Chapter 8: Chapter 8
The routine reshaped itself around the new verities. The scarlet stick was shelved, its short-lived novelty absorbed into the quiet mechanics of maintaining two provenly fertile women. For a fortnight, Heather carried the same secret, smug air she had the night of her win. She refrained from demands, letting her body be a silent, ticking time-bomb she assumed only she could hear. She watched Alya from a distance, scrutinizing the older woman's growing bump with a competitor's eye.
Briv became a conduit for basic service. He delivered food to both huts—Alya's by the hot spring, Heather's on the eastern edge of the clearing. He was to keep his distance, his role as a breeder and a provider still operative but kept distinct from the nascent processes inside the sacred wombs. The community, under the blended directives of Nicoleta's cold practicality and Zara's fierce pragmatism, moved with a new purpose. They were thin on numbers, but two pregnancies were a fortress wall made not of stone, but of sheer, biological possibility.
He felt the pressure in the taut silence of his visits. Alya's gentle hello carried new sadness. Heather's smirk was broader. He slept in the main men's hut—a term now laughable, as he was its sole occupant—and his hours were filled with strenuous, necessary labor that guaranteed exhausted sleep. He felt like a machine oiled for multiple, distinct uses: generator, plough, battery.
Zara came to him one afternoon by the fish traps. The sun was a white-hot coin in a steel-blue sky. "Heather's missed her bleeding," she stated without preamble. "It's day forty-seven from her last recorded cycle."
He felt a cold drop in his stomach."So?"
"So, go tell Nicoleta. I have other concerns." Zara’s gaze was distant, scanning the treeline for movement or threat. Her acceptance of his function was total and devoid of emotional weight. "She'll want to run the test."
He found Nicoleta in her infirmary. She was pulverizing dried leaves with a stone mortar, the rhythmic grinding hypnotic. He told her.
She set the pestle down carefully. A slow, closed-mouth smile spread across her face, a crack in her clinical facade. "I suspected. Her morning irritability, the heightened territoriality, it aligned with baseline hormonal data I observed myself."
She assembled her kit with brisk efficiency. The basket with the familiar clay bowl, the gourd, the leaves. They walked to Heather's hut without a word.
Heather saw them coming. Her triumph was immediate, physical. She stood in her doorway, hands resting on her hips, chin lifted. "You heard, huh? Figured I'd let the old wives' news carry itself, but I guess you can't wait for official bragging rights."
"We require the sample to confirm for community record," Nicoleta said, stepping inside. "Sit. Do not complicate the process with theatrics."
Briv hung back, an unwelcome witness to a now familiar, surreal ritual. The hut smelled of sandalwood, aggressively applied. Heather sat, visibly thrilled to be the center of this new, vital attention. She took the bowl with relish, almost challenging Briv to watch as she hitched her skirt and pissed into it. He averted his eyes.
Nicoleta performed the procedure over her portable fire dish in the center of Heather's hut. The same bubbling, the same astringent steam, the same blood-dark transformation of the milky-blue liquid. Heather leaned in, her breath held, a gladiator awaiting the emperor's verdict.
When the deep crimson hue was undeniable, Nicoleta held the bowl aloft. "Positive."
The confirmation exploded out of Heather in a giddy, full-throated laugh. She jumped to her feet, snatching the bowl from Nicoleta and thrusting it at Briv's chest, splattering the dregs across his ribs."See? SEE?It worked! My egg, your sperm, boom! A legit fucking contender!" She danced in a tight, gleeful circle. "Fifty-fifty chance it's a girl. Fuck the odds if it's a boy! You'll have more, I'll get more." Her eyes were wild. "This changes everything. Now there's real competition! Now we see whose genetics give the real advantages!"
Nicoleta’s calm was a bedrock beneath the emotional tempest. "This is a beneficial complication for the population," she said, picking up her gourd. "It minimizes the existential risk of a single maternal line failing before you impregnate another. Your role is now proven beyond question. Continuous observation of their pregnancies and continued regular couplings with other viable subjects will inform our best practices moving forward." Her tone was academic. She was documenting an effective salvage operation.
Heather's hands flew to her still-flat stomach. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, though it carried clearly. "You hear that, baby? You’re not a maybe. You're a runner. And mommy's gonna make sure you win."
She looked at Briv then, her face alight with a predatory, satisfied love. "You did good, Studly Do-Right. Don't get a big head about it. It was a lottery ticket. But my womb was the real winner."
She guided him to the mats, her hands no longer aggressive, but proud, proprietorial. He saw none of it. He saw Heather pregnant. He felt Heather conceiving as his organic obedience confirmed by chemistry. Heather pushed his shoulders down. "You don’t service me now, you service the investment," she murmured, laying on top of him, careful of the mythical thing inside her. "But if you want, you can kiss the asset." She wriggled down, opening her wrap at her waist. "See?" she commanded. She took his face in her hands and planted his mouth over her vulva. She was musky, damp, different. "That's your premium fucking property."
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