He Should Know

Face the brain slug directly. Conversation should begin with eye contact, just to make sure you have their attention, but their eyes will drift as you begin to sign, as they follow the movements. If it is helpful to you to speak aloud while signing, do so. Remember that most brain slug hosts have excellent hearing. They may not be able to vocalize, but they can hear and, through sign language, speak. Do not mistake silence for lack of intelligence; a brain slug attached to a host is highly intelligent.
—How To Talk To Brain Slugs, Chapter 1: Sight

Mel carried the envelope all the way home, through dark streets that grew lighter with each step as the son rose, casting shadows of light through the grid of the streets. His wounded foot still ached, worse by the time he reached the apartment building. Curiosity gnawed at him, a little. Physical mail wasn't something orphans saw much of. No Christmas or birthday cards, no postcards from friends or relatives on vacation. There had been a pen pal program to encourage cursive skills, but the "pen" was a digital stylus and the output was an email, accessed via school tablet or one of the shared computers.

He hadn't participated. Writing wasn't Mel's best skill. Mel could, barely, do it, but the school hadn't emphasized it and he hadn't had much experience with it. And it wasn't as if he had anyone else to write to. No diary or journal to keep.

Maybe I should start, he thought. Hell, maybe Jordan and I could write each other . . . communicate via notes. I just need paper. Or something.

As he entered the building, Mel glanced at the ancient, brass-fronted block of mailboxes. He stopped in front of the one for 501; the same keycard that unlocked the door to the apartment worked here too. The box stood empty, as it usually did. Mel closed it again.

Rachel was in the hallway outside 501 and 502, the doors to both apartments open, talking with the building manager, Mrs. Chin, and a stocky woman Mel hadn't met before.

The newcomer was about Mel's height, and compared to Rachel was voluptuous; bottom-heavy, in a pleated black skirt that ran down to her black boots, and a grey cardigan that covered a matching top. Dark of hair and eye, she made a study in contrasts with the taller, thinner, blonder Rachel and the shorter, older Mrs. Chin with her greying locs. Soft skin a gentle olive complexion, no real wrinkles; Mel thought she might be about his own age. She was, technically, heavier than Rachel, but she carried the weight well. It looked healthy on her, and when she smiled there were dimples in her cheeks.

They were talking, and for a moment Mel thought perhaps the newcomer was signing, because her hands were moving animatedly, but as he got closer he realized she was just one of those people that talks with their hands.

"Oh, hey," Rachel said as she spotted him. "That's Mel."

"Hi," Mel said, and waved with the hand that didn't hold the envelope.

"So you're the one," the newcomer said, and gave a resigned sigh. Her eyes dropped to Mel's shoe, the one with the cut in it. "How's your foot?"

"Hurts," Mel said, and looked from one woman to the other. None of them introduced the new woman, so he held out his hand.

"Mel Arkwright," he said. "Apartment 501."

"Anastasia Massimi," she said, and watched Mel's face make the connection. "Antonio was my brother."

"Oh," Mel said. Then automatically: "I'm sorry."

"Thanks," she said. "Although I don't think you have anything to apologize for. The police explained what happened, what Tony did—I'm glad somebody stopped him."

He nodded, not sure what else to say.

"Anastasia came here to sort out her brother's effects," Rachel said. "But it turns out that she needs a place to live. And she needs a roommate to help cover the rent. And I need a place to stay—"

Mrs. Chin smiled. "A very good arrangement for everyone involved, yes? As long as you don't have any—complaints?"

Mel blinked, realizing she was talking to him. Then he realized how weird it was for them to be discussing this here, now, at about seven in the morning. The thought came to him that they must have arranged to meet at this time because this was when he was going to be coming home, and they knew soon he'd crash for the entire day.

"Um, no. Why would I?" Mel asked.

"Because the sister of the guy who stabbed you in the foot is moving in next door," Rachel said gently. "And if either of you feels threatened by the other, that could lead to complications no one wants. Mrs. Chin is being very considerate because vengeance is bad for business."

