Ur was super excited. His boss wasn’t known for generosity, so the day he offered him two free tickets to the Feast, Ur could barely contain himself. ‘I have to be in another sector this weekend,’ his boss explained in his usual, ridiculous baritone. Ur suspected a new mistress.
He couldn’t wait to get home. ‘Guess what sugarlump?’ he called out to his wife. ‘We’re going to the Feast!’ Ona’s eyes lit up for the first time in months.
Ur knew that Ona was unhappy with their move to Sector 42, even though they lived in its most exciting city, Centre Point. She never came out and said as much, but some resentments take a long time to simmer, even longer to bubble and froth.
The tickets in Ur’s hand felt like the first sign of the better life he had promised Ona. The annual Feast was the place to be at that time of year. Impossible to get invited to, it offered everything: a chance to sample the sector’s finest gastronomical delights; the opportunity to mix with the cream of society; and introductions to the kind of people you’d never normally encounter as a mere sorting clerk, which is what Ur was. A sorting clerk with big ambitions.
‘We have access to the fashion show as well!’ Ur declared. He kissed Ona, tasting oregano and basil on her tongue before sampling, with the tip of a spoon, the sauce she was preparing. They tried to make love that night but it proved, as on previous occasions since the move to Sector 42, to be a joyless affair. Later, in the early hours, Ona sat up in bed and began sobbing quietly to herself. Ur pretended to be asleep.
The morning of the Feast finally arrived, and Ur took Ona shopping. They treated themselves to tailored outfits, the type they’d never dream of buying normally, then, while Ona booked herself into a beauty salon, Ur killed an hour staring at window displays of laser-harpoons. On returning home they showered, perfumed and dressed. Ur thought Ona was looking very attractive in her new outfit. He put his arm around her but she gently pulled away as she fixed her earrings. Ur’s faint smile disappeared. He wondered whether over the course of this night things would get better or worse between them.
Ur parked the Paradigm Hover in the vehicle dock, and the couple took the magnet capsule to Alliance City Station (in a part of town that used to be called Revolution City in the old days). From there they reached the exhibition complex on disposable solar-blades, which they kicked off and recycled in a terror-proof bin in front of the complex. Through the glass façade, they could see the Feast was already underway.
Passing through the main entrance, Ur and Ona held their invitations aloft, to be scanned by the security system. As each invite was read, the mesh of lasers crisscrossing the doorway disappeared and the guest walked through. On the other side, Ona and Ur were met by a pair of ten-foot-high robotic puppies bounding toward them, enthusiastically. The puppies bathed them in purple light emitted from their big, adorable eyes as they scanned for weapons. Ur had to remind himself that cute as these floppy-eared, chrome-coloured puppies were, they were designed to pounce and swallow terrorists whole, in a fraction of a second. Bombs could explode noiselessly inside their stomachs.
The great hall took the breath of anyone who entered it. Using reflective surfaces and synthetic-crystal paint, the designers managed to convey a sense of vastness, even infinity.
Row upon row of stalls stretched like waves over an ocean. Farmers and merchants from all over Sector 42, not just Centre Point but farther afield, were gathered to display their produce. The first fifty or so rows were dedicated solely to wine.
Ona paused in front of one stall that displayed wines with peculiar-looking labels. The labels featured a painting of a farmhouse surrounded by horses and fields stretching into the distance. It was like a picture out of an info-bite manual. Ur asked the old merchant manning the stall if they could sample some of it. The merchant poured two generous glassfuls and handed them over.
‘Smell it first,’ he suggested to Ur who was about to down it in one go.
‘Why?’
‘That’s how it was done in the old days.’
Ur sniffed and was pleasantly surprised, even moderately aroused, by the aroma. Ona followed suit and a smile stole across her face.
‘Now drink,’ the old merchant instructed.
Ur began to drink. The wine caressed his throat like a sheet of velvet. Seconds later, an explosion of taste erupted in the back of his throat. The alcohol reached the brain and he felt his muscles relax with a substantial quantity of happiness.
‘This is not normal wine, is it? What’s it made of?’
‘Grapes,’ replied the merchant.
‘Grapes?’
‘Red grapes to be precise. This is how they made wine here in the old days. We are the only company that has been granted a licence to create produce according to the old ways’.
‘But this tastes great,’ Ona interjected. Ur and the merchant looked at her surprised, assuming she hadn’t been following their conversation. ‘There should be more things like this. We should be encouraged to learn about the old days.’ Ona’s voice was ripe with enthusiasm. The old merchant poured another shot of wine for her then leaned forward to whisper, ‘You know, the elders frown on this, madam.’
Ur finished his sample and asked: ‘Does your company produce any normal wines?’
‘Sure. Here try this.’
