I clear my throat, trying not to show the lapse in my composure.
“Half the profits,” I bark back, mustering a comparable amount of confidence. “I know the black-market prices. I want a cut.”
His grin turns wicked. “Then you’ll know they don’t pay those black-market prices for bottled milk…”
“I know.” I ignore the image that flickers through my mind: bound and gagged, insectoid mouths at each tit, sucking and pawing. I extra ignore the clench of heat in my cunt.
There’s a clicking sound as he gives a low chuckle. “Any other terms?”
“You remain the handler, my deal remains with you. And whenever I decide I’m done, I’m done. I take my profits and you let me leave, no strings attached. You forget you ever knew me.”
“The first condition will be no problem.” His two primary eyes drag down my body. “The second… well… If you’re serious, you know that nobody ever leaves.”
“And nobody ever makes me do something I don’t want to do. I know myself. I’m not going to become one of those mindless addicts.”
“As long as we’re clear that these are your naïve assertions and not terms of the binding contract… all is satisfactory to me.”
I already had plenty of conviction, but I’m suddenlyveryeager to prove this Arachnoid wrong. I’ll get dosed up, pump out enough milk to live like a queen for the rest of my life, then move the fuck on, like I always do.
There’s a planet with a saltwater ocean that has real waves and beaches. I’ve always wanted to go there. Or maybe I’ll keep expanding my horizons and live in orbit around one of the gas giants where the clouds form dizzying, psychedelic skyscapes in an eternal blaze of sunrise and sunset.
This is a means to an end.
“Alright. Do your… contract thingy.”
“You’re in a hurry. Aching to have tits full of milk already?”
Embarrassed heat blazes to my cheeks. “No,” I snap. “I’m eager to itch my nose, and you seem the kind to keep your upper hand until the ink is dried, so to speak.”
He ignores me. Ignores me!
Fury boils in my chest.
Then he turns around holding a cup of tea in each hand and a saucer in the pincers of each of his forelegs.
I scoff. “Too lazy to get up for a refill?”
He raises a brow. “I thought you wanted me to believe you’re smart. Yet you can’t puttwoandtwotogether.” He seems very proud of himself, gesturing a cup toward each of us.
My eyes narrow. “Who taught you to say that? You’re not supposed to know that.” That was the thing about the translation chips. They always translated idioms into their abstract, universal meaning. Which meant that idioms were something special, something a species only shared with eachother. And more than that, something acommunityshared only with each other. The Italian countryside, Harajuku district, New Orleans, the Boston suburbs—they all still existed in our language.
Humans had lost everything, but our words were still ours.
Or so I thought.
He shrugs lightly. “And you’re not supposed to be here.” His legs coordinate perfectly and silently as he rotates and steps over to a taut panel of silk next to me that serves the role of a table. He sets the two saucers down first, then places our cups of tea on them.
They’re authentic British teacups, complete with gold detailing and hand-painted scenes of an idyllic countryside.
My eyes sting. I almost cry.Fuck,I had no idea how much I missed stupid little shit like that.
“Can you let me out now?” I wriggle against my bonds. “This itch is making my eyes water.” The suggestion of the itch takes hold, and it becomes real. I scrunch my face, angling it toward the silk below.
A dark, chitinous limb approaches me.
I get a closer look at the Arachnoid’s foot, which has two paw pads with hooked claws on the end, like a cat paw with only two digits. But weirder. And spidery-er.
I don’t like how easily those claws slice through the silk, starting by my feet, and I hold very, very still as they trail higher.
