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NINE

Rocky and Valiha were two kilometers from Tuxedo Junction, in one of the few flat, open pieces of land in that neighborhood, pulling a plow like the draft animals they most definitely were not. The comparison would not have bothered them. A Titanide farmer simply walked in front of the plow, not behind it.
Titanides were unfailingly honest and square—in the sense of a square deal. They paid debts. They would not think of accepting shelter or food without doing something in return. They also knew how to combine the payment of a debt with legitimate self-interest. Rocky and Valiha liked to visit the Junction, liked to stay with Chris in his fanciful aerie, and liked to eat well. There were certain items that did not flourish in a Gaean jungle, that would do well only in light, on flat land, and in the absence of competition. Hence the plowing. Chris could not have done it himself, and when it was done he would be able to grow more crops and set a better table. Everything balanced out nicely.
They had done about two acres. The fresh-turned soil smelled good to Rocky. It was good to exert oneself, to feel ones hooves dig the ground, to hear the creaking of the harness, to see the rich brown dirt steaming from sub-Gaean heat. It was good to rub haunches with Valiha. Yellow had always been a favorite color to him, and the Madrigals were ever yellow.
He had not known her long. That is, he had known about her almost since his birth, as she had gone on that terrible journey with the Captain, famous in legend and song. He had known her son, Serpent, for many myriarevs. But he had begun to know Valiha as a friend only about seven kilorevs ago.
Over the last kilorev he had begun to love her. This was a surprise to him. Titanides could be as quirky as the next intelligent species, and Rocky had a thing about Aeolian Solos. He tended not to like them. He knew it was illogical, since it was the single parent of the Solo who had the egotism to wish to birth a genetically identical copy of herself without help from any other Titanide. The child was as blameless as any child  . . .  yet, if she was a copy, it stood to reason she would have her mother’s egotism.
Valiha was an Aeolian Solo.
They came to the end of a row. Both were pleasantly sweaty, a little bit tired. Valiha reached for the buckles of her harness, so Rocky did the same. They shed the plow, and Valiha trotted forward a few paces, then turned, her tail high, and came back beside Rocky, facing the other way. She leaned over and reached beneath him to squeeze the bulge of flesh that sheathed his anterior penis.
“I’m horny,” she sang. “Do you want to screw?”
“Sounds good to me,” he sang, and trotted around behind her.
What they actually said in their song was much more than that, but Titanide song has never been readily translatable into English. Her four-note phrase was in an earthy mode, so “screw” and “horny” were close. But the way she walked was also a part of it, and the phrase included the idea that Rocky would mount her, not the other way around. Rocky’s reply was more than simple assent. In a way, the entire exchange and their subsequent movements were as formalized as dressage.
She set her hind legs apart and lowered her hindquarters slightly. He walked his forelegs lightly up her back, straddled her, and entered her. He embraced her torso from behind and she reached back to hold his forelegs firmly. She reversed her head and they kissed, and humped merrily and lustily for a good two minutes before they reached their anterior orgasms—which, for sound Titanide neurological reasons, were always simultaneous. He rested in that position for a moment, his breasts squeezed firmly against her strong back, then backed down.
She asked if she might do him a similar service, and he declined, not because he didn’t wish to be mounted—he wanted it very much—but because he had serious and intimate matters on his mind.
So he pranced out in front of her, lifting his forelegs high, and came to stand face-to-face, inches away from her. She smiled at him and put an arm over his shoulder and turned her head slightly to kiss him, then became aware of his frontal erection. She looked startled, but did not back away.
“Sir, I hardly know thee,” she sang, in formal mode.
“It has been a short time,” he agreed. “But a love as strong as mine sometimes grows quickly, in the manner of those-who-walk-on-two-legs. If she would permit, I would propose a union to my lady.”
“Sing it, then.”
“A trio. Myself the hindmother. I know not if I have spoken of it, but I have never been a hindmother.”
“You are young.”
“That is true.”
“Mixolydian?”
“Lydian. And Serpent for the hindfather.”
She lowered her eyes in thought.
“Sharped?” she sang.
“Yes.”
What he had outlined was a Sharped Lydian Trio, one of the most common of the Twenty-nine Ways. He and Valiha would have frontal intercourse to produce a semi-fertilized egg: Rocky the forefather, Valiha the foremother. The egg would be activated by Cirocco Jones, implanted in Rocky’s womb, and quickened by Serpent: Rocky the hindmother, Serpent the hindfather.
He could see her adding it up. Genetics was as instinctive in Titanides as it was imponderable to humans. He knew she would find no flaw in his proposal, though the fact that Valiha was Serpent’s hindmother might make it seem incestuous to a human. But incest was a genetic problem to Titanides only in special and limited cases, and morally it was no problem at all.
