Grown Men (9 page)

“You should star in advertainments, ya big bastard.” Runt gathered the bones and scraps and tossed them into the eelbeds for chum. Nothing wasted. “
Chance’s pants!
We’d make ten fortunes.”

Ox grinned but shook his head and patted the ground as if he liked it just fine.

“Their blood’s poisonous, y’know. Ya gotta be careful.”

While the meat and fruit seared slowly, Runt massaged those tremendous arms and shoulders with antibiotic ointment and bandaged Ox’s raw hands.

Eating their own livestock was a miraculous step for their farmstead, and they both knew it. For the first few years, terraformers purchased supplies on credit from HardCell, borrowing against their future output. Eventually, cofarmers were able to live off the eels and soy and other products they harvested; ’til then, each crate pushed the profit point further away. For Runt, this impromptu lunch seemed like the future pushing into the sunlight.

When lunch was ready, Ox opened his hands to accept a kebab, but his blunt fingers looked too lacerated to eat.

Runt didn’t blink. Pulling a buttery bite from the skewer, he fed Ox with his hands like a slave. “Open up.”

Ox squinted in confusion, but did as told, allowing his partner to place the perfect smoky flesh on his tongue. Hungry as ever, he sucked the steaming eel out of Runt’s grip, then licked the calloused fingers clean. A cat’s grin.

Runt laughed. “Oi! If you bite me, I’ll grill your fat knob.”

Eyes closed, Ox nodded again, chewing in bliss.

So Runt fed him, hamming it up. He didn’t pause to eat himself until the big man made him.

Then Runt took his first bite of the livestock he’d raised for a year and a half.

Oh.

He knew the succulent white meat had been biodesigned for nutrition, but the buttery sweetness exploded in his mouth.
Real food!
And the charred mango . . . He hadn’t realized how hungry he was for a meal that didn’t come pre-chewed out of a bag.

Ox reached for another skewer, but Runt stopped him. “Hey! Don’t hurt yourself. I won’t let you starve.”

The giant rolled his eyes.

“Spokestars shouldn’t have to feed themselves.” Runt alternated between them, enjoying the food and sharing it, serving and smearing a greasy, hilarious mess that covered them both chest to chin. They filled themselves to bursting and belches.

By the time they’d finished, Ox had consumed three times the amount Runt could, and even so, enough barbecued protein remained to feed them for days.

Odd’s Gods, I’m blessed.

Runt almost dozed off right there in the sunny sand beside his cofarmer when he was suddenly smothered in hairy muscle. “Agh!”

Ox had tackled Runt like a depraved goon. Scooping up his undersized partner, he ignored all squirms, cackles, and protests and dragged them both into the warm waves to wash.

Runt’s body reacted immediately to skin contact and the slippery churn of the water and he made sure to stay a little apart. No need to embarrass either of them with the rammer he’d gotten from breathing Ox’s pheromones and ingesting all that fresh flesh like a barbarian.

But Ox wanted to play, splashing and grunting like a happy sea monster and then dragging them both back to the gleaming beach to dry, rubbing Runt’s full belly in gratitude as they dozed off under twin suns on an ivory scimitar of sand.

When Runt’s lids drifted open, the sand had cooled and blue-black night had crept up on them; he still felt sleepy and pleasantly unhungry.

About two meters away, Ox had built another small fire out of dry bamboo. The giant sat cross-legged beside him, looking up at the sky and smiling at something secret. He half-reclined, braced on his heavy arms, his face tipped back to see the sky. One powerful thigh lay pressed against Runt’s ribs.

 “Stars seem all wrong here.” Runt spoke softly as he rolled over, so Ox wouldn’t be startled. But of course, Ox never got startled; he just turned and shook his head once, wrinkling his brow into a question.

“Not bad-wrong, but I mean, I forgot about stars back when HardCell shipped me out. Nothing was where I’m used to it. Because we’re so far from the system where I grew up.” Runt looked back at the spark-spattered black overhead.

