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“But a parasite?” The tips of his ears go from red to blue. “I’m a symbiont.”
“Sure.” I fly up and head for the tower of sleepers. “Whatever you say.”
“You have to mean that.” He zooms in front of me, his ears going back to red.
“If you insist on having this discussion, let me ask you something: Am I or am I not your food source?”
“In a manner of speaking. I get my nutrients from your bloodstream.”
“And where do your metabolic byproducts go?” Even as I ask the question, I shudder at the images it generates.
Pom turns a shade paler. “You mean like farts and poop? I don’t think I do those things, but if I did, I guess it would go into your bloodstream. But your liver—”
“Is not there to save me from looft poo, I’m sure. In any case, what do you call a creature that lives off someone like this?”
He zips around me. “If it was useless, like a tick, you’d rightfully call it a parasite. But if the noble being provides the host with benefits, it’s a symbiont.”
“Benefits?” I fly over the staircase. “What are they? Besides blasting my eyeballs with extreme cuteness and helping me get into the dream world—both things I could hypothetically use a koala bear for. Did you know koalas sleep up to twenty-two hours a day? That’s only an hour and fifty-five minutes less than you.”
He huffs. “You can’t bring a koala from world to world. And I do more for you than you think. I help you stay thin when you consume too many calories and—”
“Wait.” I slow down to look into his big, guileless eyes. “Are you saying I pig out?”
“Well… I also help you regulate your appetite.”
Huh. That may explain why I haven’t been as hungry lately. “I didn’t know that.”
He puffs up. “There’s a lot you don’t know about loofts.”
“You win,” I say, mostly because we’ve reached the tower and I need to focus on Bernard. “You’re a symbiont.” Under my breath, I add, “Like gut bacteria.”
“I heard that,” Pom grumbles as I float over to Bernard’s nook. “But guess what? All you Cognizant are parasites when it comes to humans. You wouldn’t have powers if it weren’t for their belief in you. You wouldn’t—” He stops, seeing my crestfallen expression. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”
I wave dismissively. “No, you can call me a parasite if you want. I was just hoping to finish the job.” I eye Bernard’s empty bed in disappointment.
“Oh, yeah, he’s no longer sleeping,” Pom says. “Check back in a few hours. I’m sure he’ll be back later.”
I do my best to suppress a thought along the lines of assuming I have a later. No need to worry the little guy.
Pom cocks his head at me. Did he catch that worry, after all?
Before he can question me and because I need to soothe myself, I take to the air, heading to an adjacent part of the palace.
Pom’s fur brightens to golden as he realizes where I’m going. “Which memory will you relive this time?” he eagerly asks, flitting around me.
“Not sure yet.”
My memory gallery serves a purpose similar to photo albums on Earth and VR videos on Gomorrah, making it easier to put myself into a dream that’s based on a treasured recollection. Each plasma-framed painting hanging in the cavernous, museum-like space depicts an important snapshot of my life.
I float along the walls, scanning the various images until I settle on one.
“This?” Pom asks when I stop next to my choice.
“It’s my earliest memory.”
The tips of his ears turn light orange. “How old were you when that happened?”
“Seven, I think.”
“And that’s your earliest memory?” His ears are now a hodgepodge of colors. “Don’t most people recall events before that age?”
I try not to show how much his innocent question bothers me. “I think it varies for everyone. I’ve always felt like there were parts of my childhood I couldn’t recall—and Mom wasn’t helpful when I asked her to fill in the blanks.”
An understatement. Most fights between us over the years boiled down to her snapping at me for asking something about the past, like “who was my father?” or “where is he?”
Pom clasps his little paws together. “Well, then, do what you came here to do.”
“Be back soon,” I say and jump into the painting.
Chapter Seven
I’m shorter than usual. My body is that of my seven-year-old self, as are my emotions—unless I stop the replay and reflect as my adult self, which I rarely do.
Mommy’s in the bathroom, and I’m bored. Spying an interesting object on Mommy’s dresser, I climb onto a chair and rise on tiptoes to reach it.
It’s coarse to the touch, unlike any other material I’ve ever handled. Is it clay? I don’t know where I know that word from, but I’m pretty sure the object—a vase—is made of that.