The merchant took out a container from the thirty-seven-degrees incubator and poured a sample in a fresh cup.
It was local wine with the usual two-rivers logo on the label.
Ur tasted the wine. It was the familiar sort, the type he could obtain easily at his local market. He formulated his next question carefully, before asking with confidence:
‘What kind of humans is this made out of?’
‘It’s from the blood of locals,’ the old merchant replied in a lacklustre voice, clearly unimpressed with Ur’s rather unrefined question.
‘Perhaps you should be asking, rather, what they were fed on?’ he suggested.
‘Er, yes, precisely,’ Ur blushed.
‘We prefer organic methods. That’s what our company is all about.’ The merchant’s hands animated his speech. ‘So for a start we cook their meals. Most wine merchants don’t bother with such details. Humans can indeed eat raw meat, but their teeth are not particularly suited for it so they prefer cooked food.’
‘Just like us!’ Ona yelped.
‘Yes, perhaps there is a degree of similarity with us.’
The merchant produced more wine bottles with different logos. ‘These come from farther afield. Have a taste.’ He poured fresh glasses for the couple.
‘What do you cook for them?’ Ona asked with real interest, as cooking was one of the things she excelled at.
‘Whatever we can get cheaply: sheep, donkeys, rats, that sort of thing. Sometimes we feed them their own babies but we found it best not to make them aware of that, otherwise they get agitated.’
Ona put her glass down. Ur took another sip from his.
‘We screen them for disease on a regular basis. They’re susceptible to so many viruses, as a species. We have to be careful especially when handling their fluids: blood, mucus, semen, et cetera. Most of their viruses can not cross over to us but we still have to follow regulations.’
‘Well you have a good produce here. It’s high quality,’ Ur said this knowing what the merchant would ask next.
‘Would you like to purchase anything, sir? We can have it sent to your address.’
Before he had time to reply or fumble for his credit chip, Ona interjected.
‘Maybe later, there is still so much to see.’
She was always the sensible one. Ur also knew that by saying this she was reminding him of their plan: to work in Centre Point until they’d saved enough credit to buy a plot of sea back home.
They sampled more wine from other regions. Mainly made from human blood, although the ‘Other Vinos’ section offered vintages derived from dog, cat, hamster, and pig. Ona was getting a little tipsy. Ur kissed her. She kissed him back and he could feel a flicker of fire between them. But not enough, he thought. The blood on their lips intermingled. Her brown-eyed African mixed with his German blond.
After the wine, came the meat stalls. To Ona it seemed that every part of the human was used in one way or another. There were arms, torsos and thighs hanging from hooks and several counters displayed heads stuffed with fried tomatoes or peppers where the eyes used to be. At Ona’s local market human meat was often highly processed and vacuum-wrapped. It was easy to forget where it came from. But here she was confronted by the entirety of the human animal. Ur passed one head with two carrots sticking out of its ears. He had to suppress an attack of the giggles as he made his way forward.
Then there were the sausages; coils and coils of them, stacked ancient castle walls in refrigerated trays. Ur knew these were made from things like ground-up eyes, lips, cheeks, tongues, muscle, spinal cord. Just about every part of the human anatomy fed into those cylindrical delights. Ona picked one of the foreskin-and-herb-coated sausages to examine it when she noticed a crowd had gathered around a small platform directly opposite her.
It appeared a demonstration was about to take place. The butcher standing on the platform was dressed in orange overalls. On a table in front of him lay an entire human leg. The tanned limb was completely smooth unlike many others that hung around them. Something about it suggested femininity. The toenails were painted red and the middle toe was adorned with a tiny silver ring. The butcher stood with one hand firmly gripping the thigh; with his other hand he held up an old-fashioned cleaver, its edge glinting like a laser beam. Once a sufficient crowd gathered, he raised the leg and cleared his throat, then for a moment he stopped himself, noticing the toe ring. With a flick of the cleaver it was gone, flying through the air above them, then landing somewhere behind him with a tiny jingle. The nail on the toe also came off and a small trickle of congealed blood dribbled over the other toes and onto the table. Ur, Ona and most of the others watching recognised that the leg was organic; real fresh.
‘The most important thing you’ve got to realise when making sausages is that the finished product is only as good as the ingredients it contains,’ the butcher’s voice bellowed, silencing the few who were still engaged in conversation. ‘The meat must be fresh.’ He paused to let that point sink in. ‘It must also be high quality and have the proper lean-to-fat ratio. It’s no good using overweight specimens for this, which is why farmers who know what they are doing, make sure their stock receives plenty of exercise. You give a human half a chance and he’ll just sit around doing nothing.’ Laughter erupted at that last comment. The butcher didn’t smile. ‘That’s not good. A fat human makes for a poor sausage indeed.’
