Obvious Benefits

The technological revolution from the Exodus is ongoing. Knowledge is currency, and the various factions among the refugees have generally been careful in the release of technological information and expertise, parlaying their information into resources and political capital. Not everything translated—there were no immediate cures for cancer, no flying cars coming immediately to market—but thousands of years of incremental improvements and alternate technological tracks have resulted in advancements in nearly every field of human material science, which has been slowly integrated into Earth's manufacturing and production. Smaller and faster computers, better cybernetic integration, and more efficient and long-lasting batteries are only some of the obvious benefits of the Exodus.
—Anaïs Nineveh, The Exodus: A History, Chapter 2

There were two buses waiting for them. A smaller one had a lift in the back, with a space where a wheelchair could be securely strapped in. The new host was wheeled in there, and the Immortals-jacket-wearing trans host, who was going to be their new roommate in 402, went with them. The rest of the brain slug hosts and humans filed into the longer bus, the same one they'd been on before.

Different driver, Mel noticed. This one was a younger Asian man with a name tag that read Feng McMurtry. He wore some kind of plastic shield or brace around his neck, though he didn't look hurt. Just uneasy. He seemed relieved to see actual humans and insisted they sit up front, near him.

"First time I've made this run," Feng said. "Never driven for brain slugs before."

"They don't bite," Anastasia assured him. "Just tired and wanting to go home, like the rest of us. Most of them have jobs to go to."

That seemed to reassure Feng as he closed the door.

Stars faded. The sky turned a million shades of dark blue until creeping streamers of pink cloud came over the horizon. The bus pulled off into a gas station with an attached diner. Everyone filed out, and Mel found Jenny grab his hand and guide him toward the diner.

Breakfast was on the hive mind.

Mel, Jenny, Jordan, Rachel, and Anastasia shared a table. The wait staff were, Mel noticed all brain slug hosts, in pink dresses with white lace trim. There was a manager, large, balding, bearded, and with heavy drooping eyes, who counted heads and menus but said little. He was surprised to see their table, with the three humans, eyes widening a little as he watched them, untrusting of the company they kept. It was a look that Mel was getting used to.

"It wasn't a spaceship," Anastasia explained, as she sipped her coffee. "Habitat module that they set down on a wilderness reservation. We actually went in the back way; the other side has the geothermal tap, cisterns, filtration facilities, visitors center, and gift shop. A surprising amount of habitability is just plumbing."

"How do you know all this?" Mel asked Anastasia. Before she had sat down at the table, 'stasia had ordered a cup of coffee for herself, and Rachel had told the brain slug waitress to just bring the pot, which arrived within minutes. The waitress offered Mel a cup, but he shook his head.

"They have a website," 'stasia said. "Virtual tours. Social media. And I've been emailing and interviewing everyone I can. You've been reading my dissertation, right?"

"Yeah," Mel said, and he thought back to the email address he'd seen in the citations. "Been meaning to ask you about that. When I first met you, I didn't think you knew much about brain slugs. But you've been deep into the brain slug lore for years. You knew about Jenny before we met, didn't you?"

Mel's tone came out harsher than he had intended. He hadn't meant it to sound like an accusation. Yet he was tired, and still hurt. Rachel glanced at him, lips tight. Jordan's hand was on her arm. Mel had noticed that Jenny and Jordan were making more contact with her, skin-to-skin. He assumed that was because of the blue pearl, but didn't know how to ask about it.

"Sorry," Mel said. "That came out wrong."

"Eighteen months," 'stasia said, after taking a sip of coffee. "That's how long I've been researching and writing. I didn't lie to you, but I didn't tell you everything, either. After what happened with Antonio, I wasn't sure I could trust you. And yes, Jen and I have known each other since shortly after her integration. I got in touch with her when she was doing adult films as 'Spicy Slug.' She vouched for you, by the way."

Mel's jaw didn't quite hit his chest, but he felt like that moment in Tetris when a piece shifted just when it looked like it should make contact and suddenly filled an odd gap that made entire rows disappear.

"You don't sign," Rachel said. "I've been your roommate for weeks. I've never seen you use sign language, not once."

