Béibhinn said. "She could have been an intel agent! You not only let her dictate the terms of the conversation, but you also gave her your girlfriend's name!"

"Just her first name," Mel said, his voice weak. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I fucked up that badly?"

Jordan, who had disappeared into their bedroom, returned with a copy of Slug Fucker Monthly. She opened it up, and there was a photo of Kayce, next to an interview with a brain slug adult film star Cunnalicious. The ghola stared at the article and growled.

"That's her?" she asked.

Mel took in the freckles, the red hair, the eyes with the three camera lenses in each socket. "Her hair is longer now, but yes, looks like her."

The ghola didn't sigh, but she looked like she wanted to. Mel had that difficulty in reading her: she was more expressive than even Detective MacElroy, fully in control of her facial features, body language, and tone of voice. Yet there were times it felt like the software and hardware didn't quite match; weird ticks in facial expression that turned what might have been a frown into a sneer. Mel guessed there were some emotions that Béibhinn wasn't used to expressing and didn't have the act down yet.

"Well, the good news is, if she is an intelligence asset, your complete and utter lack of training or thought about security probably convinced them you're not the Mel Arkwright they're looking for," she said with a frown. "On the other hand, I'm going to have to monitor her social media. Now that she knows who you are, where you work, and that you're easy to manipulate, she'll be back for more."

"I'm not that easy to manipulate," Mel said. He looked at Jordan and Jenny. "Am I?"

Jenny's face remained placid. She was midway to undressed, standing there in just her workshirt, bald pussy exposed, and she walked over to Mel and gave him a hug that pinned his arms to his sides. Trapped in place, Jordan came up and grabbed his crotch. The near-instantaneous erection made Béibhinn's nostrils flare. His blonde girlfriend nuzzled his cheek, and Mel felt the realization settle on him.

"Okay, I'm an idiot and easy to manipulate. I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be sorry," Béibhinn said. "Be ready. You need to think about your situation, Arkwright. Keep your eyes and ears open. Aware of your environment. Innocence will not save you. Your species became apex on this planet because of its ability to absorb and process information; just like there are corporations tracking your purchases to target ads towards you, there are bad actors who can and will use your personal information against you."

It was a harsh lecture while Jordan was rubbing his junk, but he got the point.

"Right. So how do I do that?" he asked.

The ghola's face did a tick. The rotted-jade eyes fixed on his.

"Lessons. We'll start with awareness. I'm taking you to a gloryhole," she said.

Mel looked at Jordan and Jenny, who still clung to him.

"Is that okay?" he asked.

Jordan let go of his crotch to give a thumb's up.

"Just do what I say," Béibhinn said. "We talked this out yesterday."

The ghola slid on a thin black leather jacket that fell to mid-thigh. Mel noticed that between the long-sleeved jacket and the baggy pants, her well-muscled thighs and backside were largely concealed, while her shirt showcased her lack of a bra at every opportunity. He wore black jeans and his Cosmic Fill-Up hoodie, following her through the darkening streets as she went in a direction he hadn't gone before.

"You said this is your ninth human host," Mel said. "But the Exodus was only ten years ago."

"Corpses come with problems, even fresh ones," Béibhinn said. "Like . . . buying a junker car. Just getting it running is an effort, and you know it probably won't last very long. And your automobiles never get UTIs or have to remember to brush their teeth. I've had this body for over a year, the longest of any of them. Not too bad. Only one owner."

She made a noise that could have been a cough, a bark, or a laugh; maybe all three at once.

"My first host barely lasted 72 hours. Part of a pilot program with the military. They wanted to observe the process," Béibhinn smiled her terrible smile. "You know you're the first species we've met that actually wargamed a zombie outbreak before learning about ghola? We were very impressed. Most cultures restrict their conflict protocols to possibilities that they're aware of. Humans have imagination."

Mel nodded. They had gone maybe eight blocks, into a neighborhood he wasn't familiar with. It wasn't one of the nicer parts of the city. Just a street of five-story buildings, the street level filled with the kinds of small shops that handled things people needed, anchored around a bodega. They passed a locksmith, a tax accountant, a mohel with a series of watches in the window, a bookstore that appeared full of marked-down overstock, an old-fashioned tobacconist. There were small alleys between the shops, too narrow for automobiles, and Mel saw stairs at the end of them.

"This street went up in the 1960s," Béibhinn said. "One of the last mixed-use developments before new regulations came in. First two floors are commercial, upper three are residential. Didn't really catch on."

They took the alley between the tobaccoist and the bodega. Someone had painted a pair of flags on the wall: USA and Canada. There were letters too, but so faded Mel couldn't tell what the advertisement or mural was commemorating. Behind the stairs was a pay toilet, the first Mel had seen in Seacouver; he watched as Béibhinn ran her right hand with her chip implant over the charge plate, and a door unlocked.

The ghola opened the door wide. The toilet inside was clean, white, surprisingly modern. Like the inside of a dishwasher. Mel noticed the three seashells and realized that the whole thing could be sanitized.

"Autocleans two hours after last payment," she said. "Keeps homeless people from spending the night in them. Come on, it'll be tight, but we'll both fit."

Béibhinn sat on the toilet. Mel could just slide in, standing in front of her, and was consciously aware of how the shorter ghola's head was at approximately the height of his crotch as she reached out and closed the door. Immediately, the smell of them filled the small space. Stale sweat and something underneath, not fishy exactly, but like the sickly sweet odor that hung around a dead bird on the sidewalk. Absently, Mel wondered what he smelled like to her.