He then raised his meat cleaver high above his head and brought it down with enough force to cut a round portion of the upper thigh. He picked up the chunk of meat and held it forward. It was now inches away from Ona’s terrified face. ‘See! No fat on this one. She’s a beauty. And look at the colour, it’s just marvellous.’ Ur was nodding in agreement. The majority of humans from Centre Point were beautifully sun-kissed, making their meat particularly tasty. The butcher flung the meat into a solar-powered grinder.
‘The temperature of the meat should be kept as cold as possible during the grinding and mixing. This grinder is kept at a constant four degrees and can be flicked into self-sterilizing mode when not in use. The low temperature keeps any nasty human germs from being active. Later, the meat is cured with a mixture of antibacterial and antiviral formulations before stuffing into hog casings. Any questions so far?’
‘Yeah, I have a question,’ a youngster shouted from the back. ‘Why is there such a big price difference between the sausages?’
The butcher lodged his cleaver in the middle of the leg and said, ‘It’s to do with the type of meat. Humans come in all varieties: black, brown, pink, yellow. This determines the flavour but also those of us from Sectors 1 to 20 have taste buds that pick up other qualities. Scientists now think that what the human was thinking or feeling at the moment before processing can affect the quality of the meat.’
A feminine voice announced through concealed speakers: ‘Will guests with tickets to the fashion show please proceed to the Inferno Hall. Take the gravity elevators down to 7/8.’
The gravity elevator was a huge round platform rimmed with unconnected metal bars and studded with hovering rubber poles. Through the gaps in the metal bars the guests, including Ur and Ona, entered, and were told to hang on to the poles suspended in mid-air. The platform then descended slowly through a shaft that doubled as a giant, cylindrical aquarium. Ona gasped at the beauty of the scene that encased them: a multitude of brilliantly coloured fish gliding in perfect formation like hoverjets in traffic, yet capable, at a moment’s notice, of changing direction. A school of them can break away with a twist and a jerk reminiscent of a limb twitching in sleep. Humans had lived in the midst of this beauty but failed to appreciate it. This was one of the points discussed at length in a government document called ‘The Moral Case for Sector 42 Invasion’ which everyone had been sent. Standing there, knowing she would not be able to describe the beauty of these fish, she wondered how anyone would be able prove or disprove human appreciation of anything. Maybe that document had overlooked this point deliberately.
Ona thought of the lessons she received at the fundament before leaving for Sector 42. Most people moving to the sector for work, including Ur, didn’t bother going on such courses, but she wanted to learn about the place she would have to call home for a while. Amongst the things they debated at the fundament was the question of whether humans had a civilisation. This question cropped up regularly and was hotly contested. She remembers her professor explaining that whilst humans themselves considered their system of cohabitation to constitute a civilisation or, even more bizarrely, a series of civilisations separated by time and/or geography, this wasn’t proof of anything. Just because native beings think something is true does not make it so, the professor explained. After all, their art was repetitive; their science laughably limited and they had very little respect for one another and least of all for the globe where they lived. ‘No,’ the professor argued, ‘you can call it what you like but civilisation it was not.’
At the time, Ona had been troubled that some of the implied failings of humanity could also be found in her sector. But whenever she tried to raise this point, she was told that human failings were of much greater magnitude and moral repugnancy. The decision to invade, taken by the Elders of Sectors 1 to 3, was not made lightly, she was constantly assured, and there was ample documentation for her to pore through, if she wanted, to reassure herself about the reasoning behind it. Every time she tried, however, the endless stream of dry reports and hearings sent her quickly to sleep.
‘What was surprising is that humans failed to grasp the inevitability of their defeat,’ the professor said. ‘They actually put up a fight!’ This didn’t happen immediately because when the Alliance forces first arrived they picked Centre Point as their first base, which took many by surprise. Centre Point was a city that humans referred to as Baggy-Dad (the natives may pronounce it differently, the professor said as an aside). Humans in the elite Western and Eastern flanks of Sector 42 were particularly surprised, indeed insulted, that it was not one of their own cities that had been occupied first. They had always imagined—very repetitively, through their so-called ‘art’—that this would ultimately be the case in what they called a ‘space invasion’. And their ‘intellectuals’ speculated wildly on why Baggy-Dad was picked above cities such as Newey Pork or Lindon or Beige-Inn. Was it location? Climate? Geography? Or the fact that Baggy-Dad was already war-torn and its inhabitants weary of fighting that attracted the ‘aliens’ to it?