“It is a good mating,” she sang, finally. “It will require some thought.”
“As she wills it.”
“It is not thee, sir,” she began, then dropped back into a less formal mode. “Dammit, Rocky, I’m beginning to love you, too, and you’re an admirable fellow, but the times bother me.”
“I know, Valiha. The world spins badly.”
“I don’t know if we should bring babies into a world like this.”
“In your own hindmother‘s time, did we not war with the angels?”
She nodded, and wiped away a tear. She forced a smile.
“I know it. And Serpent will love it. Have you spoken of this to him?”
“No other soul knows of it.”
“Then I pray you, hold it within thy heart while the world spins another thousand times. Then thou shalt have thy answer.”
They kissed, and heard Serpent come out of the jungle at a full gallop. His hooves sprayed dirt as he thundered across the plowed field.
“I thought you two were plowing!” he sang. “I felt so guilty, staying home and baking, my only burden that fierce human child, while you labored like common farm hands. So I hurried, only to find you—”
He stopped, digging in with all four hooves, and stood perfectly still for two long seconds. Then he reared on his hind legs, wheeled, and dashed off the way he came.
“Zombies!” he shouted, in English, but by then Rocky and Valiha had smelled them, too, and were in hot pursuit.
 
“Rescue a kid and what does it get you?” Conal asked himself. He glanced at Adam. There was spit dripping down his chin. “You get to be a babysitter, that‘s what.”
He yawned, and settled deeper into the couch. He was in a corner room on the first floor of the main house at the Junction, one with a lot of windows and a good view of the waterfall. Nova was somewhere upstairs, doing something that had produced a strange smell for a while. Whatever it was, it had made her throw up. Before that, she had been running all over the house, acting like a spy. But there had been no sound out of her for over an hour.
“Too good to sit with her baby brother,” he told Adam. The infant regarded him solemnly, and then threw a Titanide egg at him.
Actually, Conal didn’t mind. He just got a lot of satisfaction out of feeling put-upon.
The kid was okay. Not a howler. Real smart, and real strong. He could probably start with the weights in another year or so, just as soon as he had his feet solidly under him. He had the bones for it. And in a way, Conal was proud that Robin had trusted him enough to leave the baby with him.
He had set the kid up in the middle of the floor with some toys he’d scrounged, and Adam seemed happy to sit there and throw them around, then crawl after them. His favorite was the rack of old Titanide eggs. They were round, about the size of a golf ball, and came in all colors. They were too big for him to put in his mouth, though that didn’t prevent him from trying, and they wouldn’t break. About their only drawback was a tendency to roll under furniture, so Conal had rigged a palisade of pillows all around Adam, four meters wide. He didn’t manage to chunk too many that far. He stumped around in there, naked, not falling down much, and bouncing right back up when he did.
Conal watched Adam grow still, and start peeing on the floor. Conal laughed, and Adam turned awkwardly and started laughing, too.
“Ma!” Adam squeaked. “Tye-Nye! Ma!”
“Pee-pee,” Conal told him, getting up. “Gotta learn that, kid. Say, ‘Gotta go pee-pee.’” Adam laughed louder, nodding.
Conal got a towel out of the bathroom and mopped it up. It was a nuisance, but what could you expect? And it was better than diapers.
He sat down again and his thoughts turned, not for the first time, to Nova. Most likely she was sleeping up there. Hell of a problem, Nova. Hell of a problem. What to do about it? Where to start?
He couldn’t think of a good place. At first he thought she hated all living beings equally. Lately he had come to believe he held a special place in her heart, just below rattlesnakes, pederasts, and spirochetes. Definitely a tough place to start from, but determination had always been Conal’s strong point.
Unhappily, imagination was not. Nor was subtlety. Cirocco had told him he had an admirable directness, but that it took some getting used to.
So when his thoughts turned to Nova, they kept going around in the same unprofitable pattern. He knew it was ridiculous, he knew something radical had to happen before she could ever begin to see him as anything but a repulsive monster, but he kept having the same recurrent fantasy. It started with him getting out of the chair and going up the stairs. He would knock on her door.
“Come in,” she would say. He would enter, smile winningly.
“Just wanted to see if you needed anything, Nova,” he would say.
Then—he wasn’t sure about the details of this part—he would be sitting on the bed beside her, and he would lean over to kiss her, and her lips would part  . . . 
She screamed.
It was a dreadful, terrifying scream, torn from her throat. So deep had been his fantasy that for a confusing moment he tried to form an apology, and then his blood seemed to freeze as he understood this was real.
His feet touched the bottom stair, the ninth stair, and the top stair, and he was barreling down the hallway toward her room.

