Hello again...
I know what you are thinking. You are looking at the steam rising around me, curling like white serpents in the humid air of the relaxation deck. You see the condensation dripping down the metal walls, and you see me. I am naked. Of course I am naked. Wifs do not wear clothes when we relax. The heat is good for the ears. It keeps the fur soft and the blood circulating.
But you are not looking at my ears, are you?
You are looking at my hand. You are looking at where it is buried between my legs. You are looking at the book in my other hand.
Yes. I am reading. And yes, I am touching myself. Multitasking is a skill every mother must master.
The book?
Oh, do not pretend to be modest. I know you want to know. It is a classic piece of Wif literature. It is titled The Burrow of the Twin Moons. It tells the story of a matriarch, an elderly Wif whose fertile days were supposedly behind her, yet she finds herself being... thoroughly cared for by her two step-sons during a particularly harsh winter.
It is filthy. It is depraved. It is absolutely wonderful.
Right now, in the scene I am reading, the matriarch is bent over the kitchen table. The younger son is admiring her wide hips, telling her that age has only made her sweeter, like wine left to ferment in the dark.
I moved my fingers. Just a little. Circling the little nub of flesh hidden beneath my white fur.
I sighed. The sound was heavy in the damp air.
You judge me, don't you? You look at my graying hair, my soft, doughy stomach that has stretched and shrunk with life, and you wonder why I am still here. Why is an old woman playing the hero in a ship full of children?
I am forty-eight years old. In the Melito years, I was a fossil. Most women retire at thirty. They go home. They find a nice, boring husband in a safe colony. They knit socks.
I tried that. I really did.
But the universe does not care about your retirement plans.
I slid a finger inside myself. I was wet. I am always wet these days. Ragia... Capt... he has done something to my biology. He has awakened a spring that I thought had dried up decades ago.
The sensation of fullness. That is what I crave.
In the book, the son is entering his mother. He is telling her he loves her. He is telling her she is the only woman who matters.
I closed my eyes. The words on the page blurred, replaced by an image of him. Capt.
He is foolish. You have seen him. He tells terrible jokes. He wears mismatched socks. He acts like a child who has been given the keys to a tank. But you do not know him like I do.
Other Inquors? I have met them. They are cold. Efficient. To them, a Melito is a battery. A disposable organic flash drive to store their power. When a Melito breaks, they get a new one. When a Melito dies, they file a requisition form.
But Capt...
I rubbed harder. My breath hitched.
Capt looks at us and sees family. He looks at me, with my sagging breasts and my crow's feet, and he looks at me with hunger. Not just lust. Hunger. He wants me. He wants to be inside me because he trusts me to hold him.
That terrifies me.
Because he is dying.
I felt a sharp pang in my chest that had nothing to do with pleasure. I stopped reading. I let the book rest on my heaving chest.
If he dies...
No. I cannot think about it. But I must.
Do you know how we met? You probably think I applied for the job. You think I sent in a resume.
Incorrect.
Nine years ago. The colony of Europa.
It was a Tuesday. I was making stew. My little Fluffy... she was just a child. She was playing on the floor with a toy rocket.
Then the sirens screamed.
It was not a drill. It is never a drill when the sky turns red.
The Krall. They came from the ventilation shafts. Hundreds of them. Beautiful, naked nightmares with red skin and monkey tails. They tore through the doors. They tore through the men.
I hid Fluffy in the pantry. I stood in front of the door with a kitchen knife. A kitchen knife against monsters who can rip steel with their bare hands. I was ready to die. I knew I was going to die. I just wanted to buy my baby five more seconds of life.
A Krall broke into the kitchen. She smiled at me. Her teeth were filed to points. She hissed, smelling the fear on me. She lunged.
And then... the wall exploded.
It was not a graceful entrance. It was a demolition. Dust and debris filled the air.
And there he was.
He was younger then. Skinnier. He looked terrified. He was covered in green slime and holding a plasma rifle that looked too big for him.