"Ah. No, I don't have any issues. I mean, you didn't stab me, and, um—" Mel looked Anastasia full in the face. Now that he looked for it, he could see the similarity to Antonia in the shape of the nose, the cheeks. "You don't have issues with brain slugs, right?"

"No, that was Tony's—thing," Anastasia said. "The whole slug-fucker bit. He apparently got into it online? There's like, this whole community devoted to it, and these magazines—you're not one of those, are you?"

Mel blinked, momentarily lost for words as she struggled for how to reply honestly. Rachel stepped in.

"I can definitely say I haven't seen him initiate any sexual activity with his roommates while I've been here," she said. "Hasn't even made a pass."

He gave a weak smile. "I try not to perv on anybody, really. Don't want to be a jerk."

There was some more small talk. Mrs. Chin seemed satisfied Mel wasn't going to throw a wrench into the works of whatever deal was being hammered out, Anastasia was content that Mel wasn't holding a grudge, and Rachel seemed confident that this was what was always going to happen once Anastasia and Mel met. The three women retired into 502 to finalize the digital paperwork. With a bit of relief, Mel entered his own apartment.

Jordan and Soong were both up and about, in sleeveless t-shirts and his stolen boxer shorts. Honestly, Mel was vaguely glad they were just wearing clothes while the apartment door was open. He held up the white envelope and presented it to Jordan.

"Tomie gave this to me, to pass to you," he said.

In eerie synchronicity, Jordan and Soong moved to the kitchen counter and held hands. Their free hands worked together, retrieving a knife and cutting open the envelope, then extracting the folded papers inside and laying them out. As they were reading, Rachel returned. She glanced at them.

"What are they doing?" she whispered.

"One of the brain slug hosts at work gave me an envelope to hand to Jordan. They're reading it," he said.

While they read, Mel began to set up his ramen. Hunger gnawed at him. Rachel, more curious, peeked over their collective shoulders. The brain slugs on either next turned a pale pink at the edges, but didn't squirm away. Mel knew their eyespots would have detected her. Jordan and Soong knew she was there. If they knew, and didn't act, then apparently they didn't mind as Rachel scanned the document with them.

Her eyes went wide. She glanced back at Mel.

"You—" she drew her lips into a thin line. "You have no idea what this is, do you?"

Mel shook his head. Rachel looked at the other two women.

"He should know," she said.

"Know what?" Mel asked, concerned now.

Jordan and Soong unclasped their hands. Soong headed toward the fridge, Jordan took the document and handed it to Mel.

It was a report from a place called Penwyn Labs. Sample from Mel Arkwright processed. Mel frowned at the numbers. No STIs present. Sperm count high. Motility excellent. Mutation percentage low. He looked up at Jordan's placid face, those blue eyes endless and empty as something ancient and alien stared out through them at him. He remembered the condom that Jordan had handed off the other week. They had sent it to a lab? Why?

"Congratulations," Rachel said. "You're clean. And virile."

"Virile?" he repeated. He knew what the word meant, but in this context.

"It means you can impregnate women," Rachel said, and there was emotion in her voice, as if she wanted to be louder about it but was just managing to keep it under control. "And you've got—if I'm reading this correctly—really good numbers."

"Oh," he said. Then he looked at Jordan and Soong. "But why—I mean, I get maybe wanting to check to make sure I don't have a disease, but why would that matter?"

"I hope it doesn't," Rachel said quietly. "But Mel—if you do anything else with Jordan or Soong or anyone else—you'd better wear a condom. Do you have any condoms?"

"No," Mel said, with a sinking feeling. A certainty was setting in with him that he was in new and dangerous territory—and despite his brain screaming alarm klaxons, another part of him stiffened in excitement. Both Jordan and Soong immediately turned their attention to his crotch.

Rachel noticed it too and rolled her eyes. She grabbed cold fried rice from the fridge.

"Can you three at least save it until after?" she asked, without rancor. As if it was only a token protest, a battle that was already lost. "I don't want to watch that while I'm eating breakfast."