“If I was home, y’know . . . the solar system I come from, I’d point toward
here
—” Runt patted the creamy sand as he’d pat a horse. “—and call this patch of the sky Andromeda ’cause of some old character, but it’s only Andromeda when I’m back there looking up at here.”

Out before them, the black water and the black night glittered and shifted. None of the moons had risen. The only sound was the murmur of the breakers licking the manmade sand.

“But living
in
Andromeda, everything’s different. Not a story. We aren’t, I mean, which seems stupid because we’re the jamhandles living here.”

Behind thick lashes, Ox’s eyes stayed on Runt’s mouth making the words.

“What does Andromeda have to do with eels or farming or anything? Nothing. Plus the constellations are all different anyhow.”

Ox shook his head and took a breath that filled his massive chest, a half smile on his lips.

Runt shifted into a crouch by the smoky fire and rubbed his hands on his thighs. He sat back, planting his butt in the chilly sand between the snapping flames and Ox’s solid warmth.

“Do you know the story, then? The Andromeda one.”

Behind him, Ox pressed his broad palm to Runt’s back. A few glowing bee-moths hovered near the fire, tracking mauve streaks.

 “In this old advert, a Greek company. Like—” Runt squinted at the stars again trying to remember. He knew he was stalling so they could stay out a bit longer, muttering old nonsense between the sea and sky. “Andromeda was this executive’s daughter and they made her marry a sea monster. Just shipped her off like a crate of soy. See? Sounds pretty crap to me. But then she might’ve been a cheap clone and didn’t know any better. Dunno. You tired?”

Ox shook his head and patted Runt’s thigh with an eel-torn hand, inviting him to sit closer against the cold.

“Then this boy-wonder from a rival company sees her. He’s coming back from some headhunting interview-whatsit. He sees this daughter chained up, retires the family monster. Like that!” Runt snapped his fingers. “Steals her contract and marries her. Crazy. Then he becomes an executive.”

Runt leaned against that shoulder, their weight pleasantly teepeed together, then turned to nod, as if Ox had asked a question.

Ox seemed to be holding his breath; his damp lips parted as if ready to agree.

The smoky mango and eel grease on them both still smelled starchy-delicious in the salt air.

 “You imagine! Some slave-wife? All she did was get transported and shackled to some rock by the sea and they named a whole
pile
of stars after her. Hundreds of suns. Yeah? Corporate propaganda, probably. Or someone’s mistress.” Runt chuckled. “Andromeda didn’t even build anything or manage anything or terminate anything. Seems like a shite reason to label all these solar systems. Or this place.”

Behind him, he felt Ox nod once, like always. Felt the breath swell Ox’s ribcage where it pressed against his own.

“And she’s got nothing to do with us, has she? Like maybe she was the old-time sponsor of clone wives or something . . . Or crates . . . Or monsters.” He bumped Ox’s big shoulder lightly with his own, making them both grin. “But only if you’re near Earth. They aren’t her stars really.”

Ox chuffed in agreement or pleasure or interest.

Runt felt a huge smile split his face before he knew it was coming. He nodded to himself, eyes on the sky.

“Then again, Andromeda only owns the stars if you’re standing in one place in the whole universe, otherwise she’s not here at all, is she? Except in our heads, yeah? Everything belongs somewhere else ’cause the place is different. No maps. New dragons.”

Something big splashed in the dark waves about a half-kilometer out.
Eel romance, probably
. The dome of stars shimmered overhead as if a breeze were stirring a field of bright blossoms with midnight leaves.

“Nothing lost.” Runt sighed and hunted for patterns in the unfamiliar skyscape. New constellations. “Ox . . . What do you reckon clone wives dream about?”

Ox shrugged and shook his head, once.

Runt thought about the family he’d be able to have once they’d tamed this place. “Fresh food probably. No fists.” He smiled to himself, and imagined Ox was too. “Free stars.”

As if in response, Ox lifted his hand, slowly pointing, and Runt turned to look—
Asteroid? Lightning?
—only he wasn’t pointing
.
His hulking cofarmer held very still, his muscular arm extended, as a velvety bee-moth walked along his scarred finger.