"Oh, no," 'stasia admitted. She held up her smartphone. "We email. She uses public computers at net cafes, that kind of thing. Less often since the attack, because she doesn't get out much. That's part of the reason I moved in. So we could keep in touch. She's been amazingly helpful and forthcoming. One of my primary sources."

Mel closed his mouth. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Jenny had never given any hint of any of this.

But then, I never asked her what she got up to during the day, Mel thought to himself. Jordan must have known, but clearly Rache didn't.

"I should have thought of that," he said. "Sorry, I'm tired, not thinking straight."

Food arrived, as if by magic.

He didn't order. Hadn't even seen a menu. The waitresses had simply started bringing out trays of food. Mel stared at his plate to the biggest breakfast he'd had in months. Two eggs, scrambled. Bacon. Two pancakes. Toast. A banana and half a grapefruit. Orange juice and apple juice. Jenny pulled out a pair of zinc tablets for Mel to swallow.

"Let's eat," Rachel said. "Everybody will think better after breakfast."

Around them, silent diners moved in eerie synchronicity, using one hand to eat and the other hand to maintain contact with the brain slug host near them. Sometimes that led to strange operations. Mel watched one table where two of the participants held their pancakes down with forks while their neighbor reached over with their free hand to cut the pancake, distributing the operation efficiently around the table until every pancake was reduced to bite-sized bits. Arms rose and fell in a way that Mel's tired brain interpreted as synapses opening and closing. The hive mind was here, in flickers and blips. He wondered if it wouldn't be more efficient for them all to take off their shoes and play footsie under the table.

As if in response, he felt toes on his foot. He looked up, startled, across the table to see Rachel smile at him.

"You were thinking out loud," she said. "Although actually, I think they like the suggestion."

Around the restaurant, shoes came off. Ankles rubbed. There was less hand-holding and more efficient ingestion with both hands. Mel, Rachel, and Anastasia ended up being the last diners, weirdly conscientious as they buttered their pancakes and dabbled on the maple syrup.

In between bites, Mel swallowed and asked another question.

"Did Antonio know?" he asked. "About your research? That you knew Jenny?"

'stasia chewed, swallowed, took another cup of coffee.

"Not everything. Antonio knew my thesis topic, and he'd recognized Jen from her brief porn career, but didn't know I was emailing Jen. Just like I didn't know Antonio's interest had become quite so—obsessive. At first, I thought he was just living a dream, being roommates with the brain slug pornstar he'd fapped to so often, even if he didn't know I knew about his little kink. If I did, I would have tried to do something. Gotten her out of there. Talked with him. Something," she said, and her eyes lifted to meet Jenny's. The young Asian woman was munching on a piece of dry toast, her expression placid, her shoulders relaxed.

The brain slug hosts around them appeared to be ignoring the conversation, though Mel knew that wasn't the case. They could no doubt see through Jordan and Jenny's eyes, hear through their ears. A part of him wondered if they could do the same with Rachel.

Jordan pulled Rachel's phone out and tapped out a few lines. She passed the phone to 'stasia across the table, and Mel saw the message on the screen.

We did not handle the situation well. Antonio surprised us all. It was not how it was supposed to go. We were very fortunate that Mel intervened when he did. Otherwise, we would have had to try to kill him in self-defense.

Mel frowned at that. The hive mind had killed Antonio in self-defense. Later, when he had fled the apartment. At least, that's what MacElroy had told him. Whispers in the World Soul and all that. Except . . . MacElroy had been wrong before. Did that mean that the hive mind was covering up killing Antonio, or did it mean that MacElroy had been wrong about that, too?

"It's better this way," 'stasia said as she handed the smartphone back. She sighed and used a wedge of pancake to mop up the last of the maple syrup on her plate. "Not in how it happened, but . . . well, in a better place and all that. Speaking of which, Rache, how are you feeling?"

All eyes are on the blonde with the bags under her eyes. Her hand reached toward the bandage on her neck, but stopped short of touching it.

