Grown Men

underestimating him.
    Just what is this freak made of?
    They left the habitat in the first dawn and trudged up the island’s little mountain without needing to talk.
    At the work-shed, Ox used canvas scraps to fashion two saddlebags to truck seeds, and as they stepped back outside, he slung one over his shoulder.
    Before the giant could squat and hoist the other, Runt scooped it up himself without even grunting. “I won’t break.”
    Ox shook his head and let Runt steer him toward the right crop terrace.
    Runt made sure they went side by side for some reason, not leading or straggling. They each carried eighteen kilos of new kudzu-lentil hybrid seed that had arrived with Ox. Half a meter a day it would grow. The packs felt light at first, but grew heavier under the red dwarf’s broiling light.
    Runt stole glances at Ox as they climbed, making sure he didn’t slack or shorten his stride for Runt’s benefit.
    How had Ox shopped for the supplies? Had he just flicked through the holographic catalog and pointed at seeds and tools and holo-porn? The worker bee-moths shipped standard with every terraformer, but cutting-edge biodesigns like the kudzu-lentils and the smart-net cost a fortune.
    New farmsteads like Runt’s never got hands on the shiny toys. Seemed Ox had splurged like an A-list advertainer with an expense account.
    The big man paused beside him and shifted the strap to his other shoulder. Runt did the same. Might as well be symmetrically chafed.
    Some niggle in Runt’s animal brain still waited for Ox to throw his extraordinary bulk around so Runt could show off moves he’d picked up as a sub-terrain soldier or a spaceport runaway—
    —Can’t fuck with this runt—
    But Ox’s temper and past stayed hidden.
    Upslope, the two men divided the work side by side in silence. Programming the equipment and placing the posts proved easier with Ox’s brawn and brain thrown into the mix. Setting the racks and field layout required improvisation and Runt’s ability to wedge into small spaces. After lunching, they came together to sow the rows and string high netting above them. By the time the bigger sun nudged the horizon, the designer sprouts were already poking through the wet loam. HardCell means business!
    Work. Eat. Sleep . Runt managed to do all three seamlessly for once.
    Of course, the next couple nights took some navigation.
    Ox refused to share the bed and crowd Runt in the wide sleep-space. Either out of caution or diplomacy, he insisted on sleeping on the opposite side of the habitat.
    In truth, Runt was relieved; proximity would have made for all kinds of unintended erections and embarrassment. He didn’t need a bloody lip or worse because this brawny bastard had a hormone spike.
    Instead, as soon as they finished their evening food and entertainment, Ox curled himself onto the holo-vid bench under a spare blanket and— click —conked out like a cub.
    The questions continued to pester Runt . . . not during the day, but lying alone in bed in the clock-lit dark, Runt pondered the giant’s buried past. His questions scrabbled inside his head like mice on wires: who was Ox? Had Ox originally intended to murder him? What had HardCell promised? Why share the farmstead with Runt at all? Why couldn’t the giant speak? How could he afford all that fancy gear? What had he fled? Who had he been?
    Probably wonders the same thing about me.
    While Runt stared at the blue numbers on the ceiling, he tallied the disasters that could strangle a man’s life, the advantages of starting over in a new star system, the perks of corporate citizenship or whatever the fuck might have lured Ox to this rock.
    Doubt sprouts wherever you let it.
    Drawing on every high budget advertainment he’d ever seen, Runt scripted freaky adventures that might drive a superhuman mutant into hiding or exile or retirement. Ox was a commercial soldier gone AWOL because of an adulterous affair with a general’s wife. Ox was a disgraced spokestar whose voice box had been cut as part of a noncompetition agreement. Ox was a cock-docker hiding from a rival sex resort fearing a hormonal jihad.
    Like his dad always said, “Bullshit is fertile ground.”
    No. Ox had been straight from square one. He had come looking for a fresh start, and he had more than earned one.
    And then the third night, Runt heard his partner’s voice.

 
    Runt woke in the small hours to a soft sound from the other side of the dark habitat, a low thrumming like a