"Excuse me, ma'am!" he shouted over the noise of the dying colony. "I am looking for the restroom! But since I am here, allow me to take out the trash!"
He did not use the rifle. He dropped it. He walked up to the Krall. The monster swiped at him. He caught her wrist. Just caught it. Like he was catching a ball.
He ripped her arm off.
He did not enjoy it. He looked sick. He looked like he wanted to vomit, but he stood in front of me. He stood in front of the pantry where Fluffy was crying.
He fought for three hours. He fought until he was covered in purple blood. He saved us.
And when it was over? When the reinforcements arrived? He did not ask for a medal. He did not ask for payment.
He looked at me, trembling in my torn apron, and he asked if the stew was still edible because he was starving.
I laughed. I laughed until I cried. And then I fed him.
I moved my hand faster. The memory was a potent aphrodisiac. The mixture of fear and salvation.
That is why I am here. That is why I let him do things to me that would make a whore blush. Because he is my boy. My son. My lover. My savior.
I lifted my legs, spreading them wide in the humid air. I imagined him here now. I imagined his weight on top of me.
"Capt..." I whispered to the empty room. "My sweet, stupid boy."
I need to tell you something. A secret.
You know Melitos cannot get pregnant. The Felt burns out our reproductive cycles. We are sterile vessels for Melios energy.
But...
When he fills me. When he pumps that hot, thick seed deep into my womb.
I feel it.
I feel life.
It is a delusion. I know it is a delusion. I am a woman of science... well, domestic science. I know biology. But the mind is a powerful thing. The heart is a stubborn muscle.
I pretend.
Every time he cums inside me, I close my eyes and I pretend that he is planting a seed. I pretend that my belly will swell. I pretend that I will give him a legacy that isn't just war and death.
Is that crazy?
Maybe.
But look at where we are. We are in a metal tube floating in a vacuum, fighting space demons with the power of orgasms. Crazy is a relative term.
I pushed two fingers inside. Deep. I hit the spot. That deep, aching spot that usually only he can reach.
"Ah..."
The pleasure rolled over me. It was warm. Comforting. Like a heavy blanket.
I imagined him safe. I imagined him healthy. I imagined him growing old.
I want him to grow old. I want him to have wrinkles. I want him to complain about his back. I want him to survive.
But he pushes himself too hard. He gives too much. He gives pieces of his soul to us, and we... we just take. We are parasites. Beautiful, deadly parasites.
"No..." I sobbed. The tears mixed with the sweat on my face. "Not parasites. Family. We are family."
I arched my back. My tail... my little rabbit tail... twitched against the metal bench.
I needed release. I needed to empty the fear so I could smile for him tomorrow. Mothers have to be strong. Mothers do not cry. Mothers fix things.
I rubbed my clitoris furiously. The friction was burning. Good. I needed the burn.
"Come on, Mira," I hissed through my teeth. "For him. Do it for him."
The climax hit me.
It was not violent. It was not the earth-shattering quake that happens when he is inside me. It was a slow, sad wave. It washed over me, taking the tension, taking the edge off the panic.
I shuddered. My inner walls clamped around my fingers. I imagined it was him. Always him.
I lay there for a long time as my breathing slowed. The steam swirled around me, hiding my shame. Hiding my tears.
I pulled my fingers out. I wiped them on my thigh.
I picked up the book again. The matriarch in the story was happy. She was safe. Her sons loved her.
I closed the book.
Fiction is nice. But reality? Reality is a hungry beast. And right now, my beast is wounded.
I stood up. My knees popped. I am getting too old for this.
But...
I am not done yet.
I will make him soup tomorrow. Heavy on the protein. I will make sure he eats. I will make sure he lives.
Because if he dies... if my boy dies...
Then the universe can burn for all I care.
I wrapped a towel around my waist. I looked at you one last time.
Stop staring. Go away. A mother has work to do.