Grown Men

boots. Maybe they were hoping strength was infectious and Runt would come down with a severe case of maleness.
    Pinheads .
    Ox moved with the measured grace of a predator at the top of every food chain. How did a worker so physically capable wind up with a crap contract? Convict? Soldier? Slave?
    Runt sighed and made a rude gesture at the cracked container. “Oi. Guess neither of us is getting married for a while, yeah? Not like we can file a complaint. Tricky pricksters.”
    Without responding, Ox crouched naked in the sand and crawled inside the transport container that hadn’t been flimsy enough to kill him.
    What took his voice? Years in and out of detention as a spaceport brat had taught Runt to aim low and shoot twice.
    After some thumping and scrabbling, Ox pulled himself free and balanced on its lid to stare over the night waves for a moment in the dwarf sun’s ruddy light. In his beefy fist, no weapon, just the standard HardCell travelpak: disinfectants, disposable clothes, and temporary toiletries. He stood bold on his plastic alloy chrysalis, for all the world like a tacky sculpture at a seaside slut-hut for tourists.
    Penis on the Half Shell.
    Enough. Emasculated and exhausted in the evening light, Runt snorted and stalked toward his habitat, and heard Ox jump down from his perch and follow, his bigger feet thud-thud-thudding on the sand behind him.

 
     
    The door hissed open. Runt stepped through and— suh-snap —the habitat sparked awake around him. Indirect pearly glow filled the cornerless chamber.
    In his absence, the hygiene nozzles had sterilized its creamy surfaces and molded furniture.
    Just in time for company.
    Ox had paused outside to scrape more of the dust and foam shreds off himself. Behind him, a lopsided magenta barbell of light blazed as the setting suns vanished in tandem under the sea.
    He’s so . . . naked.
    As Runt watched, the tuok-took of the big night crabs prompted Ox to look at the horizon, his profile chiseled in silhouette.
    Runt made an impatient sound and crossed his arms. “Oi. Come inside so I can show you the place.”
    Ox did. His shoulders were wider than the habitat doorway. He actually had to turn sideways as he ducked and stepped inside.
    Instantly, what had been Runt’s personal palace turned into a crowded cube, bonsaied by Ox’s bulk. The entire habitat seemed flimsy and cramped between them.
    Ox took three careful steps into the middle of the live-space. His kneecap showed over the back of the bench; his skull sat less than a meter from the ceiling of his new home.
    Our home.
    “You can sit down if you need, yeah?” Runt tugged at his itchy balls and tried not to sound irritated. At least if Ox sat down they’d be the same height.
    The larger man stayed still as he looked the room over. Runt followed his gaze: an open cook-space on one wall, a wide sleep-space on the opposite, and a curved bench in front of a holo-vid projector on the third. The fourth wall was a doorway to the wash-space.
    Runt felt like a pygmy. Why couldn’t he have been vat-grown or full clone? His fucking parents should have thought of the consequences.
    At one and three-quarters meters with barely a strip of fuzz at his sternum, he resented this vast bastard. He was built broad and plenty strong; even four centimeterstaller and he wouldn’t have had to put up with this shit from his employers.
    Runt cursed his short family. It was all his father’s fault. Dwarf bastard shoulda kept his crank in his pants. Or paid for corrective genetics.
    Love! What a crock of shit.
    Runt snorted. He’d take careful planning and applied genetics over affection any day. He toed off his seaboots and walked past his big cofarmer to rinse his arms and dry them with a faded towelette.
    Ox’s movements stayed deliberate and contained. He left space between them as much as the narrow chamber permitted and kept turning to Runt to nod politely.
    He’s trying not to frighten me.
    Runt scowled. If he had to be stuck with a man, at least they could treat each other like men. He didn’t want any tiptoeing, so he wasn’t going to tiptoe either.
    “Go ahead and break something. Break whatever to get the ball rolling.”
    Ox’s brow beetled.
    “I mean, you’re gonna. So you might as well just smash something now and have it over with.”
    But the dumb slab just shook his head once without smiling.
    He’ll never break anything, I bet. Or laugh.
    Ox inspected the habitat with the caution of a