You can't solve all your problems with cunnilingus

Other species think of them as biological robots, but they are much, much more than that. To the Rhizomat, each changeling is made for a specific purpose; a collaborative project designed for a given end. It embodies a single, specific function, and all of the obligations of both the Rhizomat and the brain slug hive towards that function. It is, in effect, a living contract and a treaty embodied as an individual, capable of enforcing the terms of that agreement.
—Anastasia Massimi, Slugnomicon: A Guide To Brain Slug Spirituality (unpublished draft)

"I'm sorry," Mel said to Rachel as they hit the sidewalk, in hoodies and jeans, Anastasia in her long coat and jeans behind them. They were headed not for the park, but to an all-night pharmacy that 'stasia knew on Eighth Street.

"What are you apologizing for?" Rache asked, her hand in his.

"I didn't—I couldn't hold it," he said. "And now you have to take a pill, and I know it's not going to be comfortable and—I feel responsible."

'stasia snorted. "Is he always like this?"

"Always," Rache said, a wistful smile on her lips. "He's too good to be true. Mel, you were asleep in your own bed. It's not your fault I climbed onto your dick. I just wish I'd been awake. Now I have to go take a morning-after pill, and I didn't even get to feel you breed me."

"Breed you!?" 'stasia said, one eyebrow raised.

"So I have a kink. Sue me," Rache said. "And I haven't even really gotten to indulge it yet. Not really. We're always careful to use condoms, but I was hoping maybe we could do some dirty talk, maybe a roleplay scenario . . ."

"Hmm," 'stasia said. "Mel, tell me about the dream again."

He did, glad they were out early enough that there weren't many people on the sidewalks. Once or twice he saw a brain slug host, the little dark bodies half-hidden on their necks. It was too warm out now for scarves or high collars that might help hide them. Their eyes looked not at Mel, but at Rachel as they passed. Yet none stopped to sign hello.

'stasia interrupted, asking questions. Details about the room, about what Jenny and Jordan were doing. She seemed focused on Mel's perception of how much time had passed, the transitions between sleep and waking, or lack thereof. Mel tried to answer, though he wasn't sure what she was getting at.

". . . and then I woke up, and it was already too late," he finished, as they approached the bright lights of the pharmacy. It wasn't a chain he recognized, but a smaller store, the older woman behind the counter in a white coat and with grey streaks through her dark hair, which was caught up in a bun with chopsticks. 'stasia stepped forward and had a word with her, and the woman went off among the shelves.

The woman behind the counter returned with three small cardboard boxes—and he was surprised to see not just Morning After AD, but condoms and dental dams. She didn't ask for an ID or anything like that. Mel wasn't sure what the procedure was for this kind of thing, but he stepped forward.

"I should pay," Mel said, raising his right hand, where the credit chip was embedded.

Nobody stopped him. He winced as the funds were debited. It was a good thing he liked ramen. As the woman placed the box into a bag, Rachel selected a tall, thin can of cold coffee from a fridge and bought it. At the counter, she read the instructions on the box, opened it there at the counter, and swallowed a pill with a slug of cold caffeinated liquid. The woman behind the counter didn't even blink.

"This afternoon," Rachel announced. "Is going to suck. I'm going to cramp like a motherfucker."

"Better a motherfucker than a fucking mother," 'stasia shot back. She was walking ahead of them now, and stared up at the sky, which was overcast and hid the stars, the moon, the first deep blue that promised dawn. "What do you think happened last night?"

Mel blinked. "I—I think the changeling was manipulating us, somehow. I mean, you saw the way the strap on Rache's ankle was cut, the alarm on the door. I saw—"

"You thought you saw," 'stasia said. "I know when I looked in the room, there was a pair of scissors on the floor. Rachel's scissors. You said you felt the top sheet pulled off of you, but I saw the top sheet wadded up in the dirty laundry pile, not at the foot of the bed. Nobody's actually seen this changeling yet, only you in your dream—and dreamsinging."

"What are you saying?" Rache said. "That Mel made it up? That doesn't make sense."

"I'm saying we shouldn't jump to conclusions," 'stasia said. "It's tempting to see everything as connected, but that's conspiratorial thinking. This isn't the first time you've sleepwalked across the hall for his dick. This isn't the first time Mel's had weird erotic dreams inspired by his recent experiences. I suspect that Mel's brain is trying to process things, and that's coming through as dreams, but the reality might be—different. There might not be a changeling manipulating you. Maybe you're both horny for each other and had unprotected sex as lots of people do."

That shut them up for a while.

"But how did I cut my own strap in my sleep?" Rachel said. "And undo his underwear? I haven't done that before."

"And how could Rache cut the shoestring on the door alarm?" Mel added. "And somehow not wake up anybody else in the apartment?"

"The question you should be asking," 'stasia said, "is how are we going to keep Rache from doing it again tonight? Because this is too expensive to make a regular habit."

Mel and Rachel had no answer to that.

A distant siren wailed. Ambulance, not fire. This part of the city was newer construction, but with facades of brick over the concrete, so that it looked like parts of New York. Mel knew plenty of television shows shot around Vancouver for that reason. Easy to double for bigger, older cities, as long as you didn't focus on the skyline. It was too dark to see the distant towers of downtown, but he often caught sight of them in glimpses between buildings.

