She blinks as she peers into the eyepieces. I step forward and touch her hand. She jumps but allows it, and I guide it to the fine focus so she can adjust it for her eyes.
She looks up, eyes wide. “That’s my wild yeast budding? That’s crazy!”
I grin at her, delighted she’s showing emotion, but a proverbial punch hits me in the gut.We took this—relatively simple—technology away from them.
I shake myself. It was needed. They were unchecked children, allowed to run wild, develop technology they were not advanced enough to handle. The images of nuclear weapons dropped on citizens should be enough to prove that to anyone with eyes.
“That’s right. It’s just starting, but I expect we could be seeing respiration soon.”
She nods, “The carbon dioxide will indicate the yeast is consuming the sugar.”
Project Selene started almost six years ago, when we noticed our sharp decline. At first, it was data collection: rate of decline, gender of winglings born, numbers of alpha vs beta vs omega adult gargoyles left alive after the wars, breaking data into before and after the wars, before and after the resettlements. It went on and on. I loved my work back then. The numbers were so ordered. There was always information in the data, something to learn.
But three years ago, the experiments started.
New United Government sent agents to larger towns, to find the humans, male and female, that had turned to selling sexual services. Gargoyles find no shame in that; folks need physical touch, and we had, unfortunately, damaged both their population and their communities in the wars. So using your skill to make people feel a connection, less alone, a moment of reprieve from the stress... it’s a noble calling, no matter what the backwards humans think.
However, NUS decided these were the folks that would be less likely to be noticed missing, since they were generally very private people. We paid them an outrageous sum of money to come and be our test subjects for a period of no less than a year.
At first, it was basic research. The women’s menstrual cycles, hormone levels at various times of day for men and women, sleep cycles, and so on. Almost all of it revealed something disturbing: it was damn near analogous with ours. Our only differences besides our wings and skin, was our sleep cycle and body temperature.
When we started testing their bodies' limits... and their blood... I swallow hard, lost in my thoughts. I look back to mybride, wanting to get close to her to inhale her intoxicating scent to calm myself. Her dark hair, braided loosely down her back, has fallen forward over her shoulder as she looks in the scope.
I clear my throat. “I ordered some supplies, if you’d like to start a batch of beer?”
She snaps upright, mouth open.
Fern blinks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. My stomach plummets.
She’ll never trust us. Never care for us.
“I suppose,” she responds slowly.
I nod, trying to shake my feeling of despair, as I lead her to the kitchen.
THEO DECIDED DINNERshould be chili over the fire. I had helped Fern sanitize brewing supplies while Theo added beans, spices, lentils, some ground beef from the freezer to the large pot with the hanger for the fire pit.
Theo had asked Fern to accompany him to the garden for tomatoes and peppers and she had somewhat reluctantly agreed. Watching Theo lift her gingerly and drop off the balcony had awoken tender feelings inside me.
I want Fern towantus.To find happiness here, in our home.
When they returned, arms loaded with gorgeous veggies, I had offered Fern a cutting board and a knife.
She had frozen, eyes going between me and the blade I held out. I watched her swallow hard and take the knife slowly. She had carefully chopped peppers in the world’s most dutiful manner.
Now, we’re settled in our chairs around the merrily crackling fire as the sun sets. Theo occasionally lifts the heavy lid and stirs the chili, letting out a mouth-watering aroma each time.
Arch had brought out a bottle of wine from the pantry out to our outdoor table, pouring us each some.
Fern is curled into a huge chair, robe tucked over her toes. She cups the wine glass, face relaxed as she stares at the fire.But she’s still hidden.
“I spoke with the neighbors with the billy goat. They’re happy to bring him to stud for the next couple years if we’ll agree to giving them one of the kids,” Theo says as he sips his wine.
“Sounds fair,” Arch agrees, head tilted back and eyes closed. “I think we ought to consider rabbits.”
Fern nods, “They are easy to keep and a great meat source. Most families I know keep them. We almost never have beef,” she angles her chin towards the pot.
I chuckle, “It’s rare here too, to be fair.”
