“Deep sea currents are a funny thing in our dear planet. The ice sheets in the poles generate near-frozen saltwater that sinks to the bottom of the ocean and lazily stream around at about… thirty or so kilometers per hour. This generates the circumpolar currents, and the phenomenon of upwelling in coasts both verdant and cold. The question that plagued my mind last week was: How do I apply this to pugs? The answer that came forth from her lips was: Don’t, make the pugrrents random. The sea is already physically impossible, stop seeking a realistic justification for a current. Of. Pugs.”

  —Tidbits of Our Creation, page 16.

  The floor of them laboratory had changed: once a polished metallic sheet, it now consisted of a fine layer of gravel, whose pebbles and granules consisted of rounded, spherical pieces of Borzoi-sourced rubber and huge, empty, cage shaped metallic boulders. The sedimentary process at hand? Babesi.

  She pranced into the room with the grace of a walrus breaking into a fish cannery. Her violet scales raised like hackles, the exposed sections of her skin swollen by the sheer volume of processed Borzoi rubber she had managed to gather. The miners had nothing to do with Babesi’s excursions out of the ship, and Morbilliv had been reassured that no harm would come to the little sister so long as the elder one crawled through the halls of the Seventh.

  She let the rubber balls pour out her flesh like pus from open abscesses. She shook, disembarrassing herself from the last remnants of borzoi and sending most of the sediment into a bouncy chaos that spread in all directions through the laboratory, an artificial sandstorm rising forth from her position and engulfing everything, even the working Doratev, whose body shielded Morbilliv’s new arm.

  “A last adjustment and…” he mused as the rain of bouncy balls chastised his back, his hands fiddling with a little component in the shoulder joint. A click, metal setting in place. “Go fetch your brother, Babesi: his new right arm is ready.”

  Babesi turned back to look at Doratev, for she had already started to head back to the outside to harvest more borzoi materials. Nobody on board had a need of them. In fact, there was more need of the space they occupied. But Lyssav’s Little Lilly wouldn’t be deterred by such trifles, by mere convenience or logistics. But now she had a work to do, and do she would.

  MORBI, COME TO THE LAB. QUICK QUICK.

  He’s not tuned in and that’s why your orders were to fetch him, Babesi.

  Damn. I have to drag my hand all the way there, then? CORSHIP.

  Hi Babesi.

  Hi corship. CORSHIP, WHERE’S MY BROTHER?

  Leptos: Leptos’ spire. Parvov: Isn’t. Dirofil: Puppyside. Morbilliv: Groomroom. Corship: Puppyside.

  OKEY DOKEY CORGEY.

  Babesi deftly slithered through the tunnels, her tendrils avalanching in front of her to aid her viperine body in its movement. She climbed the sphere arrangements with ease, up and down, taking the longest way she could find towards the refining room. She enjoyed racing through the numerous corridors and stairwells, the whole ship felt like a playground where, sometimes, she came across a Splinter of hers. And it was not that she disliked them —she actually enjoyed the company of some, like Galara, Impromptu-Hellhound Rider— but sometimes their aims —work or fun— conflicted with hers —fun or work— and that was just an undesirable situation all around, so she’d rather avoid them as much as it would seem natural.

  Regardless, she had a mission to fulfill, and a Morbilliv to escort back to the Arm-ory.

  “How long until you are combat ready?” Lyssav asked, her teeth moving like a spider’s chelicera.

  Giving his back to her as he groomed a Dachshund with the very claws of Parvov, Morbilliv hummed idly. “Soon, Corundums. As soon as my new body is complete and I acclimate to it, I’ll spend every waking moment in vigil of our ship and crew.

  “Our?” Lyssav sideeyed her brother, her head advancing over his shoulders untild they could stare into each’s others eyes.

  “We have no news of Dirofil since he left, and while I am not one to let Pessimism win, if he’s dead, you are to reign. Your kingdom comes, Lyssav, and I am not stupid enough to pretend I could fend it off. I’ll do whatever is in my power to assure the crew suffers as little as possible. Take in all their pain and fight the encroaching sea by your side, if allowed.”

  Lyssav’s arms like snakes curled around Parvov’s shoulders and over his chest. Three arms, one descending by the left, one by the right, and one reaching for a sternum that wasn’t there. “I’d be pleased to have you under my tutelage, Morbilliv. But I hope Dirofil lives: he will too be saved if I managed to manifest my desires. But I need some time to subjugate the sea, and I don’t want to leave this precious haven unprotected, Captain.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Morbilliv’s leant Parvov’s head against Lyssav’s cheek. “We lost too much already, sister. And it’s not me you are embracing, I presume.”

  “Neither are you puppeteering your own body. Of all pains I can swallow, the one stemming from my own grief is not counted amongst them. I love every last one of you, Morbilliv, and whether as thinkers or as echoes, I intend to perpetuate us all in aeternum.”

  She unglued herself from her brother, allowing him space to stand and regard the sister that had just bounced into the room and was now making a ruckus, arguing with a toppled down Kirbal.

  “Babesi. Stop bothering the Splinter and tell us what you need.”