"Sixty minutes," she said, and twisted her torso around. The toilet paper dispenser was a white circle the size of a tire mounted to the wall. Mel was surprised as she slid it up, revealing a neat hole that someone had drilled into the wall and sealed the edges with some kind of clear material. There was a small flow of air, a hiss of an air conditioner, and for a moment, Mel had a powerful sensation of déjà vu, his recurring dream coming back to him. Slightly dizzy, he braced himself against the walls as Béibhinn slid a finger through the hole.

"This isn't the military brothel I go to when I normally need to feed," she said. "Just a friendly little space for enthusiasts."

"What about disease?" Mel asked, eyes focused on the hole. Consciously aware that a penis might appear at any moment. An unfamiliar itch in his feet, hands clammy. Not sure if this was scary or exciting.

The ghola gave a shrug that turned into a tick that made her neck crack audibly.

"There are some who like the thrill of an unprotected encounter," Béibhinn said. "And, of course, for those of us who are obligate cumivores, there's a certain necessary risk. No doubt why your girlfriends made it absolutely clear you would wear a condom when and if they let me have a taste."

Mel's jaw worked. He was staring at the hole. The anticipation was building. He could hear someone moving on the other side. The ghola grinned.

"The other end is blocked, too. Only someone who knows it's there will move the holder on their side. You know, I can't tell if you smell excited or afraid. Have you never watched anyone else get their cock sucked before?" Béibhinn asked.

"Just . . . um, on an instructional video," Mel admitted.

Béibhinn nodded.

"It was a learning experience for us, too. Fortunately, once we identified human gametes as a primary source of material, we managed to skip some of the more unpleasant means of acquisition," the ghola said.

"Unpleasant?" Mel asked.

"A female pig acting as a brain slug host castrated a male with her teeth," Béibhinn said with a nasty grin. "Fortunate for you that your girlfriends don't do that?"

Mel felt a bead of perspiration run down his face. Maybe it was the closeness of the stall, but it suddenly felt uncomfortably warm in here.

Then the ghola reached up and laid a hand on his crotch. The tip of her index finger pressed against his belt buckle.

"So warm," she said. "Which side of Jordan's pussy has a freckle, the left or the right?"

Mel blinked.

"Uh . . . her left, same as her sister," he said.

"Good. See, that's attention to detail. That's part of being aware. When we passed the bookstore, what was the title of the book in the window?" she asked.

"Um, Sex. Someone called Madonna," Mel replied.

Her hand never left his crotch. He could feel the heat of her palm through his jeans. His member responded, swelling as she alternated between probing personal questions about his lovers' anatomy and what they had passed on the way here. Whether the man in the tobacco shop was wearing a hat. What kind of hat was it? Was Rachel's anus pink or brown? What was the look on her face the first time she had tasted his cum? How many steps was it down from the fifth floor to the fourth?

Minutes ticked by and Mel found himself pinned against the wall, the swollen purple tip of his glans pushing past his fundoshi and behind his belt buckle.

The tip of Béibhinn's finger pressed against the top of the metal buckle, which applied pressure to the back of his glans through the cloth.

"Thirty minutes, under stress. You remembered more than you thought," she said. The soft tip of her finger made a swiping motion. The ghola gathered a cloudy grey drop of pre-cum and brought it to her lips. For a moment the rusty jade eyes closed, and her face took on an expression that Mel had never seen on a human face.

Then, with a sigh, the moment passed.

"What fascinating creatures humans are. You know no other species has invented gloryholes? It's not just a quirk of how your anatomy is configured, but the mentality behind it. Anonymous sex. The insulation between yourselves and the object of your desire, how you made a kink out of it. There are other species with the equivalent of sperm donors, ceremonial mating balls where the lights are out and no one is supposed to know what happens and the like, but the specificity of some of your sexual behaviors is—mentally exhilarating. Oh, there's mindless rutting to be sure, but what's dangerous to us is how engaging your human kinks are to our imaginations."

The ghola looked up into Mel's eyes, and those yellow sclerae seemed wet and shiny as the light from above was reflected in them.

"You see, but you don't understand," she said. "You're not just a cow to be milked. Not to them. Sex is a frontier they are exploring, and you are a part of their away team. They don't want to stop learning about sex. Perhaps they never will. And you, Melville Arkwright, are a part of that. That's why they're always pushing you into something new, never satisfied. That's why they tolerate and encourage your occasional dalliance. They want you to bring those experiences back to them, to share them, to be a better lover. You are being trained."

"Is this part of the training?" Mel asked, then felt foolish for asking. Yet what he noticed was that Béibhinn looked away, rather than holding his gaze.

Béibhinn removed her finger from the gloryhole and slid the toilet paper dispenser back in place. She tapped the three seashells and opened the door.

"Let's go," she said. "No one is coming tonight."

Mel wasn't sure which use of the word she intended.

The air was cooler, and Mel's slick skin felt the chill more intently. He paid more attention now as he stepped out. The sights, the sounds, the smells. Bits of advertising text. The faces of those he passed. It seemed impossible that he could remember it all, yet it felt like skimming a book while writing an essay: mentally underlining key facts, getting the gist of it, not becoming hung up on any one thing because he had to keep up with the ghola, who was walking them back to the apartment from a different route.

"If someone had shown up on the other side of the gloryhole," he asked. "Would you have sucked it?"

"Of course," Béibhinn said. "But the real question is: would you have watched?"

Mel wasn't sure how to answer that, and said nothing.

She gave him a sidelong look.

"Another time," she said. "I'll give you a show."