Officially, this incident didn't happen.

Etherling hand tools and interfaces typically have ergonomic handles designed for three gripping digits; humans tend to find them unusually short. The prehensile tail-limb-manipulators are highly dextrous by human standards, but lack the ability to apply sustained torque that human musculature has, so the majority of their tools are electro-mechanical in some fashion. From an Etherling perspective, needing to apply excess force represents a failure of design. This lack of need for raw muscle makes Etherling interfaces suitable for a wide variety of species, but it also means humans can inadvertently damage Etherling-designed equipment easily unless certified "Human-safe."
—Mallory Giger, Xenobiomechanics, Chapter 2

"Nn nn nn nn come on, bitch, tighten up."

Jenny was on her hands and knees. Mel was sitting beside the cameraman. Everyone else in the rented house was quiet, watching in silence as the musclebound actor that smelled of spray tan pounded away at Jenny's asshole. The slap-slap-slap of his balls slammed into her pussy accompanied by his grunts and disparagements.

Her face was the same placid mask. Yet Mel could see her knuckles tight and white. Her nipples weren't hard, the little pink bumps soft. Pupils small, her concentration on something else. The brainslug on her neck barely moved, drawn into itself, sensory tentacles mere nubs, the whole thing small and dark, as if it was trying to hide.

Mel's fingernails dug into his knees until he thought they would draw blood.

With a grimace, the male star grabbed her hair and pulled back. The slug on her neck bent alarmingly, and Mel saw the muscles on her body tense, eyes wide as he jackhammered his cock in and out of the hole with all the force he could muster, the impact sending ripples throughout her body.

The cameras leaned in to capture every moment. They focused on the point of contact, the composition of the scene, the sight from below as he pounded her violently.

A knot twisted in Mel's stomach as he sat on the edge of the chair, shaking, unable to move.

"He's hurting her," Mel whispered through gritted teeth, and the boom operator glanced sharply at him.

Behind him, a woman's voice, bored.

"That's what he's being paid for," she whispered in her ear. "Don't worry, it'll be your turn soon."

"I don't want to hurt her."

For a moment, as he blinked in the darkness, Mel wasn't sure if he'd whispered the words out loud or if he had just thought them loudly. Then he was aware of Jenny curled up around him. Not with her back to him, as normal, but her left arm clutching his ribs, her head just beneath Mel's chin. The cage trapped beneath her thigh. Mel felt something stir.

Without moving his body, he raised his head just an inch or two. The head of Jenny's brain slug was stretched out, sensory tentacles extended. He could feel it touch his chin, like a normal slug might investigate a leaf. It was the first time he had touched a brain slug directly since the one that had budded off.

His left arm was pinned by Jenny's body, but his right arm came up and gently stroked her bare arm. A noise drew his attention, and Mel glanced at the doorway. Rachel was there, naked, eyes closed, arms behind her back. Jordan was on her knees, the bioluminescence of her brain slug bright, licking her sister's crotch. Behind Rache, Mel could see the sickly pallor of Béibhinn, and realized who was holding the sleepwalking woman's arms behind her back.

Against his body, Jenny stirred. Her placid, expressionless face rose to stare at him, nostrils flared as she drank in his scent. The lips parted just a little, and the key emerged. Jenny's fingers came up to take it from between her teeth, and trailed the tip down the length of his body as she brought it toward his cage.

Rache gasped as the cage unclicked. Jenny pressed her lips against his as she grabbed his stiffening shaft. Mel opened his lips, just as an invitation, and her tongue darted in, quickly. The brain slug host didn't smile, but her kiss lingered for a moment as she rubbed her thumb along his sensitive, swelling helmet, before moving backwards. Slinky and unhurried in her movements. In control as her mouth found the veiny side of Mel's meat and explored the length and girth of it with her tongue.

Behind her, at the doorway, Rache had ceased to struggle. She was enjoying the show almost as much as Jordan's mouth sucking at her cunny.

"The best part of waking up . . ." Rache sang, an ancient commercial that had survived a hundred permutations over the years, yet still instantly recognizable. Mel grinned back as Jenny's tongue tickled the soft underside leading up to his urethra. It was her turn today, and Mel didn't want to leave her wanting.

