Grown Men

struggled free from the life-support sack and the silvered fabric.
    A man, large enough to be two people, but no mate.
    Because he’s too oversized to share a stasis sleeve.
    Huge. Naked. Drugged. Alone.
    Runt goggled in confusion as the superhuman body squirmed out of the shiny canvas like a colossal larva to flop on the sand and gulp the briny air.
    I sat on him. I ate a mealpak sitting on my executioner.
    Runt circled nearer, submachete by his side with the safety off. He took a step. He took another one.
    Still shivering from the drugs and the bruising impact, the strapping stranger didn’t react. He twitched and curled on the hot ground, heaving.
    Fuck, he’s huge . Runt took another wary step. He’s a fucking mutant.
    The stranger unfolded his limbs and rolled onto his side. His bulging arms were longer than Runt’s legs. His broad back was a shifting wall of muscle over a high, square ass. His flaccid penis hung like some kind of blunt trunk.
    Runt knew he had about a thirty-second window as the transport tranquilizers wore off. If he was going to kill his replacement, this was the only moment. The submachete whirred softly in Runt’s calloused hand a few centimeters above the ground as he crept.
    Closer . . . closer.
    Runt’s mouth hardened into a scowl under his salt-stiff mustache. If he slaughtered this circus clone now, he could claim the goon had died on entry like his long-lost wife.
    Do it.
    The groggy giant gasped and spat, then rolled onto all fours, his head hanging. He shuddered, and drool ran from his mouth. He had close-cropped tawny hair, bronzed skin, and a stubbled face that looked like it had seen plenty of fights.
    He’s a killer.
    Brawny slabs of military-grade synthetic muscle covered his frame. Maybe not a full clone, but growth hormones out the wazoo, obviously. The broad paw spread on the ground had a palm bigger than Runt’s entire face.
    Don’t look at him.
    Runt’s eyes scanned for the sweet spots: throat, kidney, groin. He raised the humming submachete, his hand sweaty on the gel grip. He glanced up at the habitat, his crop terraces, the little kingdom he’d built by himself for eighteen months a millimeter at a time.
    Retire him now.
    Suddenly, the troll turned his head and looked right into Runt’s eyes and simply smiled in relief . . . as if greeting an old friend. A small smile . . . no triumph, no cruelty, a faint hopeful curve of childlike pleasure which dampened Runt’s murderous thoughts. As if the big dumb freak was happy to be naked and puking on the sand at the ass-end of the universe.
    Shit.
    A human smile after so long.
    Runt couldn’t stop himself: his face smiled back reflexively. He killed the blade and lowered it, stepping near enough to look the burly bastard in the eye.
    Kneeling, the ogre was easily as tall as Runt was standing. The window of opportunity was gone, but this idiot didn’t seem to want to slaughter anybody. For now .
    The ocean rolled gently, mango syrup simmering under the mismatched suns. Over the bay, long scarves of humidity hung in the air behind the giant.
    The big stranger tried to use the cracked transport container to pull himself to his feet, but his thick legs were too wobbly. As he leaned against the shell, a form transmission crackled into life, the holographic words hovering in the air between them as a feminine synth voice read aloud, putting odd stress on the few customized phrases HardCell’s recruitment division had inserted by way of explanation:
    “Well met, terraformer! Our sensors indicate that you currently occupy only . . . thirty-seven percent . . . of the living quarters of your habitat. In the interest of efficiency, we have identified and negotiated with a cohabitant facing similar . . . physio-spatial challenges . . . to fill the remaining . . . sixty-three percent . . . as the optimal solution for all employees concerned. HardCell means business! ”
    Those corporate pinheads had given him a new partner who wasn’t female? Odd’s Gods! Someone had fucked him big time.
    The hulk looked at Runt. He licked his cracked lips and swallowed, still too woozy to speak, apparently. Instead, he patted his chest and pressed his open hands toward the ground.
    The form message calmly continued cataloging Runt’s deficiencies.
    “Our gratitude, terraformer! You have demonstrated . . . spunk and adaptability . . . On reviewing your medical diagnostics and your serious . . . physical limitations . . . it has been