"I was thinking," 'stasia said carefully. "That maybe Rachel could spend the night in my bed. That way, I'll know if she moves during the night."

Mel had to smile at that suggestion.

"Were you going to ask her to do that before or after this happened?" he asked.

'stasia cleared her throat. Rachel reached forward and goosed her ass.

"I mean, when she asked about the friends-with-benefits thing last night, I can't say I didn't stay awake in bed long into the night thinking about how nice it would be to hug my roommate like a body pillow and fall asleep cupping those tits . . ." 'stasia said, and her grin, when she turned back towards them as they stopped at a crosswalk for the light to change, was absolutely wicked. ". . . is that okay?"

Rache looked at Mel, who shrugged.

"Fine by me," he said. "As long as we're careful."

"Yeah, I was planning to check in with the campus health office, get an STD screening," 'stasia said. "Hopefully with a clean result I'll be able to actually taste that pussy. Although that will be after I get done with work. I've got a shift at the coffee shop soon."

In the hallway, Mel and Rachel paused.

"It's not your fault," she said softly, wrapping her arms about his head and drawing him close.

"You're going to feel bad tonight, and I won't be there to help kiss it better," he said.

"You can't solve all your problems with cunnilingus," Rache said, a hint of sadness in her voice. "But I love that you're willing to try."

The kiss wasn't well-aimed. She caught his bottom lip between hers, noses narrowly avoiding collision. They got it right on the second try, heads tilted just right, and she tasted like coffee and sugar. His hands found her hips, and for a moment Mel wondered what it would be like if the pill didn't work, if she was—but she broke the kiss before he finished that thought.

"We'll find time," Rache promised.

Mel stepped back into 501 to see Béibhinn sitting on the couch, holding a box like a small suitcase made of brushed aluminum on her lap. He recognized it, although he hadn't seen it for some time. The ghola had the lid up, and her eyes ran over the contents, the distinctly smooth phallic shape, yellowed like the ancient pool balls in the rec room at the orphanage. Sort of L-shaped, as though carved out of an ancient femur. Jordan and Jenny stood behind her, hands on the ghola's bare shoulders, and Mel could see their brain slugs were shifting colors, green to pink to green again.

All three women turned to see Mel.

"We got Rache a morning-after pill," he said. "What's up?"

Béibhinn's jaw worked. "Do you know what this is?"

Mel shook his head. "I assumed it was some kind of alien sex toy. Saw it once, weeks ago. Jordan had it. That was before Jenny moved in."

"This is a piece of extraterrestrial biotechnology," Béibhinn said. "Not a toy. I didn't know they had this. If the Collective knew . . . or the Rhizomat . . ."

She didn't finish the thought. Mel gestured at the box.

"What does it do?" He remembered to sign this time, embarrassed that he'd forgotten. Jordan and Jenny just stared at them, but their brain slugs went pure pink, and for a moment Béibhinn's eyes rolled up in her head, and her jaw worked like a cat yawning. When the spasm ended, the brain slugs had returned to their typical emerald, and Béibhinn snapped the box shut, standing up abruptly and pulling away from her roommates' hands.

"You know how humans have technology to select the healthiest sperm and eggs? Even select zygotes to pick the ones of a particular sex, or that don't have genetic diseases?" Béibhinn said. "Well, this is kind of a selector for brain slugs. It lets them filter their reproductive cells, control a lot of the variables that lead to mutation. The hive minds used to use this to implant embryos for development in a selected host and produce phenotypical spawn without budding."

Mel scratched his neck, thinking of slug flu. "Like . . . wasps? The ones that inject an egg into their prey, and it eats its way out."

The ghola's jaw worked as she handed the box to Jordan.

"It's proscribed technology. We're not supposed to use it anymore. There are agreements in place. There are stories—memories. Hive-worlds that kept hosts in cages, bred them in factories. Sub-sapient species, bred for specific traits, their every need taken care of so all they had to do was gestate brain slugs, which were destined to integrate with sapient hosts. Armies could be birthed and deployed in days. There were wars about this technology. The Seacouver Hive isn't supposed to have this. Yet they trusted this to you," Béibhinn addressed the last to Jordan.

"Because of the Program?" Mel said, thinking about how the government had placed him here, basically under the hope that a horny 18-year-old and a hungry brain slug host would see to each other's needs.

Béibhinn frowned. "Maybe. But if she was going to grow a slug in you, she would have done it already."

Jordan held the box and turned to stare at Mel. Her eyes looked wet. Jenny, next to her, began to sign. He spoke out loud, trying to remember the signs.

"Not...you," he said. Then she cradled her hands in front of her and her arms moved. Mel didn't know that one, but he could guess.

"Baby," he said. "You don't want to use it on me. You want to use it on the baby."

Jordan nodded.

Mel knew he was slow, but the piece clicked into place.

"They told us a while ago that one of their long-term goals was a hybrid. A brain slug integrated with a human fetus. Born together," he said. "They were saving that for when Rache gets pregnant. But they're being patient. Waiting for us."

"They might be," Béibhinn said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Certainly, if Jordan and Jenny had arranged last night's little event, they would have used it. What I'm concerned about is who else knows about this. If there is a changeling . . . this could be what they're after."

"To take it away from them?" Mel asked.

"To use it," the ghola said. "Changelings are designed to be sterile. This could change that."