Grown Men

equipped Ox with a set of suits. Nothing Runt owned would fit over one of those legs, and looking at that much naked man every day would get fucking old fast.
    He would see what Ox did on his own. There wasn’t much Ox could fuck up irreparably, and even doing nothing, he wouldn’t get in Runt’s way. Would he clean or clear or walk the fields or sit on his butt? Runt didn’t want to coddle this goon, and plenty of work waited.
    Besides, no employee became a corporate shareholder without paying for it in scars and sweat: HardCell means business .
    Runt rinsed his mouth and spat.
    The wash-space door swished open and anxiety flickered over Runt at the sight of the bare holo-vid bench. No Ox. His hand twitched, wanting the truncheon he’d carried as a street kid. He forced himself to relax his grip.
    The giant was probably having a piss or a wank outside. Lazy fucker.
    Runt scrambled what he hoped would be enough tofu and seaweed for both of them, and ate quickly. As he wolfed down the nutrients, Ox’s pile of breakfast steamed on the counter, but the big lump didn’t reappear.
    With a grunt of irritation, Runt went to the front door and took a step outside.
    Outside, the first dawn shone dim peach and the air hung already thick. The planetoid’s second sun emitted heat, but almost no ultraviolet . . . a red dwarf which rose early, sank late, and kept the ocean and air warm and soupy year-round.
    Oh! There he is .
    Ox stood in the shallow waves facing the horizon, his broad back and pale ass slick with water and sliding bubbles as he scrubbed himself with a bottle of disinfectant lotion.
    As if the giant sensed eyes on him, he twisted to raise a hand in greeting, then flashed five fingers to say, “Five minutes.” He tried to keep his erection out of sight, at least.
    Morning mutant after all.
    Runt nodded and waved back, irritated for some reason, then headed up the slope to check the orchard.
    Ox’s next move that first day, first thing, would tell Runt plenty; did he need orders, babying, a kick in the ass, no input at all? Would he clear the dishes? Would he rummage through Runt’s kit? Runt decided to give him a half hour or so before checking back.
    We’ll see.
    By the time the larger sun peeked over the horizon and brightened the daylight to tropical gold, Runt had finished fertilizing the bamboo orchard and ambled back downand ducked into the habitat. At some point, Ox had eaten his breakfast and washed up after.
    Huh .
    Outside, a motor whirred into angry life. Runt trotted down to the beach to investigate.
    Ox knelt in the sand using the submachete and the hammergun to carve the cargo container into salvage. He sliced with patience and surgical precision, not wasting anything.
    Smart .
    As Runt’s steps slowed, Ox’s craggy face glanced up and then bent close to eyeball the snapping blade centimeters from his massive fist. The hammergun lay heating up on the ground nearby.
    Runt left his giant cofarmer doing grunt work and headed to the cove to inspect the eelbeds. About twenty meters below the waves, he found two gashes in the sub-marine mesh fencing that kept his herd from escaping into the open sea in search of plankton or krill. HardCell biodesigners had erased the conger eel’s remote spawning instinct so their lifecycle could play out in a square kilometer. They gnawed their enclosure relentlessly, and repairing the damage in the cloudy water ate up hours of Runt’s workdays.
    In the greenish water, small eels bumped against his legs in greeting. The pups were curious, but stupid, and they were drawn to the heat of fused metal. At the reef, he did have to fend off one horror with a row of teeth longer than his foot, but it didn’t snap at him.
    HardCell engineered these conger hybrids to be more ranch-friendly, but couldn’t de-venom their blood. It caused anaphylaxis, shutting down respiration completely. Cooking and digestion broke the neurotoxins down, but when the nearest clinic was on a coral island a thousand kilometers away, it paid to be careful.
    Soldering quickly, oxygen hissing in his mask, Runt wondered how many adult eels had slipped through in the past month. Each fugitive put his breakeven farther off. Somewhere out in the manmade ocean, the escapees would probably grow up to five meters if they didn’t starve. Maybe they’ll get hungry and come home. He laughed and the sound echoed in his bubble of oxygen. Then again, every ocean needed a couple monsters.
    What a