Changeling

Next Month: An Exclusive Interview With The Man Sucked Off By A K'lur'k!
—Slug Fucker Monthly April 2055

NO APRIL FOOLS ON THE BUS

The piece of paper had been taped into place just below the charge plate. Mel waved his hand, credit chit debiting, and did his best not to look like a prankster. April Fools' wasn't a holiday he really understood. Holidays at the orphanage and at school were severely limited affairs. Sometimes they bussed the kids out to watch fireworks, or Xmas lights, but most of the time it was a reminder of everything other kids had that they didn't. No costumes, no tricks-or-treats. Kids after the winter holidays showing off their new bikes and video games.

Pulling tricks on people on April 1st just felt fucking mean.

Rache was at the bus stop, reading a paperback that featured a bare-chested female torso with a pair of hairy paws covering the breasts. She looked up and smiled when Mel touched her shoulder, then stood up for a kiss.

"So, how's the book?" he asked.

"Profoundly weird," the blonde said. "The professor didn't want us to go in unprepared, so we had to read excerpts from Engel's earlier novels, the First Nations legend of the Bear Princess, and then the thirty-one-page draft she did for the Writers' Union of Canada. She says we need to appreciate its literary context. But nothing really prepares you for her developing this intimate relationship with a creature that is profoundly alien and unable to understand her. And the bear penis."

Mel nodded. That made sense.

Angelika and Angus were already in the classroom. As Mel and Rachel were about to take their seats, Angelika held up a hand.

"If you two wouldn't mind, we need volunteers for this class. You two are together, aren't you?" the older woman asked, signing as she spoke.

"Yes," Mel said, remembering to sign the answer.

"Then could you sit up front and help out?" she asked. "Help demonstrate."

"Sure," Rachel answered for both of them.

As Angus set up for the next lesson, Angelika spent a few moments with the two of them, demonstrating new signs and explaining what would be required of them. Mel felt blood rush to his face, but nodded in agreement, doing his best to remember the signs as she walked them through them.

In ones and twos, the rest of the students filtered in. As the campus clock chimed the hour, Angelika smiled and stood up, raising her voice so everyone could hear, moving to the middle of the floor so everyone could see her.

"Much of the vocabulary you will need is covered in your textbooks," she said and signed. "But that doesn't always cover some of the more important, intimate encounters. People who sign are still sexual beings, after all. So today, we're going to cover the essential signs regarding sex and relationships, and discuss the practicalities of flirting and communication during intimate moments . . ."

The first half of the class was all vocabulary. Signs for penis, vagina, mouth, anus, fingers. Then more complicated signs for kissing, touching, sex, anal sex. Discussion of how to handle slang, the need to spell out certain terms that there weren't standard signs for. It did not surprise Mel that there wasn't a particular sign for "felching" or "tribbing."

"Now, for the more practical discussion, we have a pair of volunteers," Angelika said.

Mel and Rachel stood up and moved to the center space, so that the whole class could see them, and it quickly became evident why volunteers were needed. Angus was working the screens, showcasing visual representations of the sign language; Angelika was addressing the class. They were there to demonstrate.

"One disadvantage sign language has is that it requires space. If you're crushed in at a club, or dancing close together, communication can be difficult . . . here, Mel, please sign to Rachel that you'd like to make love to her."

They had been placed within twelve inches of each other, which gave Mel very little space to move. He had to concentrate not to brush against Rachel's breasts as he made the necessary signs.

"You see? And she could barely see some of those signs. This is more of a problem in the bedroom. Imagine being intimate and trying to communicate with your partner. Mel, take a seat; Rachel, please sit in his lap, facing him."

They had provided a chair for this purpose, and Rachel couldn't suppress a smile and a blush as she settled, fully clothed, on Mel's thighs. Only she could feel the sudden hardness that pressed against her, and Mel had to fight the urge to grab her hips and press Rache to him.

"In situations like this, it is best to discuss plans for lovemaking ahead of time, or at least to choose positions that allow a maximum of face time and freedom of movement," Angelika said and signed. "If your partner knows sign language, most spelling-signs can be pressed into a palm."

Rachel demonstrated, pressing her left hand into Mel's right, staring him in the eyes as she spelled out: T-O-N-I-G-H-T.

"The greatest challenge will be with people you don't know," Angelika said. "So please don't expect to leave this classroom and immediately be able to pick up deaf men or women for one-night hookups. Yet if you or your partner relies of sign language, it is critical to communicate consent and preference. Incorporate communication considerations into your play. With experience, sign language can be part of your love language, with shorthand signs enabling more spontaneity during sex."