Jenny's left hand tickled the sensitive skin behind Mel's balls as her mouth closed over his helmet. Her right hand stroked him unhurriedly, thumb and forefinger making a tight circle that squeezed his shaft as it rose and fell, rose and fell, in a steadily increasing rhythm. Mel sat up now, and saw her brain slug was pulsing freely, the kind of behavior he'd come to associate with curiosity and excitement. The echoes of the dream faded away as he felt the pressure build at the root of him, his hips twitching, flexing his muscles so his testicles rose and fell, trying to match Jenny's rhythm without forcing himself on her.

When she was ready, two fingers pressed hard against his taint, and she sucked hard, cheeks hollowing out, her right hand a blur on his shaft. Mel held out for one beat . . . two . . . three . . . then grunted as he burst all over her tongue. The whites of Jenny's eyes glowed as she milked his meat, that terrible suction in her mouth never seemingly to leave up for a moment. She gulped, then ran her tongue all over his head, so that when she pulled away he was nearly clean.

"As long as we're all here and naked," Béibhinn said. "Let me show all of you how to throw a punch."

Mel frowned. "Is that part of Tai Chi?"

"Yes," the ghola said.

They moved into the living room and turned the lights on so that Béibhinn could demonstrate.

"The key to punching is balance. Your aim is to transfer energy from your body into that of your opponent—ideally, without breaking your fucking hand. First, form a fist. Palm open, four fingers curl inwards. Thumb on the outside, curl it over the first two fingers. See? Those first two knuckles are your striking surface. You need to get all the mass of your body to make contact with the smallest area possible. Maximize the force per square inch," the ghola said.

Everyone made a fist as Béibhinn indicated. Some of what she said reminded him of what he had been reading in Xenobiomechanics. He wondered if aliens had martial arts, and if any of that transferred to different hosts. A lot of the specific movements probably weren't, but the basic principles were probably transferable.

"Now, in tai chi, the point of a bunch is to put your whole body into it. Strike as if you're putting your fist through the target; don't just stop at the point of contact. You want the follow-through. Humans have a lot of muscles, and if they align properly, the power can be explosive. That doesn't mean you should try to fist-fight anybody, especially an extraterrestrial, because seriously, if a K'ulr'k wants to fuck you up, they will, and assume every Etherling is armed at all times because if they're planetside they're basically an exploratory party."

She took them through five different ways to punch. It was a different sort of workout from what Mel was used to, and he was surprised to feel the burn of unfamiliar muscles. It was different than just pushing up against a floor, and he the movements made him feel awkward. Jordan, Jenny, and even Rachel seemed to grasp the ideas more smoothly than he did. Or at least made it look better.

"Shit, I need to get to class," Rache said after glancing at the kitchen stove clock and stepping back into her clothes. "Love you all, byeee..."

Three kisses, and she was gone. Then it was time for the three of them to get showered and dressed themselves. Mel let the women go first. Béibhinn was hanging out in her doorway and was staring at him like she wanted to talk.

"What's up?" Mel asked.

"Anastasia. Next door. Have you had sex with her yet?" the ghola asked.

Mel frowned. "No. Why?"

"As a matter of operational security," Béibhinn said. "If I or MacElroy ask you to do something, or tell you something in private, don't share it with her. If we say it while she's present, it's fine, but if you're talking to her casual-like, be careful not to repeat it. And do not, for fuck's sake, tell her you aren't allowed to talk about it. Don't like, just deflect. You can do that, right?"

"I think so," Mel said. "But . . . why?"

Béibhinn frowned. "When I was over the other night, I read some of her Slugnomicon. She wanted to quiz me on a few things. But what she's got in that book . . . she knows things she shouldn't know. Information she shouldn't be able to access. Maybe she's just a really good researcher, but I suspect she's getting information from some other source. So for right now, just assume maybe there are things, like this conversation, she doesn't need to be privy to. Okay?"

"Okay," Mel agreed. He thought about the schedule. Fridays were going to be awkward.

Clean, dressed, and munching on slices of celery, the trio stepped forward into the spring morning. The sky was already gray, dawn coming earlier each day. Birds sang. Teenagers bitched volubly on their way to school. For a moment, the wind shifted, and Mel thought he could smell the ocean, though they were miles inland from the seaside.

In the sign, the bluebirds' nest had grown bigger. Mel wondered at the industry of the feathered beings. Hunting through all the concrete, brick, and asphalt for bits of dried grass, twigs, and anything else that might serve. Trying to build a place in a hostile world.

