Room For More
For You formed my inward parts;
You knitted me together in my
mother's womb.
I praise You, for I am fearfully and
wonderfully made.
Wonderful are Your works;
my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from You,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one
of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there were none of
them.
Psalm 139, Verses 13 through 16
They were born to love, had learned to love. Without fear. A squeaky, intimate vulnerability, emotional, physical, spiritual. Full of swivels and wavers. Dizzy cuteness (makes one weak at the knees). As good, charitable Christians, whatever they had, they gave it to each other. No holding back. Nothing barred. Music spilling out across their quarters like trickling water. Piano, piano. All those keys. Were those strings? Were they mellow? Oh, but music grabbed one's soul and didn't let go. But it wasn't the music they were listening to tonight. Not really. Not entirely.
No, it was the beating of their hearts.
Beat-a-beat-a-beat.
Thump-a-thump!
Rhythms of life. Pumping, pumping, moving the body forward. Keeping one breathing, keeping one strong. Keeping one moving speedily along. The brain might've been the body's computer. But the heart was the battery. Was the power source. And, oh, it was electrifying the young, early-twenties mouses. These tender, married spouses. They had not yet lost that spark. They were nowhere close to losing their energy, their verve.
Oh, sense of scurry!
Oh, scurry-ful!
Oh, dear Lord, what wonders You work. Things both seen and unseen. Little do we know, Lord! Little do we know how vast You truly are. Little do we understand Your power and Your glory. Your elegance, Your grace. In our arrogance, we put you in a box. We put you on walls and on desks and walk right past you. Why are we not more grateful? Oh, little can we comprehend what life would be like without You. For You are all meaning. You are all purpose. You are all necessity. All structure and sense.
You are life.
To truly live is to live in You, through Your Son (through whom we have been pardoned).
By your blood, Your body and blood! Dear Jesus, our impurities washed away. That You were nailed to a tree to save me (even lowly me).
And, oh, that I believe it. With all my essence. That you died and rose again, my Savior. That, therefore, redemption is here. I do have faith. I know these things. I know them, and I rejoice.
I squeak out redemption songs!
For I have been given new life.
Eternal life.
New (and eternal) love.
Love.
Oh, the mouses talked (squeaked and chittered) in their quarters, the stars streaming by like streaky swords. Deep into the inky, sequined night they spoke. Spilling their souls. They spoke of hardships, of joys. They spoke of fears and desires. They spoke of storms, of peace. Of tripping and falling. Of beauty. Of infidels and saints. Spoke of their flaws. Spoke of their souls. They spoke of Christ, and their gratitude. They spoke of God. They spoke, indeed, to God. They prayed. Together, quietly, at their kitchen table (in these, their quarters on the star-ship Yellowknife) they prayed. And, then, after that? They talked some more.
Communication, after all, was the foundation of any relationship.
You didn't talk to God? You didn't pray to God? Then You could never know Him.
And if you didn't talk to each other, you could never know each other. It was too easy to fall apart, to fall away. It was too easy to drift. Too many furs gave up. At the first sign of trouble, the first sign of discomfort, they curled up into balls. Or they cut and run. They did not understand the nature of sacrifice in a relationship. How important it was. And how could they? When Christ wasn't the center of your love, how could you even grasp the concept of sacrifice? How could you know the true price of love?
True love required more sacrifices than the God-less could bear to give. For they had not an eternity of love and wisdom to draw upon. They did not have access to the water of God's endless reservoir. Or, rather, they did have access. But they refused to drink.
But the mouses, the faithful, reverent mouses, they drunk of that water. That living water. They would never thirst again. Oh, truly, they would never thirst again. And they spoke, more and more, listening as long as they were able. Dishy ears all perked, all big. All swiveling. And when the words had trickled to a stop, the conversation extinguishing like a put-out candle-flame (only metaphorical candles here; open flames were not allowed on star-ships), they left their chairs and drifted to the bed. In the dimness, they drifted, like weightless things.
In each other's arms, a swirl. A twirl. A dip and a bend. Snaky, ropy tails, silky and long, tangling, coiling around each other like living helixes. Bare foot-paws shuffle-shuffling on the carpet.
And noses all a-sniff!
