As you embarrassed by sexual relations outside your species?

"Dominance Shift" is the phrase that haunts this century. Will homo sapiens remain the dominant species on planet Earth? Or will some other species or coalition of species achieve a combination of political, economic, and/or military superiority to the point that humanity becomes second-class citizens on the world they evolved on? Many dominance shift fears surround brain slugs. By contrast, brain slugs fear only one thing: extinction. They recognize their ability to infiltrate, their instinct to reproduce and overrun. It is an urge the hive minds must fight, as sudden uncontrolled integration would unite all species against them.
—Anastasia Massimi, Slugnomicon: A Guide To Brain Slug Spirituality (unpublished draft)

The walk into work was somber. Jordan and Jenny walked arm-in-arm with Mel, only breaking the bond when they had to steer around trash cans or other pedestrians. Mel couldn't quite wrap his mind around the implications. It was hard, on an early spring day as the city's pulse began to pick up, the smells of fresh pretzels wafting from bakeries and ladybugs in the air, to think that something that looked like a fossilized dildo could get everyone so upset.

A flutter of wings as they approached the Cosmic Fill-Up caught his eye. The bluebird was returning to the nest, a soft green caterpillar in its beak. Mel smiled. The early bird had gotten the worm. Not metaphorically. He thought of the blue shirt he was wearing, and how he was here to work and get money so he could bring food back to his nest.

"Go for it, buddy," Mel told the bird before he headed in, ready for whatever the day might bring.

Mel was not ready for the dinosaur reading a magazine in the dining area.

The long, slender mottled-green neck rose almost to the ceiling, arcing gently to let the comparatively small head hang. The eyes—they were recognizably eyes—were bulbous, and oddly crystalline. Two were set on the sides of the head, and the other two were set straight forward, which gave the odd impression that it was looking at you no matter where you were in the room. After Mel signed in, he moved to get the swifter from the supply closet.

It wasn't really a small apatosaurus, although it superficially resembled one. Quadruped, about the size of a horse but on comparatively thick, elephantine legs, the broad feet encased in almost circular rubber-soled shoes. Bony nodules were visible on the wrinkly skin, although the broad, humped back was covered with a kind of barding; a kind of knit blanket in black and white zigzag patterns, with a pair of giant black fanny packs like saddlebags strapped around the middle. Closer, Mel could see some of the differences from any reproduction of a dinosaur Mel had ever seen.

There were two tails, each of which ended in a three-digit manipulator, each one like a thumb. The mouth had no teeth, but opened to show a kind of bristle or moustache inside. A device that looked a bit like a harmonica hung below the jaw, wires connecting with the small, smooth, bald skull. The shoulders and hips were also taller, the neck connecting lower, suggesting a skeletal structure and body plan subtly different from Earth dinosaurs. Mel thought of a documentary they had watched, how various species had settled on a crocodilian body shape, despite not being closely related. Convergent evolution.

He wondered what conditions the Etherlings had evolved under.

The magazine was, Mel noticed, a copy of the latest Slug Fucker Monthly. Beside the magazine was a small cardboard bucket with a shiny metallic cover and a straw. A standard container from the Etherling food station. The head shifted on the long neck, bringing the face level with Mel's, but showing only one eye.

((Hello)), the voice came from the metal device that hung below the Etherling's jaw. ((I am designated Sixty-Nine.))

"Hi," Mel said. "I'm Mel Arkwright."

((Yvraine MacElroy asked me to speak to you, Mel Arkwright.))

Mel nodded. "She said I'd be speaking with an Etherling today. Why do they call you Etherlings, if you don't mind me asking?"

((It was an early translation of our demonym. Humans and other species that evolved naturally on planets were translated as 'groundlings' in our language, so the translator suggested 'Etherlings' for our species designation. Some humans prefer to call us Voidborn or Spacewalkers. We believe they think this sounds more 'science fiction.' We struggle to grasp this concept.)) Sixty-Nine said.

Mel tilted his head. "You didn't evolve on a planet? You seem pretty well adapted to it."

