The Blue Pearl is working well.

In the Sahara, glass spires rise, an echo of a desert planet whose quasi-insectoid inhabitants looked up from their nests and dreamed of the stars. In the warm waters of Florida, the Greyan pods make their homes half on water and half on land. Lower oxygen levels at high altitudes are better for the Alabi people, who need special breathing apparatus to prevent oxygen intoxication elsewhere. The Dark Ones sank themselves into Earth's abyssal trenches and began construction of their hive-citadel, maintaining only the most limited of contacts with the outside. Slowly, we accept the truth: we are not alone. They are here to stay. This world is richer for them.
—Anaïs Nineveh, The Exodus: A History, Chapter 2

The word hit Mel like a hammer to the heart. Rachel seemed oblivious to the impact. She had said it so lightly, so freely. Grabbed his hand and guided them back toward the apartment building. Her step was a little lighter.

"Thanks," she said. "I really needed to get that off my chest. I guess I wasn't really prepared for this whole blue pearl thing, and even if it didn't happen the way I imagined . . . I'm glad we did it."

The blonde gave Mel a smile that was somewhere between shy and naughty. Mel felt his face twist, not sure how he felt, but he said. "Me too. I mean. I'm glad we talked. But I think we still need to talk with them."

Rachel nodded, sobering for a minute. "Yeah. I think it's fair we have a sit-down. Ask for an explanation."

They took the long way home. Stopped at the co-op. There was a sale on some sort of canned electrolyte replacer called Quench, and something called a Ramen Mystery Bag that promised ten bold flavors. Rachel picked up a rotisserie chicken and blueberries. Dawn, the old Black woman they had last seen at the ASL class, smiled and gave a kind of salute. Mel recognized that, it was the gesture for "hello." Rachel and Mel gave their own return salutes.

Back in the apartment, Jordan and Jenny still hadn't put any clothes on, though they had laid down towels on the couch.

"We need to talk," Mel said. "About what happened on the bus. What the pearl's doing to Rachel."

His stomach rumbled. This time, loud enough that all three women looked at him.

"After we eat," Rachel decided.

Shrimp ramen, Mel discovered, tasted extra salty, especially when washed down with a bottle of Quench. He hesitated when Jenny handed him a zinc supplement, but swallowed it anyway. They watched a part of a documentary on how bears hibernate. It was shot in an odd narrative style, the narrator breathlessly narrating the majestic furry creatures as she described, in what felt like lurid detail, how they formed a plug to prevent themselves from pooping during the long winter, and how some female bears gave birth without waking up. That struck Mel as a strange, new kind of fear. Just waking up one day to discover children.

Sated, dishes washed, teeth brushed, and the four of them sat before the fridge with its magnetic letters. Rachel had her phone out. Mel remembered the last time they had been like this. The agreement they had made.

"On the bus, I lost control," Rachel said, staring from Jordan to Jenny. "I was ready to rip Mel's pants off and do him in the parking lot. I've never felt like that before. Why?"

Jordan and Jenny held hands. It was Jordan who finally reached for the phone and tapped out an answer. She handed it to Rachel, who leaned over to Mel so he could read it to.

Unexpected. All the brain slugs nearby. Critical mass, overwhelming signal. You felt their desires, amplified your own. We felt it happening. Couldn't stop it. Were a part of it.

Rachel let out a breath. "Will it happen again?"

More tapping.

We believe it would take many brain slugs in close proximity to have a noticeable effect. No human has been implanted with a blue pearl before. Still much we do not know. Yet we are impressed with the results. We can sense you so clearly. The blue pearl is working well.

"What happens if Rachel is out and about and there are other brain slugs nearby?" Mel asked. "Is she going to lose control again? Try to have sex with someone else?"

Jordan cocked her head. Jenny's brain slug peeked around her neck, pulsing erratically.

We do not think so. It only amplified her own desires. Rachel wanted sex with you. She needed to have sex. The Hive Mind felt so too. We all wanted that. Did you?

Mel felt Rachel's eyes on him.

"I mean . . . yeah, I've wanted to have sex with Rachel. Been dreaming about it. It was kind of awkward to do right at that moment; I was pretty drained after the ceremony, and then we were in the middle of the restaurant, and on the bus . . . I wanted to take my time, try to make her feel good, make it special. And I don't . . . I wanted her to be able to make an informed decision. That felt coercive."

None of the hurt in Mel's heart managed to come out in his words. His tongue felt thick, and the words to express himself didn't want to come out. Could he really complain about the chance to have sex with Rachel? A part of him said yes, that it hadn't felt right at the time, and in hindsight, after what Rachel told him, it almost felt worse. The fact that she was into it confused him.

Jordan and Jenny turned to Rachel in unison and each raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, I wanted to fuck him," Rachel admitted. her face and neck flushed. "That may be true, but I don't appreciate being pushed into it!"

The brain slug hosts gave an impossible four-shouldered shrug that seemed to convey utter helplessness against the primordial forces of the universe and Rachel's untapped libido against the irresistible tide of the Hive Mind's desires.