Here Ona remembers her professor digressing. ‘It’s funny the words humans used to refer to us. In one of their dominant languages they describe us as “aliens”, a horrid term. Whereas humans in Centre Point who spoke Arabaic, call us “ka-in-at-fatha-i-ya” or something similar-sounding which meant “space creatures”, an arguably more neutral term. Of course, what they should have called us, based on logic if nothing else, was their betters. I mean how hard is it to work out that having crossed vast distances to reach this sector, we are the superior race technologically, and therefore their betters? But then humans were never that good at logic.’ Something about this argument had struck Ona as suspect but before she’d had time to formulate what exactly, the professor had moved on to the next point.
When Baggy-Dad was first colonised, humans in the rest of Sector 42 were alarmed, but not to the point of taking decisive action. All too soon they learnt that, unlike a virus outbreak or a rampaging fanatical armed group, this threat could not be ignored for very long. Baggy-Dad proved to be an excellent base for the Alliance from which to spread north, south, east and west, conquering the entire sector in a relatively short space of time. What was odd, the professor pointed out, was that humans eventually organised an activity they called ‘resistance’. It was the only time that all flavours of humans: pink, black, brown and yellow united for a common purpose. This flicker of intelligence came far too late, however, and ultimately it was easy to defeat humans by making deals with some of their more powerful members. It is rumoured that a select few who collaborated with the Alliance were spared slavery and subjugation. It is not clear where these exceptions are living now. Some say they were teleported to the caves of Sector 3078. The names of human cities and districts were quickly changed on all available maps so that they were at once made familiar to the Alliance and disorientating for the natives. Hence places like Revolution City, a short lived hub of resistance, became Alliance City.
Ur was also lost in thought, as the gravity elevator continued to descend through it’s aquarium sleeve. But he wasn’t contemplating the history of Sector 42. He was rather thinking about his job instead. Sorting clerks such as himself were needed after the change (or ‘the invasion’ as some humans irritatingly referred to it) to catalogue everything. Throw out the useless, keep what was relevant to the Alliance and most importantly destroy all remnants of so-called ‘human culture’ that could give rise to another resistance. It’s amazing, Ur thought. How one can carry out as complex a task as a change of an entire sector with the absolute minimum of knowledge? Ur consulted databases that gave him the information he needed to catalogue, but he rarely had to dig deep into the details. There simply was no time to be thorough, considering the volume of work. Occasionally the databases had some missing information and Ur would have to activate Protocol 7 in order to investigate the item he was cataloguing, using information that humans themselves had kept about it. This was generally discouraged and a sorting clerk could not activate Protocol 7 more than three times in any given work cycle. Otherwise alarms would sound with the higher-ups. Once Ur had come across a book made out of something called ‘paper’. It carried a drawing on the front of a bald human with a huge white collar, looking apprehensively at the viewer. The information on this particular human was very sketchy and nowhere near as detailed as say the entries on anatomy books that were of particular interests to chefs working for the Alliance.
Ur was able to find out that this male wrote words that humans kept repeating for centuries, often on a stage, for the ‘entertainment’ of other humans. This illustrated handsomely the point often made about the limitation of human art and its inherently repetitive nature. Yet as Ur went through the book, he found the stories oddly compelling, despite their often preposterous and primitive plots, made perhaps even more intriguing by the fog of a double translation (Ur was deciphering the book—which had been translated into Arabaic from its original language—with the aid of an interpretation device). Linguistic opacity notwithstanding, he found himself laughing at a macabre joke in one of these stories about a human trying to avenge the murder of the male that gave rise to him, but procrastinating over the act in odd and elaborate ways. Everyone in the sorting chamber where Ur worked turned to look at him in surprise that day, as he struggled to stifle his laughter. To compose himself, Ur reminded himself of how pathetically humans had failed to work out the basics of intergalactic space flight, driving back his momentary fascination with the book and restoring his old feelings of revulsion towards these creatures. It was only when this feeling of superiority had a physical manifestation—a shudder of revulsion—that balance to his psyche was restored.
Such a crisis never happened again and Ur made excellent progress in his work. What he wanted more than anything was to be promoted to Head of Filing. Tonight was his chance to further that ambition, if he could only make the right contacts.
These were his thoughts as the gravity elevator continued to descend. Then, finally, one of the fish caught his eye. Its colours and its strange movements infiltrated his most private thoughts. He looked over at Ona and wondered about the cause of their unhappiness. What if he actually were promoted? What then? Maybe they’d save enough credit and return to Sector 3 sooner. Would that restore the desire they’d once felt for each other? Their relationship felt empty; he was at a loss to explain it. All he knew was that it was causing them both tremendous pain.
