Grown Men

partners after all; his nosiness was purely friendly. It wasn’t like Ox chatted about his past. Not like he really could, right?
    “Gods!” Runt leaned forward, knowing he shouldn’t be looking at all.
    According to the HardCell agreement, the Terraformation division had recruited Ox actively, offering him a double stock option as bait and a bonus for signing!
    In light of his superior genetics, probably. That made sense, and if Runt felt a little jealous, that made sense too. Only fair. He finishes four times the work I can. If anything, Runt rode Ox’s oversized coattails. They’d both be voting shareholders one day, so it hardly mattered.
    So who is he?
    A mutant question mark, it seemed. The rushed agreement contained more holes than data. Apparently, his cofarmer had met and signed with HardCell on the spot and shipped from New Baghdad, which explained the surprise arrival.
    He left in a fucking hurry.
    Ox would be back any second.
    Again Runt combed through the contract from the beginning. Apparently, Ox had DNA-signed and verified his identity with three tissue samples: blood, hair, bone. A legal employee at least. Hrmm. Not a clone or vat-grown, but obviously more than natural. So . . . the genetic augmentation predated the HardCell contract.
    C’mon, c’mon.
    Hitting it a line at a time, Runt dug through the legal-speak for any kernels of info. Former occupation: unknown . Training: unknown. Associates: unknown. Vitals: anomalous. Duh. His physiognomy every bit as superhuman as it seemed, yet no cause or clarification given. No diseases. No parasites. No allergies.
    No assets.
    But the receipts were attached. As soon as he’d signed, Ox had spent half that fat bonus up front, buying the overstuffed container of bleeding-edge biodesign.
    A peace offering? A bribe? Bait?
    No details on the erotic pheromone splice. No mention of the damaged voice. No explanation of his wealth. No note about the bleeding-edge assassin gear stashed in the hive wall.
    Runt flicked his eyes to the door and raced to reread the digital document once more before Ox walked in and caught him prying into his private life. Every question Runt thought he’d quelled branched and tangled in his imagination.
    No criminal record. A witness? A refugee?
    Growling in frustration, Runt scanned the rows of dates and numbers on the terminal’s screen, trying to intuit his partner’s story between the stats.
    Was Ox in hiding? Had he run from something or toward this? Why buy so much equipment? What drove him to maroon himself here as a laborer rather than work as a brood-stud or a high-performance bounty hunter? Had HardCell demoted him from skilled services to employee ? Who sent the deadly retirement package and for what possible purpose? And what the fuck could make a pre-citizen that enhanced into a fugitive?
    Ox might have been born on that beach the day Runt almost killed him.
    Hsssssst.
    The front door whisked open and daylight sliced across the habitat’s molded plasticrete interior.
    Blinded, Runt almost bit through his tongue in panic. He closed the digital contract with a nervous jerk that made his heart thump and his stomach turn inside out.
    Ox stepped through the doorway covered in grease, with no suspicions or questions other than lunch. A deep scratch on one beefy forearm needed disinfecting.
    Runt would never ask, but he wondered: what had Ox escaped?
    Something fuck-awful.
    Feeling stupid and guilty, Runt winked a hello and sent HardCell the request for harvest pickup. Two weeks early! With Ox on board, they had beaten the executives and saved both their lives.
    As Ox went to the cook-space to start the digi-wok, the bigger man nodded.
    Runt nodded back automatically, though as he did, he wondered if he might have just agreed to something he couldn’t understand.

 
     
    Ox astonished Runt constantly.
    The fifth week, in the middle of a scorched morning when the beach blinded and the waves churned soupy hot, Ox waded out to the sandbar and strangled a four meter eel with his big bare hands. His mighty body shone in the water like a statue . . . Laocoön wrapped in serpents. Impossibly primal and potent, the way advertainments tried to make men seem.
    If Runt hadn’t witnessed the kill with his own eyes, he might have doubted it was even possible, and Ox did it as a present for Runt.
    Midmorning, while they were baling bamboo, Runt complained about wanting fresh meat instead of paste and freeze-dried kibble; forty