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NINE

Rocky and Valiha were two kilometers from Tuxedo Junction, in one of the few flat, open pieces of land in that neighborhood, pulling a plow like the draft animals they most definitely were not. The comparison would not have bothered them. A Titanide farmer simply walked in front of the plow, not behind it.
Titanides were unfailingly honest and square—in the sense of a square deal. They paid debts. They would not think of accepting shelter or food without doing something in return. They also knew how to combine the payment of a debt with legitimate self-interest. Rocky and Valiha liked to visit the Junction, liked to stay with Chris in his fanciful aerie, and liked to eat well. There were certain items that did not flourish in a Gaean jungle, that would do well only in light, on flat land, and in the absence of competition. Hence the plowing. Chris could not have done it himself, and when it was done he would be able to grow more crops and set a better table. Everything balanced out nicely.
They had done about two acres. The fresh-turned soil smelled good to Rocky. It was good to exert oneself, to feel ones hooves dig the ground, to hear the creaking of the harness, to see the rich brown dirt steaming from sub-Gaean heat. It was good to rub haunches with Valiha. Yellow had always been a favorite color to him, and the Madrigals were ever yellow.
He had not known her long. That is, he had known about her almost since his birth, as she had gone on that terrible journey with the Captain, famous in legend and song. He had known her son, Serpent, for many myriarevs. But he had begun to know Valiha as a friend only about seven kilorevs ago.
Over the last kilorev he had begun to love her. This was a surprise to him. Titanides could be as quirky as the next intelligent species, and Rocky had a thing about Aeolian Solos. He tended not to like them. He knew it was illogical, since it was the single parent of the Solo who had the egotism to wish to birth a genetically identical copy of herself without help from any other Titanide. The child was as blameless as any child  . . .  yet, if she was a copy, it stood to reason she would have her mother’s egotism.
Valiha was an Aeolian Solo.
They came to the end of a row. Both were pleasantly sweaty, a little bit tired. Valiha reached for the buckles of her harness, so Rocky did the same. They shed the plow, and Valiha trotted forward a few paces, then turned, her tail high, and came back beside Rocky, facing the other way. She leaned over and reached beneath him to squeeze the bulge of flesh that sheathed his anterior penis.
“I’m horny,” she sang. “Do you want to screw?”
“Sounds good to me,” he sang, and trotted around behind her.
What they actually said in their song was much more than that, but Titanide song has never been readily translatable into English. Her four-note phrase was in an earthy mode, so “screw” and “horny” were close. But the way she walked was also a part of it, and the phrase included the idea that Rocky would mount her, not the other way around. Rocky’s reply was more than simple assent. In a way, the entire exchange and their subsequent movements were as formalized as dressage.
She set her hind legs apart and lowered her hindquarters slightly. He walked his forelegs lightly up her back, straddled her, and entered her. He embraced her torso from behind and she reached back to hold his forelegs firmly. She reversed her head and they kissed, and humped merrily and lustily for a good two minutes before they reached their anterior orgasms—which, for sound Titanide neurological reasons, were always simultaneous. He rested in that position for a moment, his breasts squeezed firmly against her strong back, then backed down.
She asked if she might do him a similar service, and he declined, not because he didn’t wish to be mounted—he wanted it very much—but because he had serious and intimate matters on his mind.
So he pranced out in front of her, lifting his forelegs high, and came to stand face-to-face, inches away from her. She smiled at him and put an arm over his shoulder and turned her head slightly to kiss him, then became aware of his frontal erection. She looked startled, but did not back away.
“Sir, I hardly know thee,” she sang, in formal mode.
“It has been a short time,” he agreed. “But a love as strong as mine sometimes grows quickly, in the manner of those-who-walk-on-two-legs. If she would permit, I would propose a union to my lady.”
“Sing it, then.”
“A trio. Myself the hindmother. I know not if I have spoken of it, but I have never been a hindmother.”
“You are young.”
“That is true.”
“Mixolydian?”
“Lydian. And Serpent for the hindfather.”
She lowered her eyes in thought.
“Sharped?” she sang.
“Yes.”
What he had outlined was a Sharped Lydian Trio, one of the most common of the Twenty-nine Ways. He and Valiha would have frontal intercourse to produce a semi-fertilized egg: Rocky the forefather, Valiha the foremother. The egg would be activated by Cirocco Jones, implanted in Rocky’s womb, and quickened by Serpent: Rocky the hindmother, Serpent the hindfather.
He could see her adding it up. Genetics was as instinctive in Titanides as it was imponderable to humans. He knew she would find no flaw in his proposal, though the fact that Valiha was Serpent’s hindmother might make it seem incestuous to a human. But incest was a genetic problem to Titanides only in special and limited cases, and morally it was no problem at all.