  “She ran me over!” Kirbal whined. “It’s not a mere bother, she wasn’t looking at where she was going!”

  “I got distracted by a light that blinked more than it should. Apologies,” Babesi stepped out of the issue with the utmost grace she was capable of, which didn’t necessarily amount to anything impressive.

  “Babesi, pray tell us what you need at once.” Morbilliv insisted.

  “Your arm is ready, come to the lab for further testing.” She announced, waving her tail high in an inviting gesture.

  Morbilliv stood, and shambled towards the exit of the ample room. Lyssav sat in front of the working bench, poking the Dachshund.

  “Mutate, go on. Show me your inner ugliness,” she said, ignoring the dog’s snarling.

  What followed was that the dog refused to obey, and bit the hand that poked him, gargling and thrashing around, minding not the shackles as he tried to tear off an amused Lyssav’s finger.

  “I didn’t mean like that, but do carry on!”

  Jet black blades snapped into action, describing a curve in the air with a swishing sound, before setting in place with a satisfactory click. The fingers curled once and again, the thumb’s claw rubbing against each other claw, the contact thought to be self-sharpening.

  “This is amazing,” Morbilliv said, admiring the arm, transitorily connected to his abdomen for ease of testing. “It feels unnatural, but way better than wearing the form of another. Just like the eyes.”

  He kept forcing the arm to move, the fingers acting like a nyctinastic flower exposed to short cycles of day and night. Babesi watched in awe as her dark creation stirred to life, the bones of the wrist clinking in place, the claws folding and unfolding without the slightest issue, fitting perfectly in the grooves on the back of the distal phalanges.

  Coated in a thick layer of Dobermannite, the appendage consisted on both the internal bones and the external exoskeleton, true to the Morbilliv models. When retracted, the tip of the claws left a small spike poking out from the joint with the intermediate phalanx. Morbilliv balled his new hand into a fist, and it didn’t take long for him to realize what the function of the small grooves on the inner side of the thumb was meant to be. “You thought of everything.”

  “Yes, we did,” Doratev said, unwilling to hide his pride.

  “Personally, I suggested a better arrangement for the elbow plates that will provide you a few more degrees of movement.” Seloma added, raising her index finger and describing circles in the air with it.

  “I slaved away to make the damn thing so you can be armed and ready, Morbmorb. I even added the explosives as Dora said!”

  “The bones have a puggum-based marrow: if anything happens to pierce them, they will blow up at the point of penetration… unless you restrict them from doing so with thought energy.” Doratev left out any further justification. There has never been a need to explain to a sparrow why one isn’t giving them a parachute.

  “I see. That could prove useful in a fight. Is there a realistic chance it may detonate randomly?”

  Doratev hid two hands behind his back, the right and the upper left, with his lower left finding a pocket to dig into. The lights of the lab shone off the flakes of his argentine coat as he spoke. “Depends. Do you get randomly harassed by piercing attacks?” he asked , drumming his talons on the floor, as if he had a real interest on the answer.

  “I walked straight into that one,” Morbilliv granted, far too enamored with his new toy to get annoyed by the Doctor’s teasing.

  Blue eyed friendpuppy! Blue eyed friendpuppy! The ship mirthfully announced.

  Had he had lungs, Morbilliv would have sighed.

  Reaper prot… No, the ship won’t follow. Lyss, would you do the crew a solid and handle the menace?

  I am busy. The dachshund is a vicious little thing.

  Lyssav, handle the crisis or we may all die!

  Ugh, fine, brat.

  Morbilliv sat up, the new arm still dangling from under his ribs. He began with a painful dislocation of the right pair of Parvov’s arms, and then got his mucilage to drag the new appendage into the socket, and fit it in without as much as a whisper. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt: It did, like hell it did. But for the sake of those present, he had deactivated his voicebox temporarily, erased a mouth to drown out a scream. The quake that cascaded through his body did clue the others in, but nobody dared comment about it. The Fifth Conceived’s aura had choked out any will to joke around, even Babesi’s. Morbilliv and Parvov moved with the gravitas of one about to face a belated death.

  “Doratev, take care of the Corship and the crew. Babesi, the choice is yours. I am aiding Lyssav defeat this thing. If we kill all Reapers, then maybe there’s a long, peaceful future awaiting for our kind. If I survive, we may figure out something useful.”

  “I’ll go, I am worried for Lyssy and good with mean doggies!” Babesi sprung forward and landed over what remained of Parvov’s right shoulder. “And I have an idea, Morbi. I could be a tail of sorts for you.”

  Morbilliv granted her a sideways glare. “No. You stay afar and help us deal with small game you can handle.”

  “I can deal with small and big game by acting as your tail. Remember when Dirofil and Shadiran walked as one?”

  “The only time they could beat me in a spar, too many limbs to take note of, perfectly coordinated.” Morbilliv remained silent for a few solid seconds, avoiding his sister’s monocular gaze. “But we do not share a bond that close, Babesi. We are mere siblings.”

  And as he marched down and up corridors and towards the nearest exit, Babesi kept pestering him.