((Our species was engineered within the last eighteen thousand of your solar cycles,)) Sixty-Nine said. ((We believe we were designed for exploration; our body incorporates air bladders and air-filled cavities within our bones that can adapt to various gravities and atmospheric pressures, and our design combines features often seen in both predator and prey species. We do not reproduce naturally, but use artificial gestation technology. Culturally, we display many relic practices of former ownership. My designation, Sixty-Nine is the opening of the reference designation of my clonal ancestor, 69006518, believed to be a mark of ownership.))

"Wow," Mel thought. "Um. Humans used to have a system of chattel slavery. In history class, we learned some of the former slaves took on the last names of their former masters. That sounds analogous."

((An apt parallel,)) Sixty-Nine agreed, bobbing its head in a very human gesture. Mel wondered if that was natural to the species, or was a learned behavior. The head dipped down and slurped from the straw.

"Your food is a different chirality than Earth's," Mel said, wondering if he had said that correctly. "From what I gather, that's a bit uncommon among extraterrestrial species. Do you share that with your, um, makers?"

((We believe we were designed that way on purpose,)) Sixty-Nine said. ((We believe it was intended as a method of control, to ensure our dependency. After our freedom, we focused on chemistry and food production out of necessity. We are now the pre-eminent species in the Exodus in terms of this area of knowledge, and our technology has become standard in many colonies.))

"Freedom," Mel said. "When did that happen? Who made you?"

((We do not remember,)) Sixty-Nine said. ((It occurred during a prehistoric phase of our civilization. Few records survive; polities and governments rise and fall, and we can trace back only about four thousand of your solar cycles. Much history is lost. Our people are wanderers, living predominantly in colony-ships, establishing small outposts, but prizing interstellar mobility. Every planetary settlement is, after all, ultimately temporary.))

Mel blinked. "I hadn't thought of it like that."

((Most groundlings do not. They have a sentimental attachment to the planet they evolved on, the biosphere keyed to their own biology. We know that in ten thousand years, greenhouse gas effects or global glaciation may render this planet far less habitable. Asteroid impacts that cause mass extinction events may occur every 100 million years. Eventually, your sun will burn out. By then, the Etherlings will have moved on.)) Sixty-Nine said.

The electronic voice didn't offer much in the way of inflection, no accent, no emotion, just the occasional emphasis as of someone for whom English is a second or third language and the pronunciation is more technically correct but stilted. Yet it was the content that struck Mel. He wasn't used to thinking that someday, everything he knew and loved would be dust, although intellectually he had been dimly aware of the fact that the planet had changed vastly over the course of billions of years, and there was no reason to believe that would ever stop.

After a pause, Sixty-Nine continued. ((Are you the being indicated in this headline?))

The Etherling's tail tapped the page. Mel turned around to see what he was pointing at, drawing closer to the alien. Sixty-Nine did not shy away, and this close he noticed an oddly sweet smell that was nevertheless somewhat off, like the aftertaste of diet and zero-calorie sodas. Mel looked down to where the small grey-green digit pointed, noting that it didn't have a nail or claw. He winced as he saw a headshot of Kayce O'Bannon and the headline: "Next Month: An Exclusive Interview With The Man Sucked Off By A K'lur'k!"

"Probably, yeah," Mel admitted. "I talked to Kayce the other day as background for her article. I asked her to keep my name out of it, though."

((Why?)) The Etherling said. ((As you embarrassed by sexual relations outside your species?))

Mel blinked and considered that.

"Not exactly," the human said finally. "I mean, two of my girlfriends are brain slug hosts. I'm—not really experienced with social relationships. Human sexual politics and social situations can get complicated, even before adding extraterrestrials, and I'm fairly young and come from an unusual upbringing, no parents to serve as examples, outside of major religions to influence me. Probably absorbed more about what a relationship should be like from watching films and television and reading books and comics than anything else. So . . . I guess I don't have the same kind of qualms about these relationships, but I'm also not sure what I'm supposed to feel about them, and I kind of worry about how others will perceive me? Which is bullshit, but, um. Very human."

The Etherling bobbed its head again and took another suck on its cup. This close, Mel could see the lips work. The jaw wasn't designed for biting, but it anchored the muscles in the head for the suction through that kind of whale-like baleen or whatever, and then presumably down the very long esophagus. That seemed inconvenient for a spaceship, but Mel had no idea what an Etherling craft looked like. Maybe they just strapped in, and the head moved everywhere. The tails, he could see, were as long as the neck, so it had a really impressive reach if it stretched out.

