Page 9 of The Hornet’s Hucow Pet

“Probably a four,” she says automatically. “Which I suppose translates to seven or eight by normal-people terms.”

“No, no. Not like that.”

Nova looks relieved. “Do you also hate the numbers? God, I hate the numbers.”

I hold out a hand to her, and she hesitates, then places her palm in mine.

“All you need to do is relax,” I say. “Close your eyes.”

She does so.

I lean toward her slowly until our foreheads just touch. She startles slightly, then settles, tolerating the contact.

I take a deep breath and reach out toward her mind.

Vespoids like myself are highly social sapients. We only use our voices primarily with other types of sapient, tending toward mind-to-mind contact with each other when gathered in large groups. Zairion Prime is dotted with such settlements, and while I do enjoy the ease of communication when I visit my family, I generally prefer the intentionality of spoken words.

Our heightened sensitivity to consciousness energy has other benefits. When in close proximity, I can sense the emotions and sensations of other sapients.

My breathing and pulse naturally sync with Nova’s, drawing the wavelength of my consciousness closer to hers.

Pain starts as a prickle around my hips, then deepens to a burn. A pulsing ache finds the knee of my foreleg, and tension ratchets around my head, like a tight band drawn across my temples. That tension creeps down my neck, spreading along my shoulders and sliding down my spine. Searing nerve pain cuts through my ear, stabbing for a few moments before dissipating.

It’s as if my bones have been set aflame from within.

My breath catches, and Nova tries to pull her hand back, but I hold it firmly.

With my forehead against hers and our eyes still closed, I rest my other hand on her shoulder and gently articulate her arm. No particular movement increases the pain, but nothing relieves it either.

I do the same with each of her limbs, tracing the shape of the pain. Then I slide my fingers down her arms and legs, testing for pressure points. Her forearms sear especially bright under my touch, and even as my breath catches and my wings vibrate at the pain, she doesn’t so much as flinch.

Pain isn’t the only thing I feel. There’s also the soothing nature of my touch, the way that firm pressure and massage briefly interrupt the ache.

Then there’s a quickening of the pulse, a growing swirl of heat, an impulse to⁠—

I quickly ease back and release the connection.

Relief floods my body as all the pain drains away. It’s a tragic kind of empathy. She’d kill for that kind of relief.

The heat, however, lingers.

Ignoring it, I murmur, “Oh, Nova. That’s truly horrible.”

She quickly picks up her coffee mug, cheeks pinker than when she closed her eyes, and glares at me. “Don’t look at me like that.”

I straighten. “Like what?”

“With pity.”

My brow furrows. “This isn’t pity; it’s sympathy.”

“I don’t want that either.”

She reminds me of the Howlings I sometimes treat: fuzzy little puffballs with squat limbs and prehensile tails. When in pain, they cower in the corner of the room, snapping and lashing out, unsure where to turn for relief.

If I can help her, she won’t begrudge my sympathy. I want to assure her, but as it stands, she’s heard too many empty promises.

“Will the hucow transformation fix it?” she asks, tone detached.