Whiskers all a-twitch, a-twitch!
It was not enough to simply walk to bed, no.
They had to sway. With mousey poetry, they had to sway. They had to lilt, gently rhythmic, bodies doing what their minds moved them to. And minds? Doing what their hearts pleaded. All of it answering to something else. None of it working independently. And their hearts, they answered to God. And to each other. Oh, they had such anchors.
They were anchored.
To the bed.
They anchored their bodies to the bed. The softness of the sheets, the familiar scents of each other's fur. The strands of fur they'd shed. And their tails, now, uncoiling, side-winding in the silkiness of it all. As their bodies sank, sank. As they went horizontal, like the horizon. Glowing just like it (the horizon) would at sunset or sunrise. It was hard to tell which one they were channeling. For though it was night, their hearts were not even close to setting. Though their bodies certainly were, setting, sinking, with a lazy dizziness.
It came so easy, now. It came so easy.
Their love.
So familiar they were with each other. Intimacy was but an extension of the Holy Spirit, flowing through them, in them, around them.
They showed their love, gave their love. Without fear.
Without fear.
Love and fear did not know each other. They could not exist in the same space. The presence of one excluded the existence of the other. And wasn't love the breath of God? Wasn't it Him? He was many things. Righteousness. Justice. Goodness. Purity and peace. But, most of all, He must be love. For how else could such a feeling (this sensation, this emotion) be described? How else could it (and all the art it inspired) be rationalized? How could it be anything but God-breathed?
Oh, but life!
Was more, yes, more than chemicals and emotions.
More than the sum of genes.
This was celestial.
This was the perfect product of Deity.
Their squeaky, rising breaths washed over one another, whiskers twitching, twitching, bodies squirming, fur soft, so soft. And so warm, temperatures rising. Toes curling, uncurling, as foot-paws bumped. As hips pressed. As clothes were off, now, tossed aside in the transition. Their clothes like the skin inherent on fruits. The sweetest, most sugary parts were only reached when you got past that skin.
They were past the clothes.
Bodies bare.
In the fur, in the fur!
Was there anything more natural?
Oh, their hearts beating, beating (speaking, speaking).
And she? She burned. Her body burned, ached, descending into a helpless, needy period of crazed clutching and crying. She was entering her heat. Azalea.
Heat.
"Darling," Emerson breathed, in his airy, wispy way. His so-soft, submissive voice. It was a surprise his words didn't float away. So light they were. And so delicate. Never had he raised his voice to her (exclamations of pleasure excluded). "Darling, I ... oh, I ... "
" ... Emerson, please," she whispered. She shook. "It's so hot. I ... I can't think," she panted. "It aches my ... my legs. You need," she breathed, clutching at his wheat-colored chest fur, "to put it out. Please," she begged. Oh, her heat! The fire! The cramping feelings that made her squirm. A pleasured pain. It was too overwhelming. But something she had to endure. Monthly. It was the side-effect of femme fertility. It was that period of ripeness.
Ovulation.
Her body was readying an egg. And it would do anything to make sure that egg was fertilized. It hyped up her desires, spiked her body temperature. Her fur matted with sweat. She panted hard, hard, trying to keep her breath steady. Her femininity gave off twice the amount of pheromones it normally would. And they wafted from her. And, as close as their bodies were, Emerson's ever-sniffing, ever-twitching nose was unable to miss the scent. He sniffed it, breathed it deep. Deep, until he shivered.
Oh, she was like his water, his wine. She was the early morning dew. She was everything made of sweetness and light.
Everything was happening in order to ensure that Emerson sowed his seed inside her. Everything (as far as the basic biologies of their bodies were concerned) hinged on getting him to hump her. And the male mouse, seeing her, watching her, smelling her, was too weak to resist the stimuli. Her biological lures were powerful. And his male instinct was conditioned to follow them. For they were, after all, geared to weaken his resolve. Geared to make him cave. And he couldn't stop himself from proceeding, now, even if he tried.
"H-help ... put it out," she panted. "I'm so hot ... I need it," she squeaked, grabbing at him. The pleasure. She needed the pleasure! His seed! "I need it," she panted, whimper-squeaking, feeling him all over, pulling him closer. She squirmed, writhing on the sheets. Their breaths mingling, bodies twitching. Whiskers twitching.