"Good luck, buddy," he said before walking through the door.

Blair was behind the counter. Tomie was in Ha-Yoon's office. Ha-Yoon, from the sound of it, needed an audience.

". . . and I told her, 'You do not have to spend two hundred and fifty Canadian dollars on a fist-shaped dildo. You have a fist. If you want to get fisted, all you have to do is . . .' Oh, good morning, Mel."

The manager smiled brightly at him. She smelled . . . Mel frowned. His eyes went to the trash can. Three Twinkie wrappers and four coffee cups.

"Bay Rum. It's an aftershave," she said, waving Tomie away and Mel in. "I'm not drinking it."

The small brain slug host did not appear grateful as she slipped past Mel, but he noticed that the horned brain slug on her neck became a brighter, more translucent green as Tomie slipped into the hallway. Relief, probably.

"What did you shave?" Mel asked, not thinking through the question.

"Armpits," Ha-Yoon said. "Autumn wants to try armpit sex. James is curious. Honestly, it just makes me feel clammy. What have you been up to?"

Mel considered how to answer that. The little gold stars in the whites of Ha-Yoon's eyes seemed to twinkle. She loved putting him on the spot like this, he realized. So he let his shoulders slump. Better to give her something instead of nothing.

"I might have impregnated Molly's mom. Tried to, anyway," Mel said. "Um. Also, it turns out she was my surrogate? Like, not just my half-sister's mom. Still processing that, really."

Ha-Yoon's smile was so wide that it made Mel's face hurt in sympathy. She couldn't stop, he realized. This was the conversation she'd needed her entire life to have.

"Tell. Me. Everything," she said.

So Mel did. Not everything. He left out Béibhinn's suspicions about the changeling, and he didn't talk about Molly asking him to take her virginity. Mel didn't want to get into clinical detail about the sex itself, but Ha-Yoon asked probing questions until finally she sat back, satisfied as a street cat he'd once watched eat an entire pizza that had fallen on the sidewalk. She'd been too stuffed to move.

Ha-Yoon had just that kind of satisfied sensation as she leaned back in her chair.

"That is fantastic. Do you think she took?" Ha-Yoon asked.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I've never impregnated anyone before. It will take a few weeks before Lucie knows. But I have a phone now."

He pulled the phone out of his hoodie pocket. That snapped Ha-Yoon out of her reverie and back to manager mode. She wanted his number; she wanted him to have her number. He fumbled with the contacts, but managed to get her in, under the label BOSS.

"Alright, alright, go to work," Ha-Yoon said, waving him off. "Do things, earn money."

Relief flowed through Mel as he cleaned the toilets, fed rolls of receipt paper into the hydrogen pumps and recharging stations, and restocked shelves. Familiar work. He was competent at this. Didn't need to ask for help or re-run a tutorial. He actually thought it might be a nice, quiet day.

Until the drunks arrived, just a minute after Ha-Yoon had disappeared into the women's toilet with a magazine.

Mel's relationship with alcohol was mostly non-existent. He knew about beer, wine, and liquor, but had never tasted it nor desired to; the sticky-sweet-and-sour smell of empties wafting from trash cans was enough to put him off wanting to taste any. Nobody was buying underage orphans a beer, and the age of fake IDs had passed into myth with digital fingerprinting and implanted ID chips. Mel had heard rumors of people who could spoof chip IDs, but nobody was wasting that kind of technology on letting teens get liquored up. In high school, Mel had heard about parties with alcohol, but hadn't been invited to any.

Then there were the alcoholics. Mel mostly knew them from their victims. The kids that came in whose parents crawled into a bottle and couldn't take care of them. Or worse. Scarred children from broken homes. They had been the bogeymen of too many whispered stories in the dark. The things daddy could do with a bottle. The kids with fetal alcohol syndrome. Haunted, thin women who promised they'd quit, week after week, month after month.

Both women had their hair in long braids, and both wore some sort of suit-dress, a long-sleeved jacket with a cleavage window over a skirt coming down to just above the knee, dark blue with lighter blue piping, some kind of emblem over the breast. Maybe a corporate logo; it seemed to have wings. Their heels clicked as they stumbled towards the beer fridge. The taller one, with blonde braids and broad shoulders, jerked on the door hard enough to shake the frame, brow furrowed.

"Can I help you?" Mel asked, stepping forward, swifter in his hands.