The clothes stayed on, but they demonstrated a few more positions. At one point, Mel was on the floor, Rachel sitting on his face. He could smell her through her jeans. They were holding hands and trying to spell-sign to each other.

"You see, if Mel here is performing oral sex in this position, he can't see Rachel signing, but they could arrange a system of signals that he can feel even when eye contact is lost."

By the end of the class, Mel and Rachel were both red-faced and smiling; the rest of the class was grinning as well, and more than once some laughter had rippled out across the room. Dawn walked with them to the bus stop.

"You two are too cute together," the older Black woman said. "Are you going to practice tonight?"

Rachel slipped her hand into the back pocket of Mel's jeans.

"You know, I think we might," she said with a grin.

Their mood was light, Rache leaning against Mel as she read her book, Mel keeping an eye on the stops so they didn't miss theirs. Mel's stomach rumbled, and he was looking forward to a bowl of ramen and sausage, and maybe they'd finish the intermediate oral sex video and practice a little.

The whiff of pizza as the door to 501 opened told him that things were not going to go according to his hopes and dreams. Rachel's smile died as she stepped into the apartment and saw Jordan, Jenny, Béibhinn, Anastasia, and Detective MacElroy.

The brain bat had taken off her coat and laid it across the back of the couch, and rolled up the sleeves of her shirt as she carefully devoured a hot wing. Mel took note of her shoulder holster, visible now over her vest, the butt of her gun clearly visible under her left arm. 'stasia waved her fork, digging into a boxed salad, all black jeans and a black jean jacket. Jordan and Jenny were naked. Béibhinn was in a pair of black hotpants that emphasized her thighs and a t-shirt cut down so that it showed her midriff and hung loose off her shoulders.

"Mr. Arkwright," the detective said. "Miss Carmichael. You must be hungry. Please, have some pizza. We'll talk after."

Mel had never been so disappointed to grab a slice of cheese pizza with extra cheese. They ate in silence, the weight of expectations on them all. He cracked a Quench and watched the Detective carefully scrape the gristle and crunchy bits off the ends of the bone, leaving it nearly clean. When they were all done, and the wet wipes were distributed, she finally came to the real reason for her visit.

"I did not send the Rhizomat," the brain bat said. She watched Mel's head shrink down between his shoulders, like a bad puppy waiting for the newspaper. "They aren't a part of our little coalition. We have channels of communication, but their idea of collective action is different than ours. I want to emphasize you didn't necessarily do anything wrong; you had no way to know. That was my fault for not being clearer about who would be visiting you and when. However, this has brought up another issue. Tell me about this dream you've been having."

He blinked and stood up a little straighter. A prisoner granted a reprieve from a well-earned ass-chewing. All eyes were on Mel. It made his neck itch, the whole room full of women hanging on his every word.

"Well, it started out as this memory about my last winter at the orphanage, when I was alone . . ." and Mel told them about the glimpse of that fleeing figure, the old bathroom with the cracked mirror and dripping sink, the gloryhole to empty space that shouldn't have been there. Then he told them about how it changed, and it surprised him how much detail he remembered, how clear it all was. Most dreams faded in the minutes after awakening, but he'd had this one so often that it was almost like recalling a memory. "...and then I saw my hand change. Sort of re-weave itself."

As he spoke, Jordan and Jenny had moved to hold hands. Hesitantly, Jenny had held out a hand to Béibhinn, who held it out to MacElroy. By the time he finished, all four of them were chained together. Anastasia didn't miss this development, her dark eyes alight with interest.

"Dreaming is rare among sentient species," Anastasia said at last. "What the Rhizomat call dreamsinging, is that like the forms of communication brain slugs and related species use? Humans can be receptive to brain slug communication on a mostly subconscious level, but can the Rhizomat do it consciously?"

"Yes, we believe so," MacElroy said. "Although as with most of life, the mechanism is more complicated. Think of it like tuning your radio or analog television set to an alien broadcast; different species generally don't share the right formatting to process the information. Yet even then, there are sometimes clear images, snatches of song, that sort of thing. The Rhizomat are particularly good at tuning themselves to interface with other neural systems. Even computer networks. It's part of what makes them so dangerous."

"And the figure in the dreamsinging," 'stasia pressed. "The one Mel saw as himself in the dream?"