"I'll ... I'll g-give it," he promised, sucking on her neck-fur. Matting her fur with his saliva. His eyes going to a momentary close. And, muzzle pulling back, the fervent, romantic whispers continuing, continuing with and eyes-opened, "I love you ... I'm gonna," he squeaked, "t-take care of you ... "
"Oh ... oh, d-darling," Azalea squeaked, head lolling to one side. On her navy-blue pillow-case. The Western jumping mouse was on her back, now. On bottom. Legs being pushed apart. Her tail went about like a downed electric line.
The mouse, atop her, had slid down, down. His muzzle between those now-spread legs (and him not wearing the shirt Kempton had given him, either). And the first tentative lick. Always shy, that first lick, before the second. The third. Before an audible, gentle slurping and sucking, licking and nibbling. Before he made a meal of her mousey muff.
Squeaks! Squeaks of relief from her, paws clenching the sheets. Clenching, releasing. Clenching again, legs bent. Foot-paws on the sheets and knees in the air. "Uh ... huh ... "
Emerson's ears, rosy-pink, swivelled above him. Muzzle out of view. Muzzle so hot, so wet, working her pink-petal lips in wondrous ways. Her fleshy folds. The tufted fur of her groin, the little perimeter of fuzz that separated the feminine flesh from her groin and thigh-fur, her mons. All of it. His tongue, his lips. He tasted and wetted all of it, the stimulation so complete, so eager. And he didn't forget about her little flower bud. He didn't forget her clitoris. Some males might've. Some males might've gotten so fixated on her honey-pot, her vagina, that they skipped over that more-important part.
But not Emerson. His tongue flicker-flicked modestly. Not a big tongue or a long tongue. But what it lacked in physical make-up, he made up for with his tender gusto. He nib-nibbled on her nub with his lips, tongue poking, prodding. Wetting. And he pulled back, blowing hot, focused breaths on that sensitive, so-sweet spot.
"Uh, huh! Oh ... oh," were her helpless, baited breaths, her hips raising, lifting. And then settling back down. She shivered with ecstasy, closer and closer to her first orgasm.
He kept going. In the back of his mind, wondering why it was that femmes got more pleasure out of sex. Why their pleasure was fiercer than male pleasure. Why they could have multiple orgasms. No refractory period. Why he'd gotten his sensitive sheath snipped off at birth. But, ultimately, he decided it didn't matter. No, his pleasure was sufficient enough. Enough to make him want this. Enough to be blinding and beautiful. And her pleasure? It gave him pleasure to give her pleasure, simply put. To see her moan and gasp. It gave him such a feeling. Such a happiness. He wished, indeed, for her to feel more pleasure than him. It was only right. It was only proper. He would feel guilty if he felt it more fiercely than she. She deserved more. For he loved her so. And he wished more for her than for himself.
Oh, yes.
Oh, pleasure!
What a word (and a thing)!
Azalea chitter-squeaked, with high, shaky pitches. In orgasm.
And Emerson lapped at and suckled on her vulva, her labia. Getting the orgasmic fluid, which dribbled out of her, on his lips, his tongue. Oh, the taste of her! The taste of his fertile wife! The sweetness of her sex!
But Azalea was not sated. She was in heat.
In heat.
Far from sated.
She needed his seed.
"Oh ... oh, d-darling ... oh, y-yes. P-please," she panted (feeling quite silly, quite out of control; but it couldn't be helped), recovering from her hazy daze. "Get in me," she blurted.
And the mouse, his modest, circumcised mouse-hood (registering a bit under five inches when fully erect) ticking upward, upward with blood, needed no bidding. He needed no bidding. He wanted his sensitive, precious organ inside that raw, organic furnace of muscle and fluid. He wanted inside her. To be a part of her. To fuse himself with her.
For that was, after all, keeping them in line. The spiritual side of sex was keeping them in line.
Oh, yes, she was heat-addled. And him? He was just as sex-crazed.
But they were kept in check.
Not a mere animal act, this.
Their love, their faith purified this.
Their love, their faith gave this meaning.
Their love, their faith made it more.