The platform reached level 7/8. The guests walked through a wide, dimly lit corridor which opened onto the cavernous space of the Inferno Hall. At the back of the hall stood a stage, and Ona and Ur made their way toward it. A light show had already begun, accompanied by loud music. They were seated at a table along with several other couples. Ur realised they had found their way to a particularly exclusive area of the hall, as everyone around looked impeccably well turned out. Of course this would be the case, he thought, as the tickets belonged to his boss who was constantly socialising to further his career. Models were parading the latest winter collection on stage including a coat made out of sheep hair (what humans called ‘woollen’). The buttons on the coat were made from chemically-preserved, steel-reinforced human fingers. An elegant design, thought Ur. Ona, however, looked ashen-faced as she stared at the models, though Ur would never have noticed in the low lighting.
He spotted some of the other guests reaching for a jar from the set placed at the centre of each table. They were fishing things out with thin steel forks and placing them in their mouths as their bodies bobbed up and down in time to the music. Ur glanced at the couple next to him. The male looked familiar. He decided to take a chance, and break the ice with some of these higher-ups. A chance like this doesn’t come every day. He leaned over to the male sitting next to him and pointing at the contents of the jar in front of them asked: ‘What are these?’ The male answered but Ur couldn’t hear him over the music. He cupped his ear and said, ‘Say that again.’ The male shouted in his ear. ‘Oh, okay.’ Ur’s eyes lit up. It suddenly dawned on him that the male was none other than the Chief Archivist, responsible for firing and hiring all heads of filing. Ur smiled meekly and said, ‘I’ve never tried these before.’ He picked up the fork in front of him and plunged it into the jar. He had to fish around until the teeth of his fork bit into their prey. He pulled out his catch and popped it into his mouth. ‘Mmm. Zingy!’ he declared as if his approval of the food could win the Chief Archivist’s favour.
Ona was always less daring when it came to trying new food. She whispered to Ur, ‘What is it Ur?’
‘It’s a foetus, sugarlump. They’re a delicacy. You must try them.’
Ona’s face clouded over. She looked at the other guests, munching away at these small human creatures, and realised that these foetuses could not have been farmed in such quantities unless they had been both germinated and aborted by artificial means. On the stage, a gorgeous female from Sector 1 was modelling a spring dress made from stitched-together nipples. Ona suddenly felt nauseous. ‘I need to cleanse.’ She got up from the table and began to walk quickly. ‘Wait Ona…’ Ur shouted. Then, when everyone at the table including the Chief Archivist turned to look at him, he smiled meekly to suggest that it was nothing, of course.
Ona looked for the sign for the cleansing chamber then quickly crossed the hall toward it. Ur didn’t know what to do. Should he stay and continue socialising with the Chief Archivist or go see to his wife? In the end, he excused himself and left the table, his pace increasing the farther he got away from them. In fact, once out of sight and safely down the corridor that led to the cleansing chamber, Ur broke into a run. Ona couldn’t wait for him. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted him around right then. The dimly lit corridor stretched out for an eternity. There were bars, shops and clubs on either side. Other doors had no signs and it wasn’t obvious what they led to. Finally Ona reached the cleansing chamber and once inside lowered her head into a basin. Her skull labia opened and undigested food, mixed with urine, erupted in thick ejaculations. Ur walked in and steadied her by holding onto her neck with one hand and her short tail with the other. ‘Let it all out,’ he said. When her skull closed again, Ur ran the tap to wash off any remaining traces of vomit on the top of her head. He then dried her with some paper napkins.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said as she pushed him away.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I hate this place.’
‘We can leave if you want. I think the exit is this—’
‘I hate this sector. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.’
‘Hey.… hey, calm down.’
‘We should never have come here. We were happy back home. We just got greedy because of the salary they were offering you and didn’t stop to think, not for one millisecond, about these poor creatures. I can’t bear to think what we’ve done to them. I mean eating their unborn? Really, Ur?’
It took Ur a few seconds to realise what Ona was talking about and what had upset her.
‘They’re just humans, sugarlump.’
‘I know they’re just humans but they have feelings, don’t they?’
‘I suppose.’
‘It’s wrong, Ur. And we’re being punished for what we are doing to them. This is why it’s no good … it’s no good between us anymore.’
Ur had always found Ona’s belief in the ‘Setter of the Cosmological Constant’, with his powers to punish and reward, endearingly anachronistic but right then it irritated him immensely. Still, he was determined to placate her.
‘Sugarlump…’ Ur tried to hug Ona but she pushed him away with even greater vigour than before.
‘Stop calling me that. It’s such a stupid word.’
Ur was hurt. ‘But sugar is the most important fuel for all organisms in all the know—’
‘I don’t give a shitlump!’ Ona interrupted. Ur reached out to her and once again she rejected him.
‘I can’t stand you touching me anymore.’