((I understand,)) Sixty-Nine said. ((Our species is, in a sense, orphaned. We do not have family structures as such. We cannot reproduce sexually, though we can have sex. There are many different relationships, but we all find our own way once we leave the education creche. Humans are interesting. You willingly have sexual relations outside your species, some of you. You . . . imagine it. The literature is vast.))

Mel scratched his chin. "Etherlings don't have erotic fiction about aliens?"

((We do not have erotic fiction,)) Sixty-Nine said. ((We do not have fiction at all. Our species was not created to dream; our imaginations are . . . limited. Whoever designed us did not do so with creativity in mind. We are intelligent. We observe and adapt from others. Sometimes, we can synthesize. Yet we do not make innovative leaps. We can appreciate your arts, reproduce the products, but not the process.))

"Wow," Mel said. He tried to imagine what that was like, then smiled as he realized he was doing instinctively what Sixty-Nine said they could not do. "I know cultures are ultimately all made-up, but like with your whole planets-aren't-forever approach, I hadn't really thought about the implications before. I remember Two-Clicks—the K'lur'k—she told me when her people fled, they didn't really take any porn along. Nobody prioritized it. So now they just don't have any, and the young ones like her are using human porn. I guess your people do something similar?"

Another head-bob.

((We have documented the process. It is the same with every refugee wave. While some attempt to retain their old culture, the material environment that informed that culture is gone, many of the records are gone, the elders die, and none replace them. Knowledge is lost. The host planet always has an outsized influence on the culture of their new colonists,)) Sixty-Nine said. ((Human sexual openness is unusual, however. We do not often see this level of social integration this quickly. You are exceptional in this regard, Mel Arkwright. I hope you are an indication of the future.))

Mel blinked. "Why is that?"

((Because I have studied the historical records. Etherlings have fled from world to world, as needs and circumstances dictate. We have seen societies that rejected integration. Some descended into madness and insularity. Others grew violent. A single spark can erupt into conflict. Such wars are wasteful and disastrous for all,)) Sixty-Nine said in that odd, affectless voice. ((Every species in the Exodus had to run simulations regarding how contact with humans would go. In all of them, direct conflict was disastrous. Billions of humans would die; entire species would be eradicated.))

"The DeBeers incident," Mel said, remembering what he had read about the orbital strike.

((Yes. There were some who suggested sending asteroids to bombard the planet from orbit. We have the technology to do this. We still could. However, the results were sub-optimal. Co-existence represents the best result for all of our species,)) Sixty-Nine said. ((Regrettably, not all see this. It is an ongoing point of potential conflict. I hate politics.))

Mel nearly laughed. It was the single most relatable thing that the Etherling had said.

"I think everyone hates politics," Mel said.

Sixty-Nine sucked down more good. Mel heard that straw-at-the-bottom-of-the-cup sound that sent a shiver down his spine.

((I must go now, but I have a request,)) Sixty-Nine said. ((I have seen your video with the K'lur'k. The Seacouver Embassy of the Etherling Collective is interested in the possibilities of human/alien sexual interaction as it applies to Etherlings. We would like to arrange such an encounter to be recorded for educational purposes. May this slut suck your cock?))

Mel blinked. Those were the exact same words that Two-Clicks had used. They really had zero imagination. Or at least, not much.

"I need to ask my girlfriends," Mel said, voice oddly numb. He had not expected this today. He felt a hand at his elbow. It was Jordan. He wasn't sure when she had come up behind him, or how much of their conversation that she had heard. Enough, apparently. She stared into the four eyes of the Etherling and gave a thumb's up.

((We will also need more space. This bathroom is inadequate. But I will contact you again. Perhaps next week?))

Mel nodded.

"Sure. Next week," he agreed.

The Etherling disposed of its drink container in the appropriate receptacle. It gathered the magazine from the table and walked to the counter, checking out—Mel noticed that it placed one three-fingered appendage on the charge-plate and realized it must have a credit chip implanted there. Then it walked, the four legs moving in an oddly graceful gait, out of the Cosmic Fill-Up.

Until next week.