MacElroy's jaw worked. "Such beings exist. I suspect that the memory Mel saw was triggered because the Rhizomat recognized something in Mel's mind."

"What is it?" Mel asked.

With her free hand, the detective scratched her chin.

"You have to understand the Exodus didn't just happen. We had received signals from Earth years before. The planet had been identified, its broad characteristics determined by astronomers. Oxygen-rich atmosphere, watery, in the Goldilocks zone, the approximate gravity and electromagnetic field strength—there were all essential considerations. Species that couldn't survive here didn't come this way. They took their chances fleeing in other directions, aiming for other worlds. Or they died," the brain bat said. "So we knew what humans looked like, had an idea of your general body plan. Built databases of your anatomy. Symbiont species like ours weren't just rolling the dice; we wanted to be as sure as possible we could bond with humans. And our different hive minds and polities planned for our first encounter very carefully."

"So one of the hive minds went to the Rhizomat and bought a . . . what do you call it?" Rachel asked.

Béibhinn shrugged, an eloquent gesture given she was holding both Jenny and MacElroy's hands.

"There hasn't been a need for a word for it in any Earth language. They are exceedingly rare, and only made for specific purposes. They combine many of the advantages of brain slugs and Rhizomat. Normally you don't think about breathing, or your heart beating, or your stomach digesting food; it just happens. Yet a changeling has complete consciousness and control of their body at an almost cellular level. They are extremely biologically hardy and adaptable, able to reshape themselves to adjust to nearly any environment, to mimic the body plan of any species of comparable mass. But they are also unpredictable; the distributed Rhizomat neural network and the brain slug's ability to integrate neural systems at a very low level make them lateral thinkers. Able to act independent of the hive mind. Perfect for long-term infiltration, assassination, scouting . . ."

"Changelings," Mel said.

"As good a name as any," MacElroy said. "We were unaware of any changelings among the Exodus. Yet based on your dreams, and what you saw from the Rhizomat's memory, it suggests there is one. And if you're dreaming of it, then it must be close. Probably somewhere in this apartment building."

Mel blinked.

"Is that bad?" he said.

Béibhinn and MacElroy were both working their jaws, a shared and weirdly synchronized gesture that sent a creep down Mel's spine.

"We don't know. They can be extremely dangerous, but it depends on their individual mission. If it wanted to kill you, it would probably have done so already. Yet it has to be relatively close if it's slipping into your dreams. That proximity might be worrisome, especially with the Rhizomat's interest in you. The Rhizomat see them as the living vessels of a contract. As long as the changeling exists, an obligation bonds the hive mind who requested it and the Rhizomat who provided it," MacElroy said. "If there is a changeling on Earth, you might be their best chance to find it."

Mel let that sink in. He had questions.

"Is that why Jenny's been having bad dreams?" he asked.

The brain bat shook her head.

"Post-traumatic stress. Antonio's assault nearly killed her. Forced a budding. That's . . . well, you can guess the human equivalent. Connecting with the hive mind can help distribute the trauma, but at night, when she's alone, the memories can be overwhelming. At some point, she might need to return to the Compound to commune with the Ancient and others. Lose herself in the hive mind. For now, they want to stay here with you."

Mel let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Rachel's hand found his, and he squeezed it.

"What did you do with the last sperm sample you took for testing?" he asked.

MacElroy and Béibhinn smirked.

"We fed your sample to a brain slug, and then extracted the processed cells. Normally, the efficiency of the process is about 50%; unhealthy, weak, and mutated sperm are weeded out, and some die during the transgenic binding. Yours was closer to 95%, near the theoretical maximum. A large part of that is just the overall healthiness of your sample, but it's still notable. You aren't superhuman, Mel Arkwright, but you do seem to be a very, very good match with brain slugs," she said.

"One in a million," Rache gave his hand a squeeze.

"We haven't calculated the exact percentile yet," Béibhinn said. "But probably considerably more than that."

Mel knew things were done when the hand clasps broke and MacElroy reclaimed her coat.

"Anyway. Good talking to you. I wanted to give you notice that an Etherling is going to drop by tomorrow. You can speak freely with them. Other than that, listen to Béibhinn. Keep your eyes and ears open," she said. "You have my number if you need to contact me."

"What if I see the changeling?" Mel asked.

MacElroy paused at the door. She looked back at Mel, shades hiding her eyes. The brain bat tentacles on her neck flashed crimson for a moment, then faded back to her normal skin color.

"You can try to run," she said. "But it will probably be too late."