Their love, fiery and full. Ringed with devotion and commitment, affection and common interest. The desire to keep each other safe. To nuzzle, to hold, to take. Oh, darling, you are the decision that was so easy to make! There was no doubt. Oh, the story of our love, I tried to tell it. And I couldn't. There were no words. We were lowly, singular infidels. Until this love. Until this came. And, then, turned into beautiful, dancing children of light! We see shadows no more. We are summer seasons that do not die. Death? Has no hold on us. Our souls are safe for eternity. Eternal life. Love? Love is all things good, all things worthwhile.
We do this in holy matrimony.
We do this under the eyes of God.
And He has blessed it.
We are blessed.
And, that being so, neither of them held back. No guilt, no fear. They were safe with each other. They were committed. They were not going to leave. Not going to make each other sick. They were free.
Free.
To love.
And, oh, that love! What things shall it spawn!
New life, perhaps.
For Emerson was not wearing a plastic sheath over his mouse-hood as it sank (oh, like a knife through butter) into her. The odds of her getting pregnant would be quite good. He could pull out. Put something on. Completely prevent this. But he hadn't the willpower to pull himself out of her body. It wasn't that they had planned on getting pregnant tonight. Though they had been constantly talking about it for the past year. No, they hadn't planned on this being the night.
But neither of them had the willpower to stop the act.
He was already in her.
It was too late.
Dimly, in the back of their minds, they both realized this. But they both wanted it. That this love could bear fruit! That their love could make new life! Oh, that they could finally start their family.
They kept going, going ...
... oh, oh!
Squeaky-squeak!
Chitter!
Chitter-chitter-chit.
Squeak-a-squeak, squeak, squeak.
A symphony of converging cuteness! Oh, oh ...
... it was many hours later. Deep in the dead of night (very early morning). They were both asleep. Snugged up against each other, still in the fur, not having showered after their love-making. Fur matted a bit, the scent lingering. Their twitching noses in each other's fur. Tuckered out. Resting. Their eyes darting beneath their lids. The two married mouses, so deeply in love, slept so, so soundly. Azalea's heat was not over. It would last another day or so. It always lasted about three days. But, while she slept, she had a reprieve. It would hit her full-force when she regained consciousness. But they needn't worry about controlling themselves.
Graham, in his wisdom, had enacted a ship-wide policy that gave furs and their spouses days off during heats. After all, you couldn't have heat-addled femmes padding through the corridors. It would only lead to trouble. So, the two mouses would have the next two days to themselves. Mostly in their quarters here.
And, oh, it would be lovely.
It always was.
But, now, they slept.
And, inside Azalea's body, God's intricate, perfectly-designed science worked itself. Oh, the Lord's creation exerted itself on a microscopic level ...
... sperm could survive in the femme body for up to forty-eight hours. Emerson's didn't need that long. Tens of millions (countless!) little mouse-sperms swam, swam, swam. Having been spurted past the cervix during ejaculation. Easily into the uterus. And swim-swimming up and through the oviducts. Drawing nourishment and protection from the semen they'd come with. For the semen was basic. The femme reproductive track was acidic. It had already killed many of the 'little mousey warriors.' It had left many in its wake. But it couldn't kill them all. There were simply too many, far too many.
Dozens of sperm cells had already reached her waiting egg, their heads desperately trying to push, push into it. Trying to fuse. Time was of the essence! They had one goal. One purpose. Their long, wavering tails (which very much resembled mouse-tails) whipping behind them. The egg was huge compared to them. Like a moon to their shuttle-pod. And those 'shuttle-pods' released enzymes, trying to eat through the outermost 'shell' of the egg, trying to reach the membrane. Each sperm in competition, but unknowingly helping one another by collectively weakening the egg's barrier. Giving each of them a chance.
Until one of them wriggled deep enough, deep enough.
Until it got through!
Fertilization!
One sperm got its head past the plasma membrane, into the egg.
And the egg, as if a flip had been switched, reacted. At the first sign of penetration, it depolarized (going from -65 mV to 10 mV), irreversibly sealing itself from further breaches. The one sperm made it in. The others now wriggled in vain. The egg going so far as to release it's outermost 'shell,' so that the sperm could no even assault that.
