"Anita might not like sweet stuff." Number Eight was the most volatile of them, but he occasionally made fair points about what they did and didn't actually know.
"We could have ordered a salad," Number Four said.
Number One arched a brow. "Why would she want a salad?"
"Mattie eats salad, and she's a woman," Number Four replied as if that explained everything.
When Number One shared with the collective what he thought about the generalization of women, Number Eight made a noise that was almost a laugh but not quite.
Laughter was difficult for all of them. The muscle memory of it had survived the merge, but the impulse rarely did, and what had come out from Number Eight's throat was a short exhale.
Number Four set the cards down on the table, and his mind retreated into the hive, merging fully with the others and sharing his sense of unease.
It wasn't exactly nervousness because that was too strong a feeling, and they had transcended those. What they felt was a kind of pre-event wariness. It was being aware that they were not prepared for the situation about to unfold because they had no related experience to draw from.
They didn't know what to do with a woman other than sex, and since they had transcended those base urges as well, they were left with nothing.
"I remember sex," Number Six said. "It made me feel good."
Number Two grimaced. "It felt good while it lasted, and then it felt bad."
They had been very young, and their exposure to women had been limited to the brothel, which had been a transactional venue. None of the women there had been present enough in the moment to instruct them in how she wanted to be pleasured. There had been no need. The venom bite had done all the work, and the women had soared on the clouds of euphoria regardless of their fumbling. That was why they had always been eagerly welcomed.
It hadn't been their immortal good looks or their stamina.
The artificially produced drugs were not the only ones these women were addicted to. The venom was a potent drug as well.
In a way, it was part of the transaction.
The collective recognized the distinction clearly now that they were older and their hive mind was capable of processing more nuance than their individual minds ever could.
"We shouldn't mention the past unless she brings it up," Number Two said. "She is a veteran, so she might remember us."
The idea sent a ripple of potent unease through the collective. What if one of them had used Anita's services? Did they even remember the faces of the women they had been with?
"I remember just one," Number Six said. "She kept urging me to bite her. I don't remember her name, though. I don't think I ever asked."
I don't remember any of them,Number Eight thought.
They spent the next few minutes in silence, sifting through all of their memories from the brothel and bringing up forgotten faces to the forefront of their combined consciousness.
"I just hope none of them is Anita," Number One said. "If she is, we pretend not to remember her."
The others agreed.
Number One's thoughts drifted to Sullha again.
The other seven had registered the displacement immediately. Number One's attention kept slipping to the play yard at the enclosure and the bench that overlooked a sandbox, and to the woman who still laughed at things he said or faces he made.
He'd forgotten how to be funny. Hadn't been funny for the past six years, but being near Sullha had coaxed out vestiges of his former humor.
You are leaking again, Number Three thought.
I can't help it.
"Yaaf," Number Four said.
Hearing the name his mother had given him spoken by one of the other seven felt like a punch to Number One’s gut. Sullha was allowed to call him that, but Number Four hadn't been granted permission. In the collective, his operating designation was Number One.