“It is a good mating,” she sang, finally. “It will require some thought.”
“As she wills it.”
“It is not thee, sir,” she began, then dropped back into a less formal mode. “Dammit, Rocky, I’m beginning to love you, too, and you’re an admirable fellow, but the times bother me.”
“I know, Valiha. The world spins badly.”
“I don’t know if we should bring babies into a world like this.”
“In your own hindmother‘s time, did we not war with the angels?”
She nodded, and wiped away a tear. She forced a smile.
“I know it. And Serpent will love it. Have you spoken of this to him?”
“No other soul knows of it.”
“Then I pray you, hold it within thy heart while the world spins another thousand times. Then thou shalt have thy answer.”
They kissed, and heard Serpent come out of the jungle at a full gallop. His hooves sprayed dirt as he thundered across the plowed field.
“I thought you two were plowing!” he sang. “I felt so guilty, staying home and baking, my only burden that fierce human child, while you labored like common farm hands. So I hurried, only to find you—”
He stopped, digging in with all four hooves, and stood perfectly still for two long seconds. Then he reared on his hind legs, wheeled, and dashed off the way he came.
“Zombies!” he shouted, in English, but by then Rocky and Valiha had smelled them, too, and were in hot pursuit.
 
“Rescue a kid and what does it get you?” Conal asked himself. He glanced at Adam. There was spit dripping down his chin. “You get to be a babysitter, that‘s what.”
He yawned, and settled deeper into the couch. He was in a corner room on the first floor of the main house at the Junction, one with a lot of windows and a good view of the waterfall. Nova was somewhere upstairs, doing something that had produced a strange smell for a while. Whatever it was, it had made her throw up. Before that, she had been running all over the house, acting like a spy. But there had been no sound out of her for over an hour.
“Too good to sit with her baby brother,” he told Adam. The infant regarded him solemnly, and then threw a Titanide egg at him.
Actually, Conal didn’t mind. He just got a lot of satisfaction out of feeling put-upon.
The kid was okay. Not a howler. Real smart, and real strong. He could probably start with the weights in another year or so, just as soon as he had his feet solidly under him. He had the bones for it. And in a way, Conal was proud that Robin had trusted him enough to leave the baby with him.
He had set the kid up in the middle of the floor with some toys he’d scrounged, and Adam seemed happy to sit there and throw them around, then crawl after them. His favorite was the rack of old Titanide eggs. They were round, about the size of a golf ball, and came in all colors. They were too big for him to put in his mouth, though that didn’t prevent him from trying, and they wouldn’t break. About their only drawback was a tendency to roll under furniture, so Conal had rigged a palisade of pillows all around Adam, four meters wide. He didn’t manage to chunk too many that far. He stumped around in there, naked, not falling down much, and bouncing right back up when he did.
Conal watched Adam grow still, and start peeing on the floor. Conal laughed, and Adam turned awkwardly and started laughing, too.
“Ma!” Adam squeaked. “Tye-Nye! Ma!”
“Pee-pee,” Conal told him, getting up. “Gotta learn that, kid. Say, ‘Gotta go pee-pee.’” Adam laughed louder, nodding.
Conal got a towel out of the bathroom and mopped it up. It was a nuisance, but what could you expect? And it was better than diapers.
He sat down again and his thoughts turned, not for the first time, to Nova. Most likely she was sleeping up there. Hell of a problem, Nova. Hell of a problem. What to do about it? Where to start?
He couldn’t think of a good place. At first he thought she hated all living beings equally. Lately he had come to believe he held a special place in her heart, just below rattlesnakes, pederasts, and spirochetes. Definitely a tough place to start from, but determination had always been Conal’s strong point.
Unhappily, imagination was not. Nor was subtlety. Cirocco had told him he had an admirable directness, but that it took some getting used to.
So when his thoughts turned to Nova, they kept going around in the same unprofitable pattern. He knew it was ridiculous, he knew something radical had to happen before she could ever begin to see him as anything but a repulsive monster, but he kept having the same recurrent fantasy. It started with him getting out of the chair and going up the stairs. He would knock on her door.
“Come in,” she would say. He would enter, smile winningly.
“Just wanted to see if you needed anything, Nova,” he would say.
Then—he wasn’t sure about the details of this part—he would be sitting on the bed beside her, and he would lean over to kiss her, and her lips would part  . . . 
She screamed.
It was a dreadful, terrifying scream, torn from her throat. So deep had been his fantasy that for a confusing moment he tried to form an apology, and then his blood seemed to freeze as he understood this was real.
His feet touched the bottom stair, the ninth stair, and the top stair, and he was barreling down the hallway toward her room.

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