Runt smiled at the almost paternal affection on Ox’s bulldog face and kept silent and still so he wouldn’t startle their luminous visitor.

The pollination moth’s furry mauve body paced in jerky steps on the back of the giant hand like a curious mutt scenting prey. HardCell’s redesign showed clearly. The insect seemed sturdier up close, its back broader, its wingspan wider, its phosphorescence brighter.

Ox lifted his cut knuckles carefully for a better look, his lips just barely twitching in involuntary pleasure. This critter featured the intricate Greek markings of the newest brood, the sharp black letters identifying its batch and lab of origin. The date of Ox’s arrival.

How did I ever think he was a murderer?

Slowly, slowly, Ox rolled his hand so it could investigate the cuts and the sweet grease there. Its head bobbed along Ox’s lifeline, tapped the mound of his enormous thumb. The lettered wings pumped the air experimentally, but it didn’t lift off. Ox’s face glowed with protective pride; these new bee-moths worked as hard as he did. They would change this world.

We will.

It took wing, floating on the hot air above the bamboo fire and then hooking back toward the orchards to busy itself.

They both turned to watch it, but only Ox made a sound then: a low happy rumble like his night-singing.

The little blaze had died to papery embers, the wood too soft to burn long. The sand felt hard against Runt’s rear, and Ox soft beside him.

Ox turned to ask a silent question by raising his eyebrows.

Runt shook his head. “Nah. It’s nice out here.”

Just a little longer now
.

Eventually they did extinguish the little fire and trek back home, where they fell into overfed sleep in under twenty seconds.

In the small hours, after the smallest of three moons rose high and violet outside, Runt jerked awake. Stealthy movement had woken him: a tremor or a noise.
At the door? No.
A childhood spent on the street had taught him to track disturbances.

Then something shook the bed again.

At first he thought Ox was rubbing his head on the pillow in his sleep as he sometimes did, but then he recognized the
furtive
motion and smiled . . . Cracking one eye open and shifting his head slightly, Runt got confirmation in the indigo glow from the ceiling clock.

Someone’s having a tug . . .

Sure enough, Ox gripped his fat club in one meaty fist, quietly but steadily polishing his knob with the other palm. The foreskin had pulled back from the engorged head and the veins stood out along its length. He didn’t stroke the shaft or jerk his loose skin quickly, just continued a slow silent rub of the glans. His plump, tan scrotum was so tight that his nuts barely moved. He was obviously trying not to move too much or breathe too loudly. The musky seawater scent and whisper of friction filled the air. His heavy testes hugged the base as he strained patiently toward climax.

Pretending to shift in his sleep, Runt rolled his head a little further so he could watch more easily. Natural curiosity and all.

In the faint lights of the habitat instruments, Ox froze with a look at his bedmate. He opened his mouth to keep even his breath silent. The big man almost stopped moving, just tickling the small sensitive fold of foreskin under the moist crown, reflexively petting the nerves there with one calloused finger.

He’s too close to stop.

Runt stayed very still, waiting, waiting . . . Staring through his squint and keeping his breathing deep and slow as if dreaming still. He tried to feel offended or nervous that Ox was having a wank in their bed, but couldn’t manage it. He was happy mainly that Ox felt safe enough to find his pleasure this close.

We’re guys.
It’s natural.

Ox’s towering stalk flexed in his fist and he held his breath, still watching Runt for any sign of waking.

That thing . . . is a fucking fencepost.

Runt tried to imagine the holo-porn career a guy could build lugging around that kind of meat. He wasn’t into men, but some part of him wanted to touch it, just once. To know how it felt to milk pleasure out of something that gigantic. Runt’s mouth filled with saliva and he swallowed. Very quietly.

No. It’s a battering ram.

Ox looked back at his heroic shaft. Barely moving now and patient as a mountain, he kept shucking his foreskin slowly and fully. Millimeter by millimeter, he exposed the engorged, ruddy head to that deliberate, punishing polish. The yeasty pheromones filled the sleep-space.