The Hive Remembers

When dealing with the North American Brain Slug, the most important thing to remember is that, as a hive organism, injuries and insults inflicted on individual brain slug hosts will be communicated to every other host. The hive remembers those who hurt it.
—National Geographic Field Guide to Extraterrestrial Species of North America, Appendix

Jordan was still nude when Mel left for the library. He noticed the dangle of a string from between her thighs, and then swiftly looked away. That answered the question as to whether or not brain slug hosts still had periods, a question that Mel hadn't asked but felt like he should have.

The walk was cold. Mel carried the library book in his grocery bag to keep it dry as a freezing drizzle came down. Spring always seemed to come reluctantly to Seacouver. Today, however, it suited Mel's mood. Last night's dinner played over in his head. Things he should've said. Things he should say.

Do I apologize? Am I actually sorry? Or am I just trying to figure out the right combination of words so that she shows me what's between her legs? Mel wondered to himself. There were times he felt like he treated people like his searches for porn; like there was some combination of words he could say to make them do something, and he just didn't know what.

He wondered if people raised by actual parents had as much of a hard time with social interaction, with saying and doing the right thing at the right time.

Or maybe I'm just worried I'll never see Jordan's pussy again, he admitted to himself as he stepped inside the library, wet and almost numb with cold. He slid the book into the reception slot, but instead of going to look for another, something else caught his eye: a small room off to the right, next to the bathrooms, with a hand-lettered sign that read: FRIENDS OF THE LIBRARY BOOK SALE.

He turned and looked in. An old woman, dark-skinned with grey hair like steel wool, sat at a desk reading a romance novel and smiled up at him as he entered. Mel's eyes ran over the ex-library books for sale—novels, mostly. Political memoirs. Old science and math books. Self-help—and then Mel's book found the cookbook section.

1,001 Ways to Cook Ramen was originally a paperback, but the library had rebound it as a plain green hardback at some point. It was priced at about the cost of a cup of ramen. Mel took his time, clutching the book in his hand, weirdly giddy as he scanned the titles of different books.

The old woman smiled and watched. Then she asked:

"Looking for anything in particular?" she asked.

He looked up, blinked, feeling subtly guilty.

"Ah...extraterrestrials," he said. "Alien biology, sociology. Especially brain slugs."

She smiled. Mel felt transparent as glass. As if she knew exactly what he wanted, even though he hadn't said anything. Her eyes went to the door, but they were alone. From beneath the desk, she pulled out a large, somewhat worn book.

Slug Sutra: Everything You Wanted To Know About Brain Slugs But Were Afraid to Ask. There was a white line drawing of a slug on a human neck. The artist had somehow made it look like it was meant to be there, a natural part of the body. The cost was as much as ten cups of ramen.

Mel bought both books, pressing his palm with the credit chip implant against the scanner. He didn't even go into the library proper to check his email. The two books were in his bag, and he was back out in the cold and the wet, heart hammering faster than normal. As if he had just gotten away with something.

On the walk home, Mel wondered what Jordan would think if she saw him with the book. Especially after yesterday's dinner. He had to remind himself that it wasn't Jordan who was angry at him, but the hive. That wasn't actually reassuring, though. By the time he got back to his door, Mel's hair was wet and his lips felt numb, fingers stinging. He cursed himself for not checking the weather on the television before he left—it could snow, it was that cold, and he wasn't dressed for that kind of weather. Didn't have the clothes for that.

When he opened the door, he saw that Soong was on the couch, naked. Jordan was between her legs, meticulously removing stubble. Normally, the sight would have sent all the blood in Mel's brain to his crotch, but at the moment, he was cold and wet and wanted nothing more than a warm shower and dry clothes.

He was in the shower when the bathroom door opened. Jordan stood there. Watching him through the transparent shower curtain. Mel felt a heat rise to his face that had nothing to do with the hot water that rained down on him.

"You uh, you need the bathroom?" he said, voice raised above the hiss of the water.

Jordan didn't respond. She was just there. Which is probably why Mel finished early. He shivered a little. The apartment wasn't cold, but his skin was wet. He reached for the towel—and Jordan moved, pulled the curtain back. He stood there for a moment, completely exposed. She stared at him—no, not at him. Down below his waist. At the dangling bits that still felt a little shrunken from the cold.

Mel grimaced and grabbed the towel.

"I guess, um. I've seen yours, so it's fair you see mine," he said. Not sure of what else to say. It felt like the words were better than the awkward silence. As he ran the towel over his legs, he tried not to stare at her body. At the string that hung down between her legs.

They'd run through sex ed in school. He knew about menstruation. Had sat through the lecture on tampons and pads, same as everybody else. Yet it was weird to actually see it. Mel had never thought about any of the women he'd known in his life as having their periods, having to stick a cotton tube inside of them for a few days every month. It was all hidden, out of sight—and of course, porn magazines never covered that kind of thing. As far as he was aware.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. When Antonio said those things. I should have said something, but I didn't. I didn't know what to say. I don't . . ." Mel wasn't sure how to put that.

He couldn't honestly say that he didn't think of Jordan and Soong that way. The whole walking around naked thing, the masturbation, the cum eating was sexually exciting to him. He had to admit, at least to himself, that he wanted more. So much more. Yet he also didn't want to **** himself on either of them. Didn't want to take advantage. Mel didn't know how to make it clear he was sexually interested in them without coming across as a creep. After all, they were living together. If he made a move on her and she indicated no, that would make everything awkward as hell.

". . . I don't know how to talk about things like sex and not being creepy very well," he admitted. Which was true.

Jordan said nothing. He could see, now, a thin trickle of blood oozing down her thigh. Realized belatedly that she probably needed to change her tampon, that he was in the way. Mel wrapped the towel around his waist. Jordan didn't stop him or stand in his way as he slid past her.

Soong was gone, her clothes were gone. Something about that struck him as weird. He hadn't been showering that long. He crossed over to the chest of drawers to get dry clothes.

Which is when he discovered that all of his underwear was gone. The drawer where they should have been was empty.

The bathroom door closed with a click, and Mel had a sinking sensation in his gut, like a rat gets when the trap closes on them. Whether this was payback for yesterday or something else, he didn't know, but it was definitely deliberate. As deliberate as the thing with the condoms had been.

Mel thought about the books he had bought, and wondered if the Slug Sutra had any answers to this question. Because he was very afraid to ask Jordan what the hell happened to his boxers.