"Okay. Like, I can tell it's there, but it doesn't hurt, exactly. Like getting a local anesthetic, and it slowly spreads out from the incision. It's a little stiff, but not sore yet, and I don't feel feverish. Just. Um."

A blush spread across her face. Her foot ran up Mel's leg, under the table. There was a look on her face that Mel had only seen right before intimate moments; the kind of look he was used to seeing from below, when the bridge of his nose was about level with her clit and her thighs were pressing on his ears.

"Aroused?" 'stasia suggested. "Wet?"

"Dropping," Rache said, her cheeks radiant and scarlet. "I mean, it's terrible. I thought I was just horny beyond belief when I climbed on Mel's face during the whole rite or ceremony or whatever. Who wouldn't be, with a show like that? But this whole trip back, it's like every bump in the road went straight up my . . . I've never been that sensitive before. I guess seeing Mel go at it has really . . . got my engine revving."

Mel nearly choked on his last sip of orange juice as Rachel's foot came to rest on his crotch. The sleeping trouser-snake tried to stir and wake, which brought a wince of pain. He needed to hydrate. To sleep. Brush his teeth. Shower. Maybe even process what actually happened at the Compound, what his role was in this relationship. He certainly wasn't in any position to pleasure anybody, not for a while.

Rachel's eyelids had lowered. She hadn't put her bra back on, and her nipples were sticking out, the areola pressing against the fabric, clearly outlined. She bit her lip and leaned forward, the better to rub his zipper with the ball of her foot, toes trying vainly to toy with the zipper.

"We still have the restaurant for a while, don't we?" Anastasia said. "No one's watching. You could crawl under the table . . ."

"The manager is watching," Mel pointed out, though the moment he said it, something clattered in the kitchen and the big man's head turned away. "And after last night, I don't even know if I could get it up right now."

"I can get you hard," Rachel said confidently, her voice a low and husky whisper, as her toes kneaded his crotch. "And then on the bus, we could take the back seats. I could sit on your lap all the way back . . . "

Neither Jordan nor Jenny did anything. They seemed frozen in place. The brain slug hosts around them were studiously ignoring the table, all eyes elsewhere.

Playing lookout, a paranoid part of Mel's brain said. A knot of unease tied itself in Mel's stomach as, without further discussion, Rachel slid her chair back and slipped under the table. Not sure what he should do? Stand up? Tell her no? Did he actually want to say no? After last night, he wasn't sure he could even perform, but at the same time, the thought of Rachel on her knees under the table was enough to make the length of him ache for release like a man who finished an eating contest eyeballing dessert.

Am I just a stupid, horny 18-year-old? Mel asked himself, then added bitterly. Or just such a doormat that even Rachel thinks my dick is hers to command?

Instead of making a scene, Mel turned to 'stasia. She seemed to have all the answers, for all that he wasn't sure anymore if he could trust her to tell the truth. At least, the whole truth.

"Is this a side effect of the blue pearl?" he whispered, low enough that he hoped Rachel couldn't hear. Jordan and Jenny were busy with the tablecloth, hiding Rachel's trip. "I mean, I don't want to disappoint Rachel, but this doesn't seem like her."

Anastasia shook her head, loose black hair waving.

"It isn't supposed to work like that. The hive mind doesn't control her in the same sense as a brain slug. She's just acting as a relay for the bioelectrical signals they communicate with. There might be some spillage, but she hasn't even healed yet," 'stasia said back, not bothering to lower her voice. She scooched away from the table to give Rachel more room. "It's possible the anesthetic agent is having a side effect. And, well, you haven't exactly been engaging in your regular sexual schedule the last week, and she just sat through most of a group sex outing without getting much action. She might just be pent up."

Mel gulped as his zipper was pulled down. Jordan, sitting next to him, grabbed his right wrist as her sister began to nuzzle the half-limp noodle. She pressed a condom into his hand.

"What about Feng?" Mel asked, suddenly remembering the driver.

"Sit in the back of the bus," 'stasia said. "I'll keep Feng distracted. You two need some time together."

Mel didn't have a reply to that. Rachel had already unzipped him and was doing her best to stuff his testicles into her mouth like a squirrel stuffing its cheeks with nuts.