And the nucleus of the sperm floated free, now, inside the egg, the tail left limply behind. The nucleus floating, floating, drawn to the nucleus of the egg.
And they collided, fused.
The flash-point of life!
A baby had been conceived.
Oh, but a science of precision, this. An amazing act of such structure, such perfect design. No accident, no. How could such an intricate, delicate process possibly have come together by chance? Without missing variables? Without being knitted? Without being blueprinted? It just was not possible! And believing such awesome science to be design-less and purpose-less, furthermore, was devastating to the heart. Believing that science had put itself together? There was no joy in that. No purpose. No feeling.
God had ordained this. Truly. Oh, Ancient of Days, Sculptor of all things. Even things unseen. Oh, power and glory!
And though the mouses were still sleeping and did not yet know that Azalea was pregnant, there would be much praise and much rejoicing when they knew. There would be much happiness. Much love. Much joy. For room for new life had been plowed in the Western jumping mouse's womb.
Hallelujah, they would squeak!
For their God had blessed them so. Oh, blessed them so. With an offspring. And the hems of the young mouses' hearts had been sewn so tenderly together. Sewn with love, so that they were one. So that they would never come undone.
It was morning, now. In the mess hall. And some of the crew-furs ate breakfast together before their shifts. The stars streaming by outside the windows. The ship on patrol, and possibly set to enter orbit of the next planet along their path. Graham was still deciding if it would be worthwhile or not, being that they were already slightly behind schedule on their route (from having stopped at the nebula a few days ago).
Antioch poked at his fruit. "This green ... this a melon?"
"Honeydew," Talkeetna supplied for him, spooning a flake-looking wheat cereal into her muzzle. Chew-chew. Chew. A swallow, saying, "You knew that. You asked me when you got it ... "
" ... well, sometimes the food processor messes things up." A poke. Poking with the fork, and then bringing the juicy, soft-green piece of melon to his muzzle. A sniff. Sniff-sniff. And he put it in, chewing, tilting his head.
"Well?" the red squirrel asked, taking another spoonful of cereal.
A few more chews, and a swallow. "Not my favorite kind of melon."
"You don't know anything about melons."
"I do, too."
A giggle-squeak, her reddish-brown fur looking soft, well-groomed. A sigh. She smiled, meeting his eyes. "You've just not got a culinary bone in your body, darling."
"Well, isn't 'culinary' about cooking? This isn't cooking. This is ... melons aren't cooked."
"Still, you know what I mean." More cereal. Chew-chew-chew.
"I asked the food processor for an 'assortment of fruit.' I was expecting strawberries, pineapples. Grapes. Not honeydew and ... mango?"
"Should've been more specific." Another smile. She was finished with her cereal, and she gently pushed the milk-filled bowl aside. "You know how computers are. If you want a certain kind of food, you better specify it. I tried to order tomato soup yesterday, and it told me 'there are twenty kinds of tomato soup in the database: chilled, with cheese, with basil, hot ... ' ... so, I told it I just wanted plain tomato soup, hot."
"And?"
"I would've preferred the real thing. But it was good," she assured. The ship had a hydroponics bay, where they grew their own fruits, vegetables, et cetera. But it wasn't enough to feed the entire crew three meals a day. It was just used (along with other food stores) to supplement the food processors. A few of the snow rabbits on the ship took turns as 'chef,' making daily meals with the real food. And replicating ingredients to make things 'from scratch.' Graham, one of his hobbies being cooking, had his own personal 'food store,' of real foods in stasis. Like cheese. Which he rationed out to Emerson and Azalea now and then.
The hoary marmot ate some more of his fruit, his brushy tail hanging limply behind him. His solid form rising and falling as he breathed. Marmots had bigger builds than other rodents. He was not as slim as Emerson was. But he wasn't overweight, either. As the tactical officer, he stayed in good shape. Wrestling helped. He'd gone jogging with Graham yesterday, in the simulation room. He'd ended up winded while the snow rabbit had eye-smiled and jogged in place. They'd both ended up matted with sweat, but the snow rabbit had such amazing endurance. No wonder rabbits had sex four, five times a day. They never wore out.