Rachel gnawed her lip for a moment.

"Why did you pick me? Why not Mel?" she asked.

In answer, Jenny stretched out her hand. Rachel furrowed her brow, but reached out with her own arm. They clasped palms. Nothing happened for several seconds. Then Jenny withdrew, and Jordan tapped away at the phone again. When she handed the phone to Rachel, the blood drained from the human woman's face. After Mel read it, he understood why.

We hoped the blue pearl would facilitate understanding, but it has not, or at least not yet. It is complicated. We need Mel as he is. We want Rachel to be a part of us. She must host the pearl as a locus of consciousness to guide the development of any hybrid fetus.

"I thought I was clear," Mel said. "I'm not ready for kids. I might never be."

"And I'm not pregnant!" Rachel pointed out. "We used a condom."

Mel found his hands bunched into fists, nails digging into his palm. This wasn't the first time they'd mentioned hybrids, but he'd always assumed it was a long-term project and involved Jordan or Jenny getting pregnant, not Rachel. The image came to him, unbidden, of all three of his girlfriends with swollen stomachs and breasts, nipples dark, puffy, and leaking. Jenny's nostrils flared, and she looked at Mel's pants. So, to Mel's embarrassment, did Rachel.

Despite how upset she clearly was, Rache gave a snrrk.

"Does the thought of knocking me up really give you a boner?" she teased.

He didn't answer her. Which was an answer in itself. Jordan, meanwhile, had been tapping a reply into the phone.

The Hive Mind is conscious of the possibility you both represent. We do not wish to push the matter before you are ready. Condoms are not perfect. Rachel is not on birth control. If a pregnancy were to result, even by accident, we wish to be there to guide the in vitro integration of the brain slug and fetus.

Rachel scowled. "But I'm not on birth control. Because you said no birth control. It feels like you're setting me up for this."

Preparing. If it happens, we must be ready. We are not encouraging unprotected sex. Better safe than sorry. We know you are not ready yet.

There was that "yet," again. Mel frowned. That knot in his gut was back. The mess of emotions he didn't want to process. Yet he had to ask one more question.

"Did you ever think about what it felt like?" he said. Mel's voice was low, but this time some of the hurt did slip through, a tone he hoped didn't come across as self-pity. "For us? For me? You didn't explain anything. I know I'm used to just rolling with things, but that whole scene left me hurt and confused. Like I was . . . used. Sometimes it feels like the only thing that's important about me is being able to provide sperm on demand. Do you understand?"

Mel didn't know when he started crying, but Jordan suddenly grabbed his shoulder, and then Rachel and Jenny were crowding in on him, hugging him tight.

He wasn't sure who started the kiss. Lips found the tears on his cheeks. Then his mouth. And at some point, he responded to that. None of them, to his relief, tried to unbuckle his belt or stroke his still-aching prick. Yet they held him, all three of them, and their mouths met his, each in turn, tongues touching, exploring, tasting. The moment one withdrew, another pushed in, so he barely had time to breathe before being lost in the next long, intimate kiss.

He wasn't sure when he stopped crying. When he started to kiss them back. When his hands, moving over their naked bodies, explored without touch. He could tell Rachel and Jordan apart from Jenny, but not the sisters from each other. Mel wasn't sure when Rachel had shed her clothes, but it happened sometime between when they left the floor and moved into the bedroom. No one touched his prick, not a mouth, not a tongue nor hand. The little strings tickled his hands as he found bald mounds, rubbing and cupping. Soft moans filled his ears. Menstrual blood stained his fingers. Sometimes he heard Rachel whisper something. Sometimes, in between kisses, he saw Jordan and Jenny's eyes, the white glowing in the dark. Holding onto him as if afraid he would go.

Maybe it wasn't an answer, and maybe it wasn't an apology. Mel wasn't sure he would have known what to do with either. Yet it was giving, and he felt that, even if he didn't have the word for what it was yet, and the hurt inside eased a little. They'd kissed the pain away.

Around midnight, nature called. Mel gently pulled himself free from the three warm bodies. Thirsty, he padded on bare feet into the kitchen for a sip of Quench.

On the fridge, in magnetic letters, someone had spelled out:

WE RE SORRY
DIDNT MEAN TO
HURT YOU
LOVE

That weird impact in his chest again. A four-letter word. One that Mel realized he had been avoiding. He wasn't sure if brain slugs knew what love was. Yet—on the way back from the park, Rachel had said we love you. Did she really mean that? Was she guessing? Or did the hive mind speak through her? How much of Rachel could be compromised now that the blue pearl was in her head?

Mel chewed over that thought and didn't like it. Before, Rachel had sort of been his harbor of humanity, the one he could trust and talk to. Yet did she really love him? Or was this all part of some further manipulation by the Hive Mind to get what it wanted?

He thought of the three living, breathing women he was about to crawl back into bed with, and resigned himself to the fact that he may never know if they really loved him until it was too late.