"Vat is wrong with this vucking thing?" she asked, too loud, with a thick European accent, words slurring slightly. This close, he could smell her breath. Stronger than Ha-Yoon's aftershave.

"The beer fridge is locked," Mel said. "Did you drive here?"

"The car drove us," she said, and gave the door another tug. "Open it up. I want to buy a beer."

Mel frowned. There had been a customer service module about this. If the customer was visibly inebriated or aggressive, they could be refused service or asked to leave. Normally, that was Ha-Yoon's job, but she was indisposed.

"No," he said.

The woman spun away from the fridge door. Her friend, smaller and slimmer, with dark hair and epicanthic folds, put a hand on her shoulder.

"Excuse you!?" the tall drunk said, anger creeping into her voice.

"We're not going to sell you any alcohol," Mel said. "The beer fridge is closed."

"Who the fuck do you think you are, douchebag?" The tall woman said, bringing her face within an inch of Mel's. This close, the chemical odor was palpable. Behind Mel, he knew the brain slug hosts were staring, and he waved a hand, hoping they got the message to not engage.

"It's company policy," Mel said. "If you want alcohol, you'll have to go somewhere else."

The shorter woman with black braids pulled her friend back. She smiled at Mel, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. Her cheeks and nose were rosy.

"Hey, hey . . . no need to be rude . . . I'm sure cutie here will unlock the fridge for us?" She drew close and her left hand pressed against Mel's chest. "All we want is to keep our buzz going. Just sell us a few beers. That's what they're there for, right?"

She leaned close, her cheek pressing against Mel's.

"We can make it worth your while," she whispered, and then her hand grabbed at his crotch.

Mel winced. Not in pain, but at the sudden, unexpected tug as she pulled at the cage through his jeans. He heard movement behind him, and hoped the others weren't going to start shit. The drunk woman tugging at his junk frowned and pulled away, but didn't let go.

"What the fuck?" she said, not able to process what her fingers were telling her.

"Ma'am, as a duly authorized Cosmic Fill-Up employee, I'm asking you to leave," he said, in what he hoped was a firm tone.

"Some kind of fucking freak shit. Greta, feel this!" the shorter woman said. Mel spared a glance behind him. Jordan was headed toward the women's restroom. Jenny and Tomie were staring. The tall one with the blonde braids, Greta, stepped forward and grabbed at his crotch.

"Metal?" Greta said. Mel held the swifter between himself and the drunk women and tried to step back, but they weren't letting him go. "Vat faggotry is this?"

That earned her an elbow in the ribs from her friend.

"I told you to stop calling people that," the smaller drunk whined. "You are going to get us in trouble."

"Ladies, let go of me," Mel said, with as much seriousness as he could muster.

They were already undoing his belt buckle.

"Shut up and show us the penis!" Greta said. "Stupid little man, I vill get something to drink, even if—"

Mel looked back at the counter. Jenny was already moving.

No no no, he wanted to say. Don't hurt them; you'll get in trouble.

Hitting a customer would be a career-ender. Instead, Mel twisted and pulled away. The belt came off in Greta's hands. The jeans fell off Mel's narrow hips.

"Fundoshi!" the dark-haired drunk woman said. "Ooh, I bet he's fun."

Mel glanced back at Jenny. Tomie and Blair were moving too. He dropped the swifter and faced them, and made the ASL sign for stop, a sharp, chopping gesture that took both hands. That brought Jenny to a halt. She was tense, ready to fight, flee, or . . . Mel yelped as someone pulled at the knot, and his underwear unraveled.

The two drunk women stared.

"Mein Gott," Greta said, blinking rapidly.

"Jackpot!" her companion said.

"You both need to leave, now," Mel repeated, less because he thought it would do any good than because he couldn't think of what else to say. If there was a fight right now, and these two drunken women hurt any of the brain slug hosts, it was going to be Antonio all over again. Yet they were too inebriated to even be aware they were in danger.

Then Detective MacElroy came in. She saw the two drunk women, Mel with his pants down, and three brain slug hosts that looked ready to throw down. Swiftly, she pulled her badge.

"Seacouver Police! Nobody move!" she barked. The broad-shouldered brain bat stalked forward.

"Mr. Arkwright. What happened?" she said.

"They're drunk. Wanted a beer. I wouldn't open the fridge, asked them to leave, then they got . . . handsy," he said.

