Spots: Loopholes

A Web Serial by M.C.A. Hogarth

21. Mobilizing.	23. Backchannel.

22. Loopholes

Barracks. Spots and Claws are preparing for bed.

Claws, yanking the sheets back. "What a cluster****. God al-****in'-mighty."

Spots. "Everyone got back, Claws. It worked out. Let's just get some sleep, all right?"

"All ri—" The door chimes. "Hell, Spots, you expectin' a beau or somethin'?"

Spots looks at him funny, then answers the door... and steps back from the towering figure of Samuel-Colt.

"Samuel-Colt!"

The alien bows, makes a hesitant, interrogative sound with its vestigial limbs. "Mother-soldier. May I enter?"

"Of course!"

The alien is an overwhelming presence in such a small space. Both humans press against their bunks to give him enough room.

"Would it be more comfortable for you if we were to sit?"

Spots, glancing at wide-eyed Claws. "Uh... yes, please."

He folds himself down. Descending arpeggio. "Our apologies for disturbing you. We were hoping you might do us a service."

Spots. "Us? Help you?"

"I have recently made myself a new arm and hand to aid me in further refining the new shield technology. The arm is without decoration... " Samuel-Colt trails off, then lifts the little jar and reed brush. Slow, rising note, somehow hopeful.

"You want us to paint the designs on you?"

"Not you, Mother-soldier." His head slowly turns to Claws. Single note drone. "As a Mother's escort, this one is closest to us in rank and function. It is customary for peers who share a function to do this service for one another."

"Me?" Claws starts. "I'm your peer?"

Samuel-Colt inclines his head in assent. When Claws doesn't immediately respond, Spots nudges him.

"Um... of course, right." He accepts the paint and brush with only the smallest tremor of hands. "What... what do I do? Is there some specific design I need to copy?"

"Not for the arms. Lineage and honors are painted on the thorax; the extremities are reserved for personal statements. Since they are painted by others, they sometimes express the relationship between peers."

Claws squints. "So I'd put on you whatever I felt was... representative of our relationship."

Quick flourish. "Just so, Mother's escort."

Muttering. "Such as it is." Louder. "All right then. Hold out your arm."

The alien stretches out the arm and spreads the delicate hand on Claws's knee. Claws stares at it, then squares his shoulders and opens the jar. He studies the brush, frowns. "Hang tight, there, I have no idea how this thing writes." He feels around his nightstand until he finds a towel and tries a few strokes on it. "How the hell'd you get a reed to act like this?"

Samuel-Colt, amused trill. "It is naturally so. We toughen the barrel."

Claws, biting his lip, staring at the arm. "Damn. I have no idea where to start."

Spots. "Maybe if you could tell us more about... ah... being Claws's peer?"

"What do you wish to know?"

Claws. "Well... are all males peers?"

"No, Mother's escort. You and we both serve a mother. You are an escort; we perform a liaison function to the humans."

Spots. "What do you mean "we"?"

"We, myself and my lineage." Samuel-Colt studies them, strangely intent. "I have the memories of all the designers who have served the humans in generations past. When I speak of matters that concern their memories, I correctly include them."

Claws. "All the memories of... how do you do that?"

Samuel-Colt, without music. "It is not a matter we speak of."

Claws. "To humans?"

Samuel-Colt hesitates—no, waits.

Claws. "What about to mothers?"

Spots. "Claws...."

"If the mother were to ask, we would answer." No trill again.

Claws glances at Spots, who shakes her head. "That feels like... like exploiting a loophole. It doesn't feel fair."

"You're a cookie-bakin' mom, Spots. Some things cross species. Right, Peer?"

"It is within your right, Mother-soldier." There is a peculiar quality to Samuel-Colt's music: hope and resignation and tension.

Spots glances at Claws. Then sighs too. "All right. Tell me how you pass memories, Samuel-Colt."

"We consume the bodies of our progenitors. While they are still alive."

Claws, standing abruptly. "****! Our people!"

21. Mobilizing.	23. Backchannel.