Ur was beginning to panic. He’d never seen Ona so agitated before. So he stood still until her breathing slowed. His mind drifted towards the Chief Archivist. There was still time for them to return, apologise for their sudden departure, blame it on Ona’s delicate stomach and resume the conversation that could, if he played it right, lead to that promotion. But Ona said, ‘I’m not going back into the Inferno Hall, Ur. No way.’ Ur struggled to believe he had come so close to achieving his goal, only for it to be swept away by something as trivial as a foetus. Then, as he looked at Ona, a pang of guilt swept through him like electricity and he was ashamed of his naked ambition. Finally he said, ‘It’s alright. But let’s at least get a drink before we leave; I spotted a bar down the corridor when I was running after you. It looked quiet.’ Ona didn’t reply or even nod but the look she gave him was no longer hostile.
He walked down the corridor and she walked a few paces behind him. Halfway toward the bar someone called out to them.
‘Hey … yoo-hoo … yes, you … come in, come in.’
A door had opened. A door that Ur could have sworn was previously closed.
‘Come in … don’t be afraid … that’s it. Come in.’
Ur and Ona walked through the door. The room was a small bar. It could not seat more than half a dozen people. It glowed with a soft blue light, giving the effect of a moonlit night in a rural part of Sector 42. Blue light also came through the opaque surface of the bar. Behind the counter stood a tall, dark, semi-naked, heavily made-up …
‘Hermaphrodite!’ Ur said this out loud then instantly regretted it.
‘That’s right sweetheart. “Kuszib” is the name and bartending is the game. What’s up sugar? Is that sweet little thing your Mrs? “Mrs” … what a strange little native word.’
‘I’ve read about you,’ Ur said in the same, hypnotised voice he had uttered the word ‘hermaphrodite.’
‘Oh I do hope it was suitably scandalous.’
‘I don’t mean you, specifically. I mean about your kind.’
‘My “kind”? Do you mean bartenders? You must be a discerning business traveller who reads all those hoity-toity journals.’
‘You are from Sector 9. The only place where conditions allowed highly evolved hermaphrodites to dominate.’
‘Allowed!’ The hermaphrodite rolled the word over its tongue. ‘No one “allows” anything in this universe, sugar. Shit happens because shit can happen.’
‘Or because the Setter wills it,’ Ona interjected.
‘Oh, you’re so cute,’ Kuszib said patting her on the head then turning to Ur: ‘Can I keep her?’
Ur was still hypnotised.
‘Something the matter, sugar?’ Kuszib inquired.
‘Sorry, it’s just I’ve never met your kind before.’
‘Your kind, your kind, your kind!’ snapped the hermaphrodite. ‘You are not too kind, gentle sir, for harping on “my kind”.’
‘Come again?’
‘Oh surely,’ and with that the hermaphrodite began to rub one of its tentacles until it hardened then it inserted it into an orifice located beneath its left nipple.
‘Ohhhhh.… That’s fucking gooooood!’
Ona giggled. ‘Ur, is he…?’
‘Yes darling,’ Ur replied meekly.
‘Did he just … orga?’
‘Not yet, my lady.’ The hermaphrodite interrupted. ‘Ohhhhhh. Yeaaaaaaa.’ Then, talking to its thrusting tentacle: ‘That’s it space cowboy. Ride it. Oh yes, yes, yes. There. That’s it. That’s the spot. Oh right there … there … no … a little to the left.’
The tentacle, one of three protruding out of the hermaphrodite’s navel, swayed to the left and began to pound the sub-nipple orifice with great vigour.
‘Ride it. Ride it. Ride it! Ride it you big love barnacle.’
Shouting and screaming, the hermaphrodite knocked several bottles neatly arranged on the glass shelves behind it with its two arms and two free tentacles, while its body shuddered like a spaceship crashing through an event horizon.
Ona placed her hand over her mouth to stop laughing but the laughter seeped through nonetheless. Ur was feeling very uncomfortable. ‘We should leave,’ he suggested.
The hermaphrodite grabbed hold of Ur’s right wrist and began to squeeze.
‘No. No. No. I’m nearly there. Wait. Wait. Let me just look at you both. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.… There it is. YES! It’s all over. Thank you. Thank you so much. That’s the best one I’ve had all day.’ Without letting go of Ur’s wrist, the hermaphrodite shook Ona’s hand and simultaneously wiped its brow with a napkin using one of its tentacles.
‘I’m “Kuszib” by the way,’ the hermaphrodite said, forgetting it had told them. ‘The best bartender this side of the Milky Way.’
‘What an unusual name you have,’ said Ona.
‘Glad you noticed, hon. I gave it to myself. Like a treat. I didn’t like my old name so I thought why not have a name-makeover? And let it be exotic. When in doubt, go exotic, that’s what I always say. To be honest I’ve never said that but it sounds like the sort of thing I would say.’
‘Does it mean anything, “Kus-what”?’ asked Ur.
‘“Kuszib”. It’s Arabaic.’