"Understood. Please get dressed. As for you two—"

Jenny grabbed Mel's fundoshi as he pulled up his pants, holding it closed because Greta was still holding his belt. A moment later, Ha-Yoon emerged from the magazine, and for the first time in Mel's life, he saw she was actually angry. Not loud angry, but quiet angry. The kind of angry that got kids sent to the psychiatric evaluation for three days because they weren't safe around others. She stormed in beside MacElroy, and the two drunk women seemed to wither under a very intense conversation that ended with Greta handing back the belt and the two drunk women exiting the store with their heads bowed, MacElroy right behind them.

"You," the manager said with a sigh. "Need to take the intermediate and advanced courses in how to deal with an unruly customer. Including when it's okay to call the cops and when it's okay to defend yourself."

"I didn't want to start a fight," Mel said. "If Jenny or the others were hurt, the hive minds would—"

"It is sometimes preferable to give someone a broken nose and risk being fired than to be sexually molested," Ha-Yoon said. Then she sighed. "Fuck, I need to write this up as an incident report."

Jordan and Jenny hovered protectively around Mel, arms around his shoulders. MacElroy came in and walked back to Ha-Yoon's office. They had a quiet word, and when they emerged, she looked at Jordan and Jenny and said:

"I need a word with Mr. Arkwright in private. Just to make sure he understands what did and didn't happen here. Ten minutes, max. We're just going to take a walk around the building."

Reluctantly, they unwound themselves from Mel. Jordan picked up the dropped swifter. Mel followed the detective outside the building.

"Do I have to press charges?" Mel asked, once they were outside.

"No," MacElroy said. "Officially, this incident didn't happen. I've put a caution on their ID tags for public intoxication. Their vehicle is now programmed to take them back to the airport hotel. Police override. They won't be able to go anywhere else. If they try, it'll send an alert, and they'll get picked up by the beat cops. That could be a bit messy for us, but there's nothing strange about a couple of airplane stewards who've had too much to drink."

Mel blinked. He'd never heard about police doing things in exactly that manner before. "You can tell their car where to go."

MacElroy held up her right hand, the one with the implanted chip for credit and IDs. "The world you live in, Mel Arkwright. You have fewer rights and more privileges than you think. Privileges may be curtailed and taken away. Tracking isn't just easy, it's mandatory."

Mel thought about kids not being able to get a fake ID to buy beer. This was the same thing, he realized, just at a much more pervasive level than they'd ever talked about in his civics classes.

They reached the back of the building, where there was a blind spot with the cameras.

"You have it?" MacElroy asked. "You did what I asked?"

He blinked, then his hand went to his hoodie pocket, and he took out the small device she'd given him. Mel passed it back to her. "Every room."

"Excellent," she said, pocketing the device.

Then she turned and faced him. The turban seemed to undulate for a moment, and he saw the arms of the brain slug that protruded beneath change from human-skin-colored to purple for a moment.

"If I had not come in there when I did," MacElroy said. "How would you have handled that situation?"

Mel frowned. "Run to the men's room, maybe. I didn't want to leave them with Jenny and the other brain slug hosts—"

"—because you were afraid of what the hive minds would do," MacElroy said. "And I appreciate that. It was a genuine concern. You're not an inherently violent person, Mr. Arkwright. That isn't something that can be said for most in your demographic—white, male, late teens. If violence had happened, you would have been suspect. We could have cleared you with the video in the story, with testimony from your coworkers, but—as you know, that kind of media attention could be bad. Very bad. I know people your age like to think of yourselves as needing to act heroically, but you are still very much trying to maintain a low profile. We don't need Mel Arkwright, hero clerk. That generates official and unofficial reports. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Mel said, frowning. He could tell she wasn't lecturing him, exactly, but it still felt like he'd either done something wrong, or almost had.

"Excellent," the brain bat said, and the tentacles went flesh-colored again, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for. They started walking again. "I don't mean to be crass, but if there is a choice between getting a blowjob, even if it will upset your girlfriends, or getting violent, just submit to the blowjob. You can apologize and make it up to your girlfriends later. I know that sounds terrible, but another police report might get someone killed."

Mel swallowed hard and nodded gravely.

It was time for lunch when Mel returned. Jordan and Jenny were conscientious, even clingy. Yet the rest of the afternoon was, thankfully, peaceful.