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Which means it makes a choice not to stop her, even when she batters things inside it until they grow soft. She forces her hands into it, kicks it, tries to tears its cilia free with her teeth, claws its skin with her ragged, filthy fingernails. The alien does not react to the light, the hard air. When she reaches farther in to grasp the broken piece, a sphincter snaps shut on her wrist. Around her wrist is a bruise like a bracelet for what might be a week or two. The alien had the ability to stop her fist inside it, at any time. She uses the other, a second tube, for whatever comes from her, her shit and piss and vomit. Her ability to compare anything with anything else is slipping from her, because there is nothing to compare. Eventually she cannot even remember the sounds of them. It is quite possible that she is not a rescued castaway. She sucks her nourishment from one of the two hard intrusions into the featureless lifeboat, a rigid tube. There is a time when she screams so hard that her throat bleeds. But perhaps its soft blades against her fingers would feel just like the alien's cilia. She cannot communicate, but she tries to make sense of its actions. Perhaps the sex is communication, and she just doesn't understand the language yet. It is not that they cannot communicate, that she is incapable; it is that the alien has no consciousness to communicate with. On the starship with the name she cannot recall, Gary would read books aloud to her. She has worn them treadless, and they no longer gain any traction in her mind. On the off-chance that this is will change things, she drives her tongue though its cilia, pulls them into her mouth and sucks them clean. She has lived forever in the endless reeking fucking now. Gary, miraculously alive pulling her free, eyes bright with tears, I love you he says, his lips on her eyelids and his kiss his tongue in her mouth inside her hands inside him. Bright sun and cool air, grass and a cloth to lie on. Her Outs are also the common ones: fingers and hands and feet and tongue.
This is the only time she has ever gotten a reaction she understands. But there is never again the broken thing inside, and never the bracelet. Her eyes water helplessly and everything becomes glare and indistinct dark shapes. Her anger pounds at it until she feels its depths grow soft under her fist, as though bones or muscle or cartilage have disassembled and turned to something softer. What she does, at least, is a rape, or would be if the alien felt anything, responded in any fashion. Sometimes she watches it fuck her, the strange coiling of its Outs like a shockwave thrusting into her body, and this excites her and horrifies her; but at least it is not Gary. These days, she teaches at the University of Kansas, where she is associate director for the Center for the Study of Science Fiction. A piece of debris slashed through the leg of Gary's suit to the bone, through the bone. Blood and fat and muscle swelled from his suit into vacuum. The alien's vessel also broke into pieces, its lifeboat kicking free and the waldos reaching out, pulling her through the airlock. Not her come, which slicks her thighs to her knees. She feels it inside everywhere, tendrils moving in her nostrils, thrusting against her eardrums, coiled beside the corners of her eyes. When an Out crawls inside her and touches her in certain places, she tips her head back and moans and pretends it is more than accident. If she ever remembers another line, she promises herself she will not wear it out.
Rape would mean she is more than a wine glass it fills. One time she feels something break loose inside the alien, but it is immediately drawn out of reach. She is warm here, or at any rate not cold: half-lost in its flesh, wet from her Ins, its Outs.