‘It’s the language of the natives of Centre Point,’ Ona explained.
‘I know!’ Ur snapped, irritated both by Ona presuming he didn’t and by the memory of the book that had unsettled him in the sorting chamber flashing in his mind.
‘If you must know,’ Kuszib said, nonchalantly. ‘“Kus” means.… well no point beating about the bush, it means “cunt”. And “zib” means “cock”. Put them together and you get: me! Lovely really. What are your names?’
‘Ur’ said Ur ‘and this is my wife…’
‘Ona,’ said Ona.
‘Ur and Ona. I am in your debt. I don’t know what it is about you but you just got my tentacles all tingly. Let me pour you a drink. It’s on me. Kuszib always rewards those who reward her.’
‘Her?’ Ur said with an unintended tone of incredulity.
‘Only on the weekend. It’s easier to get laid that way,’ Kuszib said with a grin.
‘Now don’t tell me you two have been sampling that swillpiss they’re serving upstairs?’ Kuszib reached for a bottle of wine from under the counter and placed it before the couple.
‘Some of it was good,’ Ur protested.
‘Whatever,’ Kuszib rolled her eyes. ‘You’re really married to this putz?’ she asked Ona.
Ona just looked bewildered.
‘A male who knows nothing of good wine shall never, in all his years, pleasure a female.… even I, a larker in the land between, know that.’
‘What?’ said Ur.
‘Glad you didn’t ask me to “come again”,’ Kuszib said and winked at Ona who resumed giggling afresh.
‘Your wife knows what I’m talking about. I can see it in her eyes though she’s trying to hide it.’
Ona fell silent. She looked at Ur who didn’t meet her gaze.
Kuszib’s tongue snapped out of its mouth with tremendous speed. It wedged deep into the cork of the wine bottle and, with a sharp, elegant pull, uncorked it. The room filled with a bewildering aroma.
‘Ommm.… Inhale. Inhale, my lovelies. Inhale!’ with eyes closed, Kuszib’s nostrils began flaring and vibrating in a struggle to capture every last molecule of its vapour.
‘Now drink!’ Kuszib ordered, pouring them two large measures.
Ur and Ona did as instructed. Their taste buds danced to the music of the wine, their cheeks filled with blood, their heads with joy, and their limbs floated on an ocean of invisible feathers. This was the best wine they had ever tasted.
‘What is it made of?’ asked Ur.
‘It’s a secret’ whispered Kuszib. ‘But hang around long enough and you might find out’.
‘I better stop, it’s making me..’ Ur was feeling unsteady. ‘Ona we shouldn’t … we have … a long … long … way to get home.’
Kuszib placed the back of its hand against its forehead and with a theatrical tilt of the head said, ‘I do not wish to greet the world with sober eyes.’ Then looking directly at Ur: ‘For sobriety is the virtue of the rankest pedant.’
‘Who … who said that?’ Ur asked earnestly.
‘I did, motherfucker. Now drink up. That goes for you too, sweet giggle-fits.’
With a nervous giggle, Ona finished her drink. Ur also downed the rest of his wine. Kuszib filled both of their cups. Ur opened his mouth to speak. ‘Hush!’ the great hermaphrodite commanded.
The couple stood frozen, not daring to break the silence.
‘I sense trouble’—Kuszib said, with her eyes flicking between Ur and Ona—‘in this union.’
‘We really must leave,’ Ur said in a tone so unassertive, it sounded like a plea. But then he glanced at Ona, and she was mesmerised. It is as if Kuszib spoke to the core of her being.
Kuszib’s hands reached out to the couple and turned them so they faced each other. Using her tentacles, she poured more wine into the cups and placed them against their lips.
‘Drink.’
The couple did as instructed.
‘Now close your eyes.’
With eyes closed, they downed the wine Kuszib was offering them. ‘Time for a rare slice from the very same source as this wild nectar,’ Kuszib said as she slipped two sausage wafers into their mouths.
The meat tasted like … like … like … how very odd, thought Ur … how very peculiar, thought Ona … it tasted like … falling in love all over again.
* * *
This is what they experienced:
Fog. Thick fog. Neither had ever seen fog before. It did not exist in Sector 3. They thought they were looking at a white screen but one that was slowly beginning to fragment and reveal … what?
Sand. Hot, white, smooth sand.
And they were running on air, just millimetres above this ocean of sand. Their bare feet occasionally brushing against the surface grains of this great desert.
Ur looked at Ona and saw a beautiful, naked, young human female. Ona in turn looked at her husband and saw a handsome, naked, young human male. Although they had turned into humans … in this vision … in this dream … they were still Ona and Ur. ‘But who do these bodies belong to? What are their names?’ they both wondered.
