Adam-Troy Castro - Emissaries from the Dead

She wouldn’t say.

Maybe she was being prevented from saying.

But the more I thought about it the more I felt sorry for Gibb.

Because somehow, whatever they wanted him to do, I didn’t expect his servitude to be as privileged as mine.

Ihad little to do, in the months I spent stuck on One One One waiting for my special delivery to arrive. Most of the indentures I’d come to know were busy flying in and out of the Habitat, rebuilding their relationships with the Brachiators. I joined them on some of these trips, just for lack of anything better to do.

The Porrinyards still had some remaining duties to the delegation, but their chief responsibility was still to chaperone me, so we spent long days together, touring the Uppergrowth, staying out longer than we needed to, sometimes bypassing the hangar where the expedition transport lay berthed in order to visit the one where my own, much smaller, soon-to-be-relinquished vessel would sit until somebody got around to moving it. It felt even more cramped after my time in Gibb’s ship. We didn’t spend much time inside. But we set up a sleepcube on the deck outside, which made this hangar a fine, more private alternative to the bustling place now occupied by the displaced citizens of Hammocktown.

A few days after that, I made love to the Porrinyards for the first time.

It had been years, for me. My sexual history had never been a positive one. Every attempt I’d made had been tainted by the several times in my time as a Dip Corps detainee when I hadn’t been given a choice. The closest I’d ever come to enjoying the experience, before today, was tolerating the way it made my skin crawl.

This was different.

They’d told the truth. It wasn’t like being loved by two people. It was being loved by one, who just happened to possess two separate bodies. And it didn’t take all that long for even that to lose its strangeness, as there were times when I didn’t know and didn’t care whose hands were on me, whose lips were on my breasts, and whose were working their way down my belly. There were also times when I hesitated, self-conscious about paying too much attention to one of them. I’d worry that I’d neglected the other, only to be urged onward, shushed, told it didn’t matter, because there could not be any real competition between them. It made me realize why they felt so much distaste for lovers who insisted on thinking of them as two. It disrespected them, rendered them ordinary, made them a parlor trick instead of the special shared creature they were.

When they spoke to me, their shared voice seemed to originate from somewhere inside my head. But I’d experienced that illusion before, and it wasn’t the strangest, most wonderful part. Because there were also times when the boundaries between all of us seemed to evaporate, and I thought I found myself experiencing the whole thing from within Oscin’s skin or Skye’s.

It was good to feel the moment from all sides.

The moment Oscin came inside me, Skye’s legs shuddered around my waist, and I was wracked by a wave of pleasure that made me fear my heart was about to explode.

That was the first time.

It got better with the second, and the third.

Ifollowed the AIsource’s suggestion and researched events that had taken place at the same time as the massacre on Bocai. It was an almost nonsensical challenge. Interstellar distances have always made a joke of synchronicity, and probably always will. But a few possibilities suggested themselves. I began making a preliminary list.

Some two weeks after filing my final report, I found myself lost on a long, lazy afternoon, with nothing to do but chase stray thoughts around my head. I spent much of it in the main hangar, wandering around, saying hello to people, eating more than I should have, receiving backhanded compliments about how surprisingly pleasant I could be when I wasn’t working a case. For the most part I sat on the steps leading up to the Dip Corps transport, replaying recent events, fighting the tension that had been building in my gut since the Porrinyards had left for the Habitat early that morning. They’d invited me to go with them, as always, but I’d begged off, saying that I still had some things to think about. By the time they returned, sharing a weariness that joined their sap-spattered bodies in testifying to a long hard day spent on the Uppergrowth, thinking about those things had become an exercise in walking in circles.

Skye made eye contact first, but they both froze in mid-step. Together they slumped, looked around, and focused on a sleepcube where we could deal with what had to be said. They made sure I knew where they were headed, and gestured for me to follow. I waited, putting off the moment as long as I could, then hauled myself to my feet and began to walk.

A number of people grinned at me along the way. This was nothing unusual, as the Porrinyards were well liked, and it was by now no secret that we were an item.

A few of those held eye contact long enough for those grins to falter.

I looked away and managed to make it into the sleepcube without having to endure anybody asking what was wrong.

The Porrinyards were inside waiting for me, their faces bearing identical stricken expressions. Neither said anything until I activated my hiss screen, placed it on a table beside one of the two cots, and sat. They slowly lowered themselves to the opposite cot, with such hesitation that they might have feared the mattress too insubstantial to support their combined weight.

“Something’s wrong,” they said.

My throat felt dry. “I’m not sure anything’s wrong. I just think you haven’t been entirely honest with me.”

“It’s because of the AIsource,” they guessed. “You’re afraid this isn’t real.”

That had been an issue before. It was what had made me cool toward them, just before my last visit to the Interface. “No. That’s not it. They promised me free choice, and though I may have some doubts about things remaining that way, I have no alternative to trusting them on that. Because I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering whether everything I do is my idea, or somebody else’s.”

“Then you think I might be working for them.”

“Don’t be silly. I know you’re working for them. You would have to be. They probably secured your services the same day they linked you. If I’m right, they probably do the same thing with every cylinked pair they make.”

They looked hopeful. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Not really. If I’m working for them, then I’m in no position to criticize. And it doesn’t have to affect the way I feel about you, or the way you feel about me.”

They didn’t betray relief, or rise from the cot to hug me. Instead, recognizing that they’d merely misconstrued the problem, they did something I now realized I’d never seen them do before: something beings sharing the same mind, who didn’t need to exchange visual cues, would of course never need to do. They turned to look at each other, sharing a moment of eye contact before turning toward me again. “Then what’s wrong?”

There was a bottle of drinking water on the table. I took a sip before continuing.

“I’m just… not sure a lover was ever what you were actually looking for.”

Their hands moved as one, finding each other, linking with a tight squeeze.

“There was a certain expectant quality to the way you spoke to me, from the very beginning. Almost as if you were told I was coming, and what I would mean to you. At first I was too dense to think it meant anything. Later on, I thought it was just attraction. After that, when it became mutual, I wasn’t in any mood to question it. But as I’ve started running it through my head, again and again… I’ve begun to understand that there’s a little more to it. There always was.”