Talkeetna, sipping from a glass of orange juice, waved a paw at Wasilla, who was fetching some food from the window-ledge that separated the eating area and the kitchen. The round-eared, tail-less pika, seeing the motion, smiled and nodded, soon padding over. She took a seat at their table (which was a square table that could comfortably seat four; more, if need be).
"You look perky, Wasilla," the red squirrel commented, giving a wink. "Konka wake you up?"
A bashful giggle-squeak, with that distinctive 'pika-squeak.' "Well ... he, uh, yeah. He did. But, after we showered, went to engineering. Some technical problem. The snow rabbit on duty didn't know how to fix it ... " The pika had gotten a tray of cereal, English muffins. A banana. And some grape juice. "How are you two?" she asked, looking from one to the other.
"We're good," Antioch said, nodding.
"Antioch gains energy as the day goes on. He's always a bit lethargic in the mornings," Talkeetna teased, her bushy tail arched behind her chair. Her angular ears cocked and her whiskers twitched. And, looking to Wasilla, the red squirrel said, "Before I forget: Azalea and Emerson are gonna be, uh ... unavailable for the next day or so. So, I'm reassigning you to their duties." Being the first officer, Talkeetna was in charge of duty rosters.
"Her heat?" the pika guessed.
"Well, I've been told that you can hear, uh ... shall we say 'happy squeaking' through the bulkheads on B-Deck ... intermittently." A grin. "Yeah. That's okay, though, about taking over for them? It's just for a bit."
"Well, considering Azalea does my duties when I go down with heat ... then it's only fair I do hers. It's not that much extra." A nod. "It's fine."
"Good," Talkeetna said, smiling. "Well ... "
" ... may we join you?"
The three of them looked to Seward and Aisling, who both had trays (of rice cereal, orange slices, and carrot cakes, as well as ice water).
The red squirrel smiled, spreading her paws. "Pull up a seat. Uh ... it might be a bit of a squeeze, but ... " They all scooted their chairs, making room for the two snow rabbits. It was 0822, so they all had over half an hour before their shifts began.
"It looks to be a good breakfast today," Seward said, his posture proper. His ears tall and stately, giving a few waggles.
"Well, most of us think it is," Talkeetna responded, winking at Antioch.
Her husband gave a patient smile back to her, his black nose giving a few sniffs.
The two snow rabbits closed their eyes and lightly bowed their heads. Short, silent prayers, and then eyes opened and heads raised, they began to eat. Snow rabbits weren't heavy conversationalists while eating, but the others more than made up for it.
"Things going well in engineering?" Wasilla asked, looking to Aisling (her new friend).
"They are going quite well, thank you," was the eye-smiling reply. A bit of a head-tilt. "After that untimely malfunction last week, things have been going most smoothly. Though the deuterium tanks could use a scrubbing."
"I take it no one wants to volunteer for that job, huh?" Antioch asked. The marmot took a sip of chocolate milk.
"They do not," Aisling confirmed. And her eyes showing a restrained, civil mirth. "However, my engineering room is not a democracy. Some of my snow rabbits will find themselves scrubbing the tanks whether they like it or not."
Talkeetna giggle-chittered, shaking her head.
"They must be cleaned," Aisiling defended.
"I know, but ... your species? You're so clean and logical. It must be miserable for any of you to have to scrub all that grime and stuff."
"It is not pleasant, no, but ... as I said: it must be done. The tanks only need to be cleaned once every three months, and it only takes a day. Besides, I pay them back by giving them the next morning off."
"So they can take lots of showers, huh?"
"Something like that." Aisling's fork cut into her carrot cake, the tines pushing into the cut piece. And she daintily lifted it to her muzzle, chew-chewing. Eyes closed. She sighed and swallowed. "This is excellent," she said, eyes opening, "carrot cake. Chef is to be commended."
"I wonder why Chef made carrot cake," Wasilla said, smiling, well knowing the answer (Chef being a snow rabbit).
"Can you fit a few more?" came a new voice.
They all turned to see: Kempton and Cordova.
"Like, uh ... squeeze in?" Kempton went.
"Uh ... " Talkeetna, who'd been tacitly voted the 'leader' of the table, looked around. She didn't want to turn them away, but there was no room. "Pull that table," she decided. "Yeah, that one ... pull that up to here. We can join them. Make more room."