The next thing they knew they were running toward some unknown destination in the distance. They headed east—toward the land of the yellow-flavoured humans, their century-old towers deserted and crumbling, then they crossed an ocean, their feet lightly gliding over the foam of the waves, to the land of the chubby, predominantly white-flavoured humans, now kept captive on huge prairie farms, where they were mercilessly exercised to lose that excess fat. Then they crossed another ocean, dipping south to reach the landmass where the few remaining black-flavoured humans dwelt, almost extinct because their flesh tasted so good, and because sustainable farming laws had been implemented too late. Instead of running back to Centre Point, Ur and Ona took a detour. They headed north to the continent where the best wine, made according to the old ways was manufactured. Now they were running across dewy grass and wild flowers, their feet firmly treading on the ground. Ur stretched his hand out to Ona and she did the same. Their fingers touched then parted then touched again as they continued running. Their breathing was growing heavy but tiredness did not set in their limbs. They were that rare creature, that creature on the verge of extinction: a wild human. Being a wild human in Sector 42 meant that you were constantly on the run.
They reached a farmhouse. It was abandoned. Beyond it several horses stood munching on grass in a field stretching out to the horizon behind. The eerie silence of the place made the couple feel exposed. They pushed at the door of the farmhouse and found it unlocked. Once inside, they tried to catch their breath, Ona let out one of her characteristic giggles. Ur grabbed her and they kissed. Shortly after, Ona stretched out against the dust-covered wooden floor of the farmhouse. Ur opened her legs. He was taken back by the beauty of her sex, its complexity of intriguing folds and moist flesh. And when he approached for a closer inspection, its smell bewitched him. It had a similar aroma to the wine Kuszib had served them.
Ur realised that his sex organ, his human tentacle, was now erect with excitement. He had somehow expected this reaction but was surprised to find his lips and tongue were also prickling with anticipation. He kissed Ona’s feet, her calves, her thighs, turned her over and kissed the soft flesh of her buttocks, then turned her again to kiss her lower outer lips. She began to moan and the sound of her moans excited him further. His kisses turned more frantic and involved his tongue, lips, even teeth—used sparingly, not to hurt, but simply to suggest the possibility of danger.
‘So this is how humans mate,’ Ur whispered erotically in Ona’s ears. He was surprised at the sophistication of their pre-love. For him, Ona’s body became like the terrain of some strange sector, full of variety and intriguing little details: the texture of the navel, the softness of the belly, the round smoothness of the breasts capped with solid, dark concentrations of flesh, particularly pleasing to his tongue. Ona reached for his tentacle and brought it closer to her sex. She looked up at Ur and remembered a photograph in the infobite manual that had shown two humans mating in this very same position. But it was one thing to read about the invaded, it was quiet another to become them, Ona suddenly realised. When Ur entered, her cheeks filled with blood.
Kuszib fed them with more slices of sausage.
They became lost in sexual love. Both could sense that the end was nearing, that their brains were making their way towards an explosive event, something approaching a sensual supernova.
A few seconds short of orga, Ona sensed they were being watched. But before she had a chance to look over Ur’s shoulder, her heart was penetrated by a harpoon.
Hunters from Sector 3 had been watching them through a window and waiting for them to approach but not achieve orga. Just before reaching that zenith, the harpoon had pierced Ur’s back, skewered his chest, passed through Ona’s heart and lodged firmly in the wooden boards beneath them.
The hunters burst quickly into the farmhouse brandishing knives. Two of them lifted up the bodies by the hair on their heads, whilst others proceeded to slit their throats and collect the precious wine in special caskets they’d brought with them. This was the wine of wild humans caught in the act of love, making it the ultimate aphrodisiac. After the blood was drained, the only task left was to chop up the bodies, collect the meat and process it for sausage making.
* * *
Ur was the first to open his eyes. He could see a multitude of slimy tentacles had emerged from his own nipples and were sliding over, writhing with and penetrating Ona’s outstretched tentacles that ended in thorny receptacle cups. Ona opened her eyes and for the first time in months Ur could see true desire in them. They continued to make love for several hours as Kuszib fed them with wine and meat gathered from the corpses of wild lovers.
When they awoke the next day, not able to recollect when and how sleep had befallen them, the couple found themselves back in the vast white hall. All the stalls had been removed, and their two entwined bodies had been left undisturbed in a now empty desert. Ona and Ur emerged from the glass building, hand in hand, feeling relieved to have survived their strangest night in Sector 42.
On quiet days, Ona would think about the two lovers whose bodies they had inhabited that night and whose names they never knew. She felt sorry for them but concluded, in the end, that what mattered was her happiness and if that had to be revived by the blood and flesh of human lovers then so be it. Love is the hardest thing to sustain. Even humans, in their day, must have known that.