"How are you, Cordova?" Aisling asked. She and Cordova didn't really talk much. They were polar opposites.
"I'm, uh ... I'm well. I finally finished my research on that venereal disease."
"Venereal?" Wasilla asked, nibbling on her English muffin.
"'Yiffy' disease," Kempton supplied, in the vernacular.
"Oh."
"I can't cure it," Cordova sighed, taking a seat at the tables were successfully merged. Kempton sat beside her. "I'd ... I mean, just with my science lab? Just with our resources? You'd need a whole team. But I sent them what I came up with. The best advice I could give them was to curtail open-breeding ... I mean, if you think about it, it's scary," she said. And then paused. Biting her lip, looking to Aisling and Seward. "Sorry," she whispered. "No offense." Those two used to be in the breeding parties. And most of their species still were. "Nothing personal, you know?"
"No offense was taken," Aisling replied. "I agree with your sentiments. You were saying?" she asked, raising a brow.
"Oh, well, uh ... it's scary, you know? You could only have sex with one fur, but ... if that fur and every fur he's had sex with ... I mean, the amount of furs, the amount of bodies that are inter-connected? That share a history? You could immediately share a sexual history with dozens of furs just through a single intercourse. All that sharing of body fluid, imprinting? It's ... " A shake of the head. "It's just scary," she confessed, "to me. I mean, because ... it just kills intimacy. And exposes you to so much harm, and ... unfortunately, that means contagions can spread more quickly and easily."
"Like that new, uh, 'yiffy' disease?" Wasilla asked.
Cordova nodded.
"Will their fur grow back?" Seward asked. For the victims of the disease suffered fur-loss. "At all?"
"Well, they're trying to stimulate the fur follicles. But they shrivel up at the root. Being blocked by something. I think they caught the whole thing before it spread too widely. It's only a very small percentage that have it, but ... it was enough that the snow rabbit science directorate got concerned. Still, I don't have a cure. I'm surprised something like this hasn't happened sooner."
"Periodically, the breeding parties are hit with a disease. But none of them have been virulent enough to change the system. When you're as 'virile' as we are, you make too many decisions based on what is between your legs. Thus far, the risk has been acceptable. No one thinks it can happen to them. And if everyone stayed within their breeding party, theoretically ... there would be no problem." A pause. "But most snow rabbits, at one time or another, will breed with furs outside their party. And bring external infections, perhaps, into the party. It's ... " Aisiling trailed, poking at her carrot cake. "It is a failed system. It does not work anymore. When we were less numerous, perhaps, but ... we can thaw. We cannot melt, but we can thaw. We need not fear love. And we need faith to fill the holes in our mortal logic," she assured. "Our species is learning that. Marriages are at an all-time high. I hope that ... eventually," she whispered, "the breeding parties will be disbanded. But I think that will not happen yet. Still, I pray." A breath. "I am glad to be out of it. I am glad that Seward ... my husband," she whispered, turning her head to look at him, "saw a better way for us."
Seward just gave an eye-smile back at his wife. Somewhat bashful at being mentioned.
Cordova sighed, looking dejected. "Well ... I can't do anything else. I'm just glad to be done with that. I've looked through enough microscopes in the past week." She rubbed her eyes and sat up a bit straighter, trying to put a smile back on.
"Room for two more?"
They all turned. To see Aspera and Taylor.
Antioch gave a chuckle.
And Talkeeta said, "We'll all scoot in ... "
"Make that," another voice said, with gentle civility, "four more." Graham poked his head into view, snowy-white, charcoal-fringed ears twiddling. Beside him was Ada, his dear wife. She twiddled her own ears. "I can make that an order, if you wish," Graham continued.
A few mews and giggle-squeaks. No order was needed.
They all made room. Chatting, eating, laughing (or eye-smiling), tails flagging and flickering, whiskers twitching fast and slow. All soft-furred and well-groomed, all feeling loved. Paws on glasses, silverware. Paws on the edge of the table. Paws holding to other paws. The Lord having blessed them with such fellowship.
And, though their ship was sailing in the cold, dark vacuum of space, and though the stars were all far apart from each other, life had